Ah, Chief Dwasaho! I write to you from the edge of my last nerve. The South African people don’t know what they want or what’s good for them.
One minute, they’re screaming for transparency. The next, they’re foaming at the mouth when His Would-be Majesty, King Paul of Mashatile, godfather to the Alex Mafia, declares his “family homes”.
Now there’s a brouhaha in the streets and gnashing of teeth on Twitter.
To declare or not to declare, that is the question?
But rewind the cassette, Comrade Leadership. A year ago, News24 let the cat out of the Gucci handbag, revealing that His Deputyship was staying (or was it squatting?) in palatial properties not registered in his name.
At the time, Peter — and his dog — cried foul, howling that King Paul was living a life more golden than his declared income. There were whispers of corruption by proxy, and finger-pointing at the son-in-law, that dashing man who married Palesa.
My leader, I don’t mean to implicate myself, but I, too, may or may not have had a Palesa once. If only I had married her, I too could be R65-million to the good, lounging in Constantia with my feet up and my conscience asleep. Eish, my leader, perhaps
style="font-weight: 400;">Palesa was a moniker in one of Kwaito’s hits. But I digress.
Frankly, I don’t understand the kerfuffle. The Honourable King Paul — yes, the same one with the Alex Mafia credentials and a GPS permanently set to Waterfall and Constantia — has declared the so-called “offending” properties.
He never said, “I bought them.” He said — read slowly, Comrades — “they are family homes”.
We should understand this concept unless we’ve all suddenly developed amnesia about African communal living. In Africa, we don’t own houses; we share them. That’s how we roll. One house, six cousins, four uncles, and the occasional tenderpreneur son-in-law named Nceba.
CR17, Colgate smiles, and the gospel according to Mkhwebane
This, my leader, reminds me of the CR17 bonanza. Remember that? A few short years ago, you were showered with manna from Stellenbosch heaven — friends and funders alike backed you to take a calculated swipe at the ANC’s Top Six, and voilà, you emerged Number One with a Colgate smile.
Then came the legally illiterate, now impeached Public Protector Advocate Busisiwe Mkhwebane who accused you of failing to declare a benefit. Nonsense! It was a private matter between you and your billionaire buddies.
But let’s be honest, all politicians are double agents by design. They are not the Holy Trinity. They’re at best two-in-one shampoo: one part public servant, two parts private businessperson with a dodgy connection to the cartels.
I mean, take Phala Phala. You stashed foreign currency in your couch. Why? The first time you banked it, everyone wanted disclosure of depositors. You kept it at home; now everyone wants to know why it wasn’t banked. Can’t a man enjoy his loot in peace? I digress, again.
My leader, if I may… I, too, have family homes. One in Waterkloof. Yes, read slowly, Waterkloof — the high-altitude sanctuary where the powerful play golf with tenderpreneurs and the streetlights never flicker. It’s a gated utopia where politicians, shady businessmen (always men), and underworld figures reside in comfort under circumstances known only to the Department of Public Works — or perhaps the Mexican Sinaloa Cartel.
Of course, I also have family homes in Ulundi and Eshowe, KwaZulu-Natal — by birthright, bloodline and braai. Don’t you dare ask me about the European concept of ownership. These are African family homes, not title deeds from the Queen’s Registry. Think of them as Holiday Club benefits — I use them on demand. Just like King Paul, I too am a true son of the soil.
Frankly, I’m surprised King Paul hasn’t joined uBaba in howling against the Constitution and its liberal concoctions. I mean, what rubbish is Section 25? The idea of property ownership for Africans died in 1913 with the Land Act.
Now we’re being lectured about “disclosure” and “conflicts of interest” by people who’ve never sat in a tribal council where five brothers, six cousins, and an uncle all claim the same kraal. Please. Family homes aren’t corrupt — they’re African culture.
Chicken feet, cold beer and the tender-less comrade
This self-made confusion by liberals — frothing at the mouth about “our values” and demanding asset registers as if this were Geneva — reminds me of a time a comrade-friend visited me at my erstwhile “family home” in Durban.
Now, don’t get it twisted, my leader. While I’d love to say the steak was sizzling on the Weber, tjoo, I’m embellishing. It was chicken feet on the braai — marinated in a secret sauce of rural village dreams deferred and already stinking like rotten meat.
Mid-braai, my dearest friend fixed me with the kind of stare usually reserved for enemies of the revolution. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Stalin,” — my Struggle name— “Stalin, you’ve disappointed me. After all these years of working in government circles, writing speeches for ministers and fetching wine glasses at political funerals, you’re still poor.”
I was winded, my leader. It felt like a punch from a side pocket prophet. I steadied myself against my cooler box, exhaled, and after a complete three-minute silence — punctuated only by the sound of chicken feet crackling — took a majestic sip of beer, lit a cigarette, and responded: “Ukukhuluma nami?” (“Are you talking to me?”)
He nodded. I nodded back. Silence lingered. Then I slowly explained that, unlike others, I had not yet discovered the tender route to prosperity. I, too, was a man of “family homes” — no title deeds, but many memories. And yes, I may be materially poor, but I am rich. Don't ask for details; you just don’t get it. I digress — apologies for my scatterbrain.
Ribbons, Range Rovers and wives’ revolutionary procurement
Speaking of the route to tenders, the bloody liberals are now flinging accusations like confetti at a Zuma wedding — claiming all and sundry (read: ANC leaders) are neck deep in tender fraud. Njani? Take the case of a so-called KwaZulu-Natal ANC “heavyweight” as reported by News24.
Heavyweight? On whose Richter scale? Are we measuring influence or just belly circumference? If that’s the metric, what would happen to Jeff Radebe and S’bu Ndebele, current head honchos?
Anyway, this time the spotlight falls on Comrade Thanduxolo Sabelo — yes, the same one who, last I checked, was still recovering from being a has-been councillor at the eThekwini Metropolitan Municipality. According to media reports, his two wives stand to benefit from a National School Nutrition Programme tender worth R2.9-billion. Two point nine billion, my leader. That’s not a tender; that’s a feast for generations.
Oh, excuse me, and now their cats are crying foul. Why? Because a man with two family homes to feed is expected to survive on a councillor's stipend? Are you even serious? How can an ordinary councillor — whose power barely extends beyond cutting ribbons at a Pakistani tuck shop — influence a provincial tender committee in the Department of Education?
Eye of the needle
Let me spell it out. ANC leaders went through the eye of the needle, my leader. They’ve seen nothing. They know nothing. Ask them about the bid adjudication committee — you’ll get blank stares and a Freedom Charter quote. As for the wives? They're hustling to keep the fires burning and the Range Rovers running. They didn’t join the ANC to bake scones — they’re in procurement for the National Democratic Revolution!
The same logic applies to KwaZulu-Natal MEC for Education Sipho Hlomuka. Turns out, his wife, too, is an entrepreneur, which now seems to be a prerequisite for marriage in comrade circles — business-minded, politically adjacent, and tender-ready. She, too, is in line for a slice of the R2.9-billion school nutrition feast.
Hlomuka’s wife won the tender fair and square — the MEC was unaware of his wife’s burgeoning empire. Have you ever seen or heard of an MEC sitting on tender committees? But now, what did you expect? That a whole wife of an MEC must spend her days hopping from nail bar to eyelash salon, sipping iced coffee and gossiping about non-aligned delegates?
Clean hands
Not to be outdone, Deputy Minister of Labour and Unemployment (sic) Jomo Sibiya’s wife is also on the take. I can confirm the deputy minister knew nothing about this tender award. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. Like all seasoned Comrades, his hands remain impeccably clean, dipped daily in the Dettol of plausible deniability.
Till next week, my man. Send me to a family home near me. DM