Thabo Mbeki

Play us again, Sam. Play us as time goes by.

happier times

It was understandable that we’d start fantasizing about Thabo Mbeki and Julius Malema. Inevitable, even.

In the 1990s we thought we were God’s Rainbow People. Ten years later we believed we were the first flowering of the African Renaissance. Since the eruption of the Gupta e-mails, however, we have discovered what we truly are: slack-jawed, wide-eyed rubes being taken for a monumental ride; the butt of a gigantic, multinational, criminal joke.

It’s a tough thing to accept. Nobody likes being laughed at, especially not by hypocrite arseholes in pointy shoes and bulletproof SUVs.

But it’s not just insulting. It’s frightening, too. If you accept that our so-called leaders are mere bagmen and that almost every single aspect of national government is rotten to the core, then you have to accept that, for as long as the Zuptas remain in power, we are entirely rudderless, practically lawless and essentially stateless. In short: while anyone with Zuma in his or her surname controls this piece of land, South Africa does not exist in any meaningful way.

Which is why it was inevitable that we’d invite Mbeki and Malema into the spotlight and, at least for a few minutes, relegate the Zupta hyenas into the darkness.

It was Mbeki who appeared first, summoned like a ghost to a séance by Power FM almost two weeks ago. His familiar tones – the warmth of hot chocolate, the crackle of a fire in a room full of aromatic pipe smoke, the faint rustling of pseudo-intellectuals kowtowing at his slippers – revitalised a tired and gloomy nation. Social media heaped love on the former president and took a moment to remember a more dignified time when statesmen argued not over kickbacks and e-mails but beetroot and garlic and when a president didn’t fight to keep himself out of prison but rather fought tirelessly to save Zimbabwe from a vicious outbreak of democracy. Good, good times.

Having fondled the pre-Zupta past, we were ready to gaze into a post-Zupta future, and this weekend the Sunday Times obliged by interviewing Julius Malema.

Speaking with his familiar frankness, the Commander-In-Chief identified the greatest problem looming over South Africa right now, namely, that the media narrative has shifted away from Julius Malema.

It’s been a tough few months for the Commander. Venezuela and Zimbabwe, often cited by the EFF as poster children for its policies, can no longer even claim to be basket cases: the baskets have unravelled and the straw is being eaten by starving goats.

Worse, however, is that after some solid wins in parliament on Nkandla, the EFF and Malema have been relegated to mere spectators by the power struggle in the ANC: they, like the rest of us, are simply waiting to see if the party will commit ritual suicide by persisting with the Zuptas or whether it will opt for Cyril the Human Gag-Ball and stay in the low 50-percents until it dies in 2024.

Being an excellent politician, however, Malema understands how to wrest attention back to himself and to give the impression of a Napoleon on the march even if he’s just marking time. He knows seizing the initiative requires bold and militant action, even if that means speaking boldly and militantly straight out of one’s revolutionary butt.

Which is precisely what he did in the interview. The EFF, he claimed, was going to grow by 600% in the next 18 months and snatch 50% in 2019.

I assume space constraints meant the Sunday Times couldn’t print his other predictions, like the EFF’s Science Brigade perfecting cold fusion in 2021 and its History Commissars erasing all mention of Venezuela and Zimbabwe from its policy documents in 2022, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Still, Malema did say one thing that I believe is gospel truth. Asked about working with the DA, he said: “Sometimes you use your enemies to achieve what you want to achieve.It’s a game and we are playing it to achieve what we want to achieve.”

And so on we tumble; the past getting brighter; the future just a game in which you and I are pieces to be played. And, if necessary, sacrificed.


Published in The Times


We demand better lies!


Do you know what’s really gone to hell in the new South Africa? The quality of the lies we get told by our government. Yes sir, the lies were way better in the old days

I grew up listening to the fictions of the Nats and, by God, those hillbillies had the gift of the grift.

South Africa’s military could napalm a foreign country, have photos of said napalm splashed on international front pages, get condemned by the UN, and what would happen? Pik Botha would appear on the SABC to explain that we had misunderstood.

He didn’t tell us we’d taken it out of context. He didn’t claim that news reports had been fabricated by enemies of the state. He’d simply nod knowingly, take his sexy hot-chocolate voice down an octave, and reassure us that the world was a confusing place and that it’s easy to get confused and not understand complex adult issues.

By the end of his earnest sermon, the volk had forgotten all about war crimes and had gone back to sleep with a vague sense that a Sunday school picnic had gone awry but that a kind oomie had arrived just in time to make sure the ants didn’t crawl into the Redro.

When democracy came to South Africa, and the world and its spin-doctors opened up to us, we assumed this tradition would continue and even flourish. As arms dealers and corporate predators swarmed towards Nelson Mandela’s government, we believed that now, at last, we would finally get the lies we deserved: beautiful, gleaming things crafted by the greatest propagandists our taxes could buy.

For a few years the new government delivered on that promise and we were treated to a couple of masterful smoke screens.

Consider Sarafina 2, the new South Africa’s inaugural corruption scandal. Do you remember who was to blame and who got punished? No? Job done. If you have to Google a scandal to recall its details, then excellent liars have delivered some primo perjury and awesome obfuscation.

Sadly, however, the early promise soon faded.

The Arms Deal presented Thabo Mbeki with a wonderful opportunity to cook up some presidency-defining perfidy (for example, faintly sabre-rattling stuff about South Africa needing to step up to its rightful place as the biggest, baddest nation in Africa; of walking quietly and carrying a big stick; of maybe needing to invade Lesotho again) but what did he do?

Instead of being tastefully aggressive, he went defensive and told us we needed Swedish fighter jets to keep us safe, presumably from Botswana’s air force of three crop-dusters and Zimbabwe’s squadron of kamikaze weather balloons. Soon even the explanations dried up, replaced by terse denials and then accusations of racism, counter-revolution and disloyalty.

When Jacob Zuma was put into power by Julius Malema it seemed that we might enjoy something of a lying renaissance: any young demagogue who declares that he is willing to die for his paymaster is clearly getting ready to lead your country towards a new dawn of big, bold, juicy lies.

But once again the ANC flattered to deceive, squandering a good start by appointing Mac Maharaj as Zuma’s spokesmuppet. Suddenly everything and everyone was being “taken out of context”. It wasn’t even a proper lie.

In retrospect, it was inevitable that the whole sorry thing would end in a fire pool.

It was a ridiculously weak lie, and we heaped scorn on Zuma; but really the fire pool was an indictment of all of us: final proof of how low our standards have dropped when it comes to the lies we accept from our leaders.

If we weren’t such rubes or so resigned to our fate we’d be calling for “accountability” (the process whereby politicians tell small, elegant and reassuring lies to the public), we would speak with a clear and united voice to the corrupt and self-serving people in government and business, and we would say:

“Stop insulting us with these kindergarten fibs. Take us seriously as adult human beings who deserve adult lies. Hire consultants. Weave dazzling tapestries of legalese and opaque finance. Bore us into submission!

“For God’s sake, you know we’re all financially illiterate. All you have to do is present us with a vast spreadsheet and tell us it reflects the expenditure on Nkandla as off-set against the value-added deal we struck with China to balance the 2015 fiscal surge which was part of the Treasury’s eight-point plant to ratchet up the overshoot of the underspend of the – see? We’re nodding off already.

“But a swimming pool for putting out fires? Are you f***ing kidding me?”

I know the rich and powerful won’t stop lying to the rest of us, and frankly I’m OK with that: I don’t want to know what they know. But for now can we agree to one, first baby step? Can we demand some better lies?


First published in The Times and Rand Daily Mail

(And speaking of classy lies: if you’d like to read my 10% TOTALLY TRUE history of South Africa, please click here. You’ll meet the cheese pimp who settled the Cape a year before Van Riebeeck, and Shaka’s lesser-known brother, Nigel Zulu, who just wanted to be a florist. You’ll also discover how the winner of the Mr Mielie Board beauty pageant came to rule South Africa, and you’ll celebrate our greatest triumphs, like when Matt Damon and Morgan Freeman won the Rugby World Cup in 1995. From small fat gold-plated rhinos in Mapungubwe, to small fat gold-plated politicians in Mangaung, The Unauthorised History of South Africa tells you the history you always wanted to know but were too afraid to ask.)

The memo you weren’t supposed to see

arms dealRemember Thabo Mbeki? Remember what a train-wreck his presidency was? The AIDS denialism? Rubber-stamping Mugabe’s rigged elections? Anything ringing a bell?

I don’t blame you if you don’t remember. Jacob Zuma comes in for a lot of stick but nobody can deny he’s got magical powers: after almost seven years in power, he’s largely erased our memories of what life was like before he giggled his way into our dreams.

But I’m sure there’s one Mbeki-era cock-up you do remember: the Arms Deal. That little moment when Nelson Mandela’s government decided we needed billions of rands worth of weapons to fight nobody instead of billions of rands worth of jobs, houses and flushing toilets; and Mbeki made sure it happened.

A few years ago I wrote a book, The Unauthorised History of South Africa (certified 10% entirely true) and I revealed for the first time the memo circulated around Cabinet, outlining the Arms Deal. I can now reveal those details to you…


By 1999, as Mbeki took office, the time had come for the Arms Deal to be finalised, and the following top secret memo was circulated inside government. [Note: This is the only surviving copy of the memo. It was supposed to be shredded along with the rest, but the job of carrying this copy down the corridor to the shredder was subcontracted to Ubuntu Shredding & Construction (owned by a deputy minister’s wife), which went bankrupt halfway down the corridor.]



Saab fighter jets – henceforth to be known as ‘Ubuntuceptors’

REASON FOR PURCHASE: So we can look totally hot, like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. But obviously not in a gay way.

COST: R2 billion. (Tell public they cost R200 million each. Most voters can’t count past 500 anyway. Shot, Education Dept!)

CAPACITY: We currently have no pilots trained to fly our Ubuntuceptors, but this isn’t a problem as the nearest regional threats do not have air forces as kick-ass as ours. In fact, according to Military Intelligence and our Ubuntu-Eye satellite, Zimbabwe’s air force currently consists of three crop-dusters and two weather balloons. Namibia’s air force (one zeppelin, circa 1938) is currently on deployment carpet-bombing baby seals. Mozambique’s air force is currently grounded, having chosen Betamax instead of VHS as its basic targeting system.


Note: some defeatist counterrevolutionaries have pointed out that the United States has more firepower in one of the toilets on one of its aircraft carriers than the whole of our air force, and could swat us like a bug if it wanted to. Please ignore this, even if it is true. Also, please ignore the recent study by a defence expert who suggested that our Ubuntuceptors might be more effective as a deterrent if we put them in giant catapults and fired them at the enemy. This is very hurtful, even if it is true.

CONCLUSION: Our new Ubuntuceptors are an awesome purchase, and we will totally rule the skies, as long as the skies don’t also contain any American, Russian, British, French, Israeli, Chinese or German planes, or large birds, or flocks of small birds, or clouds.

German submarines – henceforth to be known as ‘U-boats’, which is short for ‘Ubuntuboats’

REASON FOR PURCHASE: Patrolling the fisheries.

NOTE: We are not totally sure what ‘patrolling the fisheries’ means, given that the whole point of submarines is to sink ships, and as far as we know, it is a war crime to torpedo small rowing boats full of poachers. However, we might squeeze off a torpedo at a particularly aggressive shark or giant squid, just to see what happens. Basically we are going to go all Hunt For Red October, except with less nuclear war.

COST: A lot. We’ll let you know once the arms dealers’ middle-men give us a clearer idea of how many unmarked dollar bills we have to put in brown paper bags for them we’ve established market value.

CAPACITY: Super high. The SA Navy is the best in the world at looking after submarines in dry dock. We estimate that we will be able to have at least one submarine on bricks by 2004, where crews will train for emergency situations, e.g. what do to when penguins nest in the torpedo tubes or pelicans cover the periscope lens with poop. We are also confident that by 2015, all new submarines will be at peak dive readiness, thanks to large holes rusted in their sides that will allow them to sink the moment they are put in the sea.

CONCLUSION: We’re going to take a bit of stick about these, but they’re totally worth it, even if we just end up stuffing them full of Arms Deal paperwork and sinking them.

South Africans were suspicious. It seemed odd to them that South Africa would be spending billions on weapons when the biggest threats to their country was the HIV/Aids pandemic and the imploding education system. Would the submarines wear condoms on their periscopes to raise awareness? The navy had no comment. Perhaps the Ubuntuceptors would be deployed to drop laser-guided textbooks down the chimneys of rural schools? Again, no: SADTU vowed to prevent this from happening by using schoolchildren as human shields.

South Africans wanted answers to their questions. Mostly, because of outcomes-based education, their questions were “What is five plus six?” and “Is rain made of God’s tears?”, but a few of them wanted answers about the Arms Deal. However, the government had bigger concerns.

The night before, the Red Phone in Thabo Mbeki’s bedroom had rung, startling Mbeki out of a dream in which he was riding a unicorn bareback through a field of Aids denialists. Disoriented and groping for his beard wax, he answered. Over the crackly line he could hear the sound of laughing and shouting, and someone singing ‘I’m A Barbie Girl’ on a karaoke machine. He recognised the voice: it was his old friend Robert Mugabe. Someone shouted, ‘Comrade President Field Marshall Liberation Ninja! Your call to Pretoria has gone through!’ The singing stopped and Mugabe wheezed warm greetings down the phone. His news was exciting: he had just won the Zimbabwean general election with fifty-five percent of the votes. This was particularly exciting because the general election was only taking place the following week.


If you want to know what happened next, please redeploy your credit card from your wallet and storm the barricades of economic freedom for local writers! The Unauthorised History of South Africa is available as a Kindle here and as a paperback here.


State of the Nation? We’re animals.


Desmond Tutu claimed we were a Rainbow Nation. Thabo Mbeki described two South African nations. Jacob Zuma isn’t sure how many there are — there’s sort of one-and-a-half, a unified and happy country that is deeply unequal and, therefore, miserable. But also happy. But also challenged. But also unified. But in need of being more unified. Eh. Heh heh…

Of course, all three are wrong. There are dozens of nations in South Africa. Rich, poor, female, male, young, old, urban, rural, modern, traditional, religious, atheist, intelligent, stupid, on Twitter, not on Twitter, unemployed, self-employed, retired: all inhabit their own country, unrecognisably different from all the others. And, it seems, hell-bent on slagging off the other lot.

Recently, a white woman from a particularly frightened and stupid nation claimed that black people were “monkeys”, while the president of the ANC Youth League nation (a tiny, fractious country prone to verbosity and heartburn) used the same word to describe the citizens of the Revolutionary Republic of the EFF.

Both were rightly condemned. “Monkey” is a word dripping with racist poison, and should be considered an illegal weapon the free-for-all of public debate, much as dum-dum bullets are banned in warfare. The recent history of Rwanda has also given us ample warning about what happens when people start calling each other dehumanising names.

Compared to the major crimes committed by racists and mass-murderers, the sin of co-opting language seems quite mild. But still, I think it is a pity that they have turned “monkey” and “ape” into curse words, just as I think it‘s sad that we have turned “dog”, “shark” and “snake” into insults. Because the more we associate the names of our animal cousins with the rhetoric of bigots or the characters of villains, the less likely we will be to think of ourselves as animals. And that, I think, robs us of a valuable opportunity: to step away from our human vanity; to observe ourselves, like David Attenborough eavesdropping on a gang of lemurs; and in so doing, to discover that we‘re not as complicated — or fractured — as we think.

For starters, we‘d see that many of our most prized “human” systems are just posh words for things animals have been doing for millions of years. For example, when apes obey the largest and noisiest males that have collected the most grubs, we call it competition. When we obey the largest and noisiest males who have collected the most grubbiness, we call it politics.

living in a group is confusing, but it is better than going it alone

If we managed to look beyond the familiar constructs — the political factions, the social cliques, the cultural enclaves — we might finally see a single species, brash and frightened and stupid and brilliant. We‘d see that it endlessly hurts itself and makes the wrong choices. But we would also see one important — and ultimately reassuring behaviour. We would see that despite all the shrieking and chest-thumping, ours is a species that constantly strives to fit in, to accommodate, to defuse conflict; to work (however unconsciously) for the good of the group.

If we allow ourselves to embrace our animal-ness, then we might finally appreciate the gift our ancestors left us: a set of extraordinary, subtle behaviours that allow us to live — and thrive — in large groups. We might understand the value of being social animals; that, while living in a group is noisy, stressful, sometimes violent and always confusing, it is better than going it alone.

Which brings me back to the State of the Many Nations. Paradoxically, the president‘s speech will fracture us by presenting a unifying narrative. Millions won‘t believe a word of it. It will fuel their sense that everything is rotten and falling apart, and encourage them to withdraw deeper into their small nations. Many of us will feel renewed anxiety that nobody except the few members of our own tiny nation know what they‘re doing; that we need to haul up the drawbridge and get ready to wait out some lean, dangerous years.

It is good to be suspicious, to hope for the best while preparing for the worst. Our ability to plan for various outcomes is a gift we don‘t share with our animal relatives. But I also think it might be helpful, as the think-pieces fall thick and fast and the big intellects get to work on us, to remember our ancient animal selves.

We got here by working together, constantly, in small ways we don‘t even notice any more. Living on top of each other, with each other, despite each other, is one of the things we are genuinely good at.

So let us be at peace in our federation of nations, recognising difference without fearing it. Let‘s ignore the politicians: they never loved us anyway. And let‘s count on the only thing we’ve really ever been able to count on: each other.


First published in The Times

Please don’t touch the goat

goat_chickensLadies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the official Nkandla tour!

Where we prove that you have nowhere left to hide and we have nothing to fear … Er, wait, let me just put on my reading glasses … Oh. Right. Where we prove we have nothing to hide and you have nothing to fear!

Just one request before we start: the chickens are extremely sensitive to flash photography so we must ask you not to take any pictures, especially not if you work for a newspaper. But don’t worry because you’ll all be getting photos of your tour, taken by a military satellite that doesn’t officially exist. So if you’ll all look up right now, let’s give Yuri a big Nkandla hello! Hi Yuri! Yay! Yuri’s in an office in eastern Siberia but I know he can feel the love all the way over there.

Also, we’ll be sending you home with this beautiful colour print of Msholozi riding a Chinese dragon through the sky over the ruins of Wall Street. Special thanks to Chen Fu’s Photographic Joy of Little Beijing, Chinatown, New China City, Midrand, for supplying us with these.

Okay! So if you’ll kindly form a queue on the right we’ll get started. Sorry, ma’am, on the right. Yes, I know you prefer the left but we’ve all moved relentlessly right over the years, so if you have a problem with that you can write to your local ANC branch and they’ll forward your letter to the relevant shredder. Lovely! And off we go!

We are now passing through the main gates and — little boy, please don’t touch the fence, it’s got 90 000 volts running through it as part of our new Mmusi-B-Gone security system. Unfortunately Eskom isn’t producing quite enough electricity to make us 100% Madonsela-proof but we’re hopeful that if everyone keeps turning off their geysers we can reach our goal of zero accountability by late 2017.

If you look to your right you’ll see the famous West Wing of the president’s home, named, of course, for the chickens that live here. So there we have the West Wing, and just next to it is the Middle Breast, then the East Wing, and if we look down there’s the South Drumsticks and the Far South Pope’s Nose. Moving on.

…ignore that inflatable crocodile and that businessman floating face down…

Over to your left you can just see the corner of the helipad. This is a very important security feature for when the insurrection comes and the president needs to be evacuated to Russia. Oh, wait, sorry, I think I misread that … Ah, yes, here it is. For when the influenza comes and the president needs to be vaccinated in a rush. Obviously.

Oh look, everybody. The famous fire pool! Now, you’ve probably read all kinds of imperialist propaganda about how this is actually a swimming pool but I want you to ignore that inflatable crocodile and that businessman floating face down holding an empty bottle of Johnny Blue in his unconscious fingers, and I want you to understand that this is actually a vital safety feature. Why, just last night some of the copies of the constitution that were being used as kindling on the braai started burning out of control and we dumped them in the fire pool and pssh! End of problem.

And we’re moving on — Sir, please don’t touch the goat, it’s a national key point. By the way, for our Chinese guests, I’d just like to point out that almost everything you’re seeing today is for sale. Or perhaps we can interest you in a small northern province? And don’t worry about the local inhabitants, South Africans are very accommodating. God knows they’ve been accommodating this accommodation for years now. That’s just a little bit of humour to keep things light. Moving on.

What’s that, little girl? Why did none of our other leaders spend hundreds of millions on enormous, decadent, fuck-you-taxpayers homes? Not even the apartheid presidents? Well, I think they lacked imagination. I’m sorry but if you’re BJ Vorster and you don’t have a pleasure palace featuring a vast portrait of Anneline Kriel made out of cowry shells glued onto an ornamental rugby field, then you’re clearly not a visionary thinker.

And why didn’t Tata Madiba and Comrade Mbeki have Nkandla-sized homes? Gosh, I’m not sure. I suspect Tata spent most of his spare cash on shirts, and as for Mbeki, you must remember how expensive dial-up internet was in the 1990s, and what with all those Webcrawler searches for beetroot and conspiracies, he probably spent about R250-million a year on his phone bill. So …

Oh look, we’ve reached the end of the tour, so if you’ll — yes, Madam, I know we didn’t go inside but that’s the whole point of an Nkandla tour. Oh dear, you didn’t think you were actually going to see anything, did you? Shem.


First published in The Times and Rand Daily Mail.

The Thunder That Thunders


So I wrote a fake history book in 2013, all except the last chapter. That was provided by the government, after a spokesdrone slipped R5 into their new Historo-Matic machine. This is what came out of the Truth Slot.


Hello South Africa, how are you, we are fine, thank you for asking. This is going to be a short chapter, because reading is a leading cause of cancer. That is the golden rule of Msanzi: overtaxing taxpayers is Good, overtaxing your brain – especially in thinking about politics – is Bad. So let us get started! Halala the Historo-Matic machine, halala!

The era of Msholozi, aka Jacob Zuma, aka Number 1, aka The Thunder That Thunders, aka Pappy, was the greatest time for Mzansi ever in the history of the world. This was because of President Jacob Zuma’s incredible brilliance, which continues to shine down on us today like the sun which orbits around the Earth. If you still doubt that he is the Chosen One, please consider the following true facts about Msholozi:

1. Msholozi did not have human parents. His father was the lightning and his mother was the rich red earth of Nkandla. As such, he will live forever, so if all you patriots out there want to campaign for the constitution to be changed to allow him to rule forever, that is cool.

2. For over 6 million years, his people begged Msholozi to run for President, but he declined, as he was too busy protecting the Earth from asteroids by using his handsome, generously domed head as a mighty space-shield.

3. When he finally agreed to become President, the nation rewarded his selfless sacrifice by giving him 468% of the vote. Thabo Mbeki got 102% of the vote, because our movement is united and there is no dissent, and anyone who disagrees is clearly a member of the dirty rotten stinky Mbeki faction. (Helen Zille got one vote, from her husband, but it was spoiled because after he made his X he remembered that he was married to Helen Zille and vomited on the ballot paper.)

4. His first act after becoming President was to make South Africa perfect. (Note: if you or your loved ones have encountered anything that is not perfect, this is almost certainly the result of an evil spell, probably cast by Lindiwe Mazibuko.)

5. In 2009, Msholozi listened to the hopes and dreams of all his people (by shutting his eyes and saying, “Omniscience, on!”). Despite the fact that he had made South Africa perfect two years earlier, he heard that his people wanted jobs, and so he created 80 million jobs. You can’t prove that he didn’t. And it’s not his fault if only a few thousand people turned up for work that Monday.

6. In 2010, he scored the winning goal in the World Cup final, a header into the top corner from the other end of the field. He headed the ball so hard that it popped, but the force of his head made the shreds of ball fly straight and true into the opposite goal, a few seconds before the sonic boom of the shot echoed around the stadium. (Note: if you don’t remember this happening, it probably means you weren’t watching the game but were rather engaged in subversive anti-Ubunti behaviour like reading books.)

7. Msholozi is an incredible mentor. In 2011, Msholozi found a frightened non-swimmer cowering next to a municipal swimming pool, terrified of the water. He went to the boy and told him that he would teach him how to swim. That boy’s name was Chad le Clos. (Note: the only reason that Msholozi did not compete in the 2012 Olympics himself is that he wanted white people to feel good about themselves by winning a few medals. His withdrawal from the track and field events also came as a huge relief to Ussain Bolt, who had feared the humiliation of watching Msholozi disappear into the distance in a cloud of dust and swinging leopard tails.)

8. In 2013 he was officially recognized as the most inspirational leader in the history of the world. Thanks to Msholozi, millions of children can now believe in the South African dream: that you can grow up dirt poor and leave school in Grade 5 but end up earning millions of rands a year just for singing and dancing at election rallies every five years…


If you want to read more truths printed out by the Historo-Matic, please buy the book by clicking here. After all, Jacob Zuma has made so many people rich, he might as well send a few bob my way.