Ah, Chief Dwasaho! Ahead of the G19, forgive my slip of the tongue, G20, but Uncle Sam, Donald “Mr Tariffs” Trump won’t be gracing the Jozi shindig. If only he knew, my leader, our buffet offers more than just political scandal.
We have rent boys, people living with disabilities, those who trade in pleasure, drug lords, dealers and cartels, if you will. And yes, we boast a surplus of gays, lesbians, transgender, gender-neutral and gender-nonconforming citizens — a colourful congregation of humanity he would never comprehend. For him, such diversity would be an unsolvable puzzle, a moral Rubik’s cube he’d rather throw than twist.
Thirteen holes, whores and sh*thole
We also boast world-class casinos, a temptation he could never resist, and more golf courses, including one unique 13-hole course, making us, a so-called “shithole country”, a leading nation in the golf business in Africa. Johannesburg, by the way, boasts the best nightlife with whores and pimps in every “square mile”, do you get it? Our dearest lover of all things… would have enjoyed himself. His loss, we march on.
These are his (Uncle Sam’s) favourite indulgences, whether loved or loathed. Sadly, we lack an Epstein file(s). What a show it would have been to release it while Cupcake (sorry, my leader, I couldn’t resist) offered a 21-gun salute with Russian-made blanks.
I know I am a scatterbrain this week, what with picking a fight with the only president in the history of menkind (sic) who has stopped seven wars in 10 months and still the Nobel Prize committee ignores him.
Apples and daughters
Anyway, my leader, don’t worry; my brain fog is on leave, as I’ve been rather preoccupied lately with arranging my daughter’s 21st birthday. Yes, Nonku, the Mncube finest, an English language revolutionary in the making. Her fate is sealed. She is already disillusioned with the political establishment. Her condition worsened due to her side hustle as Editor-in-Chief of the UCT Varsity newspaper. Clearly, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
ANC postmortem
My leader, the Madlanga Commission and the Ad Hoc Committee on Judicial Capture and Political Interference in the South African Police Service (SAPS) have become a public trial of the ANC itself. What began as an inquiry into law enforcement rot now reads like an ANC postmortem. At every turn of decay, the fingerprints of party loyalists are found on the steering wheel.
Who among us still remembers the era of Mzwandile Masina in Ekurhuleni? The grand speeches, the empty promises, and the silence that followed the sirens. Let us speak, then, about the Ekurhuleni Metropolitan Police Department (EMPD), the other Mkhwanazi, and the allegations that a criminal enterprise thrived under the noses of ANC mayors and councillors who saw nothing and perhaps profited from silence. This is not just a matter of a few bad apples, but a systemic failure that has far-reaching implications for our society.
The EMPD Deputy Chief, Julius Mkhwanazi, was suspended this week amid explosive allegations that rattled the city and further tarnished its already fading reputation. Mkhwanazi, a man of curious ambition, once promoted himself to police chief — no interviews, no oversight, just self-anointment in blue. A bureaucrat by day, an alleged criminal by lunchtime, he turned public service into a private empire.
Cemetery of paperwork
Now he stands accused of turning the EMPD into a rent-a-badge operation, where blue lights flash for the highest bidder and the border between law and lawlessness has been blurred. The city claims an investigation is under way, but in this land of reports and commissions, truth often dies buried under paperwork stamped “confidential”.
Cat’s blue eyes and blue lights
Reports suggest Mkhwanazi authorised blue lights for vehicles linked to underworld figure Vusimuzi “Cat” Matlala. Those cars, my leader, were meant to protect the public, not escort gangsters through midnight traffic. The commission heard that the memorandum of understanding between Matlala’s company and the EMPD was falsified — a contract of corruption disguised as a partnership.
Investigators traced the rot to a workshop in Meyerton, where CCTV footage allegedly caught Mkhwanazi and his officers moving what appeared to be stolen copper cables. The whistleblower who brought that footage forward was later found dead, his truth buried with him.
Crime and profiteering
Testimony revealed that about 300 EMPD officers carry criminal records, some for murder, others for rape, yet all still draw a government salary. The badge now conceals more than it represents. The Madlanga Commission has become a gallery of shame, each witness adding another brushstroke to the portrait of decay.
Orange is the new blue
There is one case, my leader, that speaks louder than any report. An EMPD officer, once convicted of murdering his wife, served his time, walked out on parole, and walked straight back into uniform. The same badge that once symbolised protection now glitters like a medal for moral failure. No rehabilitation, no review, just quiet reinstatement — as though killing and policing were merely different departments of the same ministry.
When a murderer can trade orange overalls for blue fabric, the rot is not in the roots, my leader. The entire tree is dead, watered daily by political interference and fertilised with impunity.
Dance of shame
This is not merely about one deputy chief or one department. It is about a city adrift without a moral compass, navigating by the flicker of blue lights that no longer promise safety. And as the ANC in Gauteng denies shielding Mkhwanazi — even as video surfaces of him draped in full party colours, dancing like a man untouched by consequence — one cannot help but think: the commission may be the courtroom, but the ANC is on trial.
General Nhlanhla Mkhwanazi and flowers
My leader, before the Madlanga Commission could even break for tea, it became clear that General Nhlanhla Mkhwanazi — the resolute provincial police commissioner of KwaZulu-Natal — deserves his flowers. In a country where silence is the language of survival, the general has chosen speech, truth and subpoenas. He has done what many in uniform dare not: he cracked open the vault of rot and let the daylight in.
For weeks, various testimonies have peeled back the layers of criminal complicity between the badge and the ballot. The minnows are falling fast. The foot soldiers of corruption — those who thought a beret and a gun made them untouchable — now squirm before the commission like fish on hot tar.
Ndonga, Shamase, Mwelase — you, the veterans of the 6 July Revolt, once dismissed as noisy patriots in camouflage and courage — your vindication has arrived. The same men who mocked you now sit in the dock of consequence, (Senzo Mchunu on leave x 2, and the other Mkhwanazi too) blinking at the flashbulbs of justice.
Docket of shame
And what of Vusimuzi “Cat” Matlala, that self-anointed emperor of blue lights? The cat’s criminal symphony grows louder by the day: 11 attempted murder charges, a conspiracy to kill his ex-girlfriend Tebogo Thobejane, plus fraud and obstruction of justice. The man who once swaggered alongside metro police officers now shuffles in leg irons; his empire of favours reduced to a docket of shame.
The Madlanga Commission’s yet-to-be-contested evidence reads like a thriller — except this one is paid for by the taxpayer and starring our own men in blue.
Comrade Leadership, give General Mkhwanazi his flowers. He has faced the wolves within the pack, stared down the political shepherds who fed them, and still stood his ground. In a republic addicted to commissions that bury truth under glossy reports, the general remains a rare reminder that duty, when done with courage, is its own reward.
Batohi and her shameful legacy
My leader, say what you will, but Advocate Shamila Batohi’s tenure as the Ramaphosa chief prosecutor has been a masterclass in underachievement. History will not be kind to her. By act and omission, she failed to put one politician, not a single comrade, in orange overalls.
She inherited a broken National Prosecuting Authority and leaves it just as she found it, gasping for integrity. She came, she saw, she heard, convened a meeting or two, and did nothing. Each month, the state rewarded her silence with a fat cheque for seven years.
Meanwhile, it is men and women like General Nhlanhla Mkhwanazi — in military fatigues and with moral clarity — who are left to do the heavy lifting, chasing the ghosts that Batohi pretended not to see.
Till next week, my man. Send me nowhere, I am tired and worn. DM