How much longer must we live with this rotting fish?
Years ago, I became a foreign correspondent in Africa because the apartheid government withdrew my official Press card. And thus I became limited in what I could report in my own country.
Not that I had written anything that wasn’t honest or accurate. But it was critical of the policies of separate development, the segregation of people because of their colour.
Thus I was surprised when the same government approved my application for dual citizenship, allowing me to get a British passport to travel freely in Africa.
I knew the sub-continent well. For a year, I had worked on a newpaper in Zimbabwe, when it was Rhodesia. Later, I had reported on UDI from Zambia’s perspective. I had covered the independence celebrations in the three former British protectorates – Botswana, Lesotho and Swaziland. I had travelled extensively in Namibia, then South-West Africa, and Mozambique.
All that exposure to social normality I had enjoyed. It was refreshing to escape South Africa’s stultifying politics, to be where people behaved naturally, where attitudes were not directed by race or prejudice.
In 1975, independence came to Portugal’s African provinces, Angola and Mozambique. When would what seemed inevitable, democracy, happen in South Africa? Not in my lifetime, I thought. As confirmation, the apartheid government sent the army into Angola, at the behest of the CIA, to try to ward off communism. And when the South African forces were in a position to occupy Luanda, the capital, the CIA asked it to withdraw.
Then, in 1990, came the great “Rainbow Nation” transition. President F W de Klerk – under considerable economic pressure from world sanctions – unbanned the African National Congress and freed Nelson Mandela. I was in Lusaka when ANC leaders began returning from exile. In four years, they would be in charge of South Africa. With the party was a member of the anti-apartheid movement who had been close to them for several years. I asked him what sort of government he thought they would make. “They are good people,” he said. “But right now they couldn’t run a bath, let alone a government. They’ve got some quick learning to do.” The man explained, “The ANC has never really prepared itself for this. Before sanctions seriously began to bite two years ago, many members had come to believe that change would not happen while they were alive.” Evidence of that unreadiness (and immaturity) came early. The ANC accepted responsibility for a vast apartheid-era debt, which should have been cancelled. Instead, the new government approached the International Monetary Fund for a huge loan. It announced there would be free health care for children under six and pregnant or breastfeeding mothers. And a raft of social grants.
One effect of that has been to clog queues at hospitals and clinics with youngsters and mothers suffering from minor ailments, while chronic patients are delayed or even denied treatment. Another is much more serious and even tragic. Teenage girls, many still at school, have become pregnant in order to get the grants on offer. And hundreds of those have abandoned their babies because they lacked the will or the proper funds to carry on as mothers.
Introducing these grants may have been a naive mistake but they have become an area for corruption ever since. Old age pensions continue to be claimed long after the death of the original recipient. Many thousands of rands in social security funds have been embezzled by officials down the line. The incompetence of civil servants has been another major problem in the twenty years of democracy. A recent independent report showed that less than 20 per cent of municipalities were properly managing the funds allocated to them. Hence all the protests over the non-delivery of services.
Mismanagement is rife at provincial level too, particularly in the education departments. Witness the scandal in Limpopo a few years ago where hundreds of pupils had to go without school books for most of a year because a consignment had simply been dumped in the veld by the company contracted to deliver them, but not paid.
Well, if an official is intent on feathering his own nest, he is very likely to be derelict in his duties. And the chronicle of neglect grows almost daily.
The Electricity Supply Commission’s lack of preparation for the future, which resulted in regular power cuts, did huge damage to commerce and industry. The dyke seems to be plugged, but how effectively?
And now we have critical water shortages. The drought is to blame for much of that. But in twenty years the ANC government hasn’t built a single new dam. Worse, some of the biggest municipalities haven’t kept existing dams and reservoirs in proper repair. So, for example, supplies are available from Lesotho’s Highlands Water Scheme to alleviate some problems. But the pumps that would carry that water to the reservoirs need replacing.
It is all a tragic state of affairs for the millions of us who had such high hopes for our country in 1990 and beyond. But cynics would say that is the nature of rainbows. They are a trick of the light and they don’t last. And there is no gold at the end of them.
South Africa’s own gold, for so many years the mainstay of our economy, now accounts for a few percent of the Gross Domestic Product. And that economy looks less stable with every budget. It does not help that university students are now clamouring for a free education, worthy though their campaign may be.
If all the money lost to graft, lavished on unnecessary grants and benefits, could somehow be recovered, we would be in a better position to meet such demands when they arise. It would also help if our glorious leader would pay back the R246 millon squandered on what he calls “just a house”.
Jacob Zuma admitted this month that he puts the interests of the ANC ahead of the interests of the country. If he was honest, he would have gone further and admitted that he puts the interests of Jacob Zuma ahead of both.
Now he wants a four billion rand presidential jet capable of intercontinental flight, with a seating capacity of 30 and a conference room capable of holding eight. Why? Is he planning to hold secret party meetings at thirty thousand feet with his top incompetents while they hob-nob around the world?
Political commentator Justice Malala observed this week that “a fish rots from the head down”. That is certainly true in our case. But how much longer must South Africans live with this stench of corruption and avarice?
Extract from John Ryan’s Spy story (Amazon-Kindle)
TWENTY-TWO
‘Of course I didn’t know!’ said Margaret Buhl. ‘How could I have known? I’ve never had so much as a letter from him. Just that one postcard three years ago.’
She dabbed at her eyes with a plain white handkerchief. Digger O’Brien should have expected the tears, genuine or not.
In the process of showing her Robert Dudley’s letters, he had studied Mrs Buhl’s face for any sign of surprise. Certainly she had looked startled when he explained the coded references but that, he thought cynically, could be because she realised the cat was out of the bag.
However, if she was acting now, the performance was impressive.
‘Will they send me to one of those awful camps?’ she asked him.
‘I can’t see how they can,’ Digger answered. ‘You’re a South African citizen, aren’t you?’
‘Born and bred.’
‘Where?’
‘Nelspruit, in the Eastern Transvaal. And I’ve got a birth certificate that shows it.’
‘Well, then. I don’t see how you can be held responsible for anything. If you haven’t done anything wrong.’
He was thinking: And if you have, we’d rather have you here where we can keep an eye on you than in some camp; to see if you can lead us to your mates.
“I just don’t know what to do,’ Margaret Buhl said. ‘Do you think he’ll ever be coming home?’
Digger felt he should say something that sounded sympathetic. ‘Have you thought that Fritz may have asked young Robert to try to get a message out to you?’ he said. ‘To let you know that he was okay?’
Margaret Buhl shook her head. ‘No, but it seems so hopeless anyway,’ she said. ‘He’s there and I’m stuck here. If we win the war, will I ever see him again? He could be killed in the fighting. And if Germany wins, will he be able to come back home? This world’s gone mad! I really don’t know what to do.’
Digger O’Brien noted that she referred to “Germany”, not the Nazis or the Jerries or the Huns, which were what most people called the enemy.
He mentioned that fact later that evening to Colonel Fyfe King. ‘But I really don’t know if we can read anything into it,’ Digger said.
The colonel had invited him along to the Umtata Club for a drink after the weekly NRV parade. The club was a men-only preserve, which Digger always found gloomy for that reason. They sat in a corner near the voluminous snooker room. Most of the illumination was provided by the shaded lights over the snooker tables. No one was playing.
‘Digger, look at it logically,’ said Fyfe King. ‘We discover that Buhl, with his wife right here, is guarding our chaps in that camp. At the same time, we know that there’s a Nazi spy around, maybe more than one. Who’s to say that the Nazis haven’t got to this Buhl woman, put pressure to her to work for them by threatening to do harm to her husband?
‘We know that they must have radio communication. Or maybe the message to her was delivered by one of those bloody subs. And she’s got a truck. And with the garage enough petrol whenever she’s wants it.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Digger. ‘My money’s still on that Mostert fellow. He drinks at the Grosvenor, so he might well have heard about our files. And then there’s the broken leg he didn’t have. Also, I can’t see Margaret Buhl breaking into the Drill Hall.’
‘Well, maybe they’re in it together,’ the colonel said. ‘We’ve suspected for a while now that there’re probably more than one. I think we must watch her closely.’’
‘Will do, sir.’ He considered telling Fyfe King about Moses being in the Buhl cottage, well positioned to do some watching, but thought better of it.
‘Full and unlawful carnal knowledge!’ Gerald Wilson exclaimed.
‘What’d you say?’ asked George Trebble, instantly awake.
‘I’ve been told I mustn’t swear,’ said Gerald, ‘so I’m spelling it out. ‘But look here! There’s a bloke shooting through our windows!’
The three members of the ward had developed a routine. Woken at five to have their temperatures taken, given morning tea and a bed-bath half an hour later, they were grateful to be able to doze during the following hour before breakfast.
But this morning there was indeed an armed man standing between the lower beds. He raised his rifle and fired two more shots through an open window.
‘Don’t have a cadenza,’ he said. ‘I’m just killing the pigeons. They’ve been crapping in the operating theatre again.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ George demanded.
‘I’m the caretaker,’ the man said. ‘Just doing my job.’ He was tall and thin with a pate like a monk.
‘Why don’t you just close the theatre windows?’ asked Gerald Wilson.
‘Nah,’ said the man. ‘Matron says that would be unsanitary. The place must be aired, she says.’ He turned away.
‘Well,’ George Trebble told his departing back, ‘you can tell the matron to full – what was it again? – off.’
‘Now, now, George,’ said Gerald Wilson. ‘Don’t arouse that beast. Her hearing’s pretty acute. And it’s nearly time for breakfast anyway.’
‘Yes, I suppose. Sorry, old man, but I feel a bit crabby this morning. Didn’t sleep very well.’
Certainly, Danny thought, Mr Trebble didn’t look very comfortable. When he’d come back after his operation the previous day, two nurses had lifted his bottom on to something rather like one of those inflated rings little children paddled on in swimming pools.
Danny had become quite fond of the two old men, or rather of Mr Wilson because Mr Trebble had only been there for a day. Mr Wilson didn’t talk down to him, like some of his father’s friends. He was due to be discharged at the weekend, so he could wander around the hospital and get the nurses laughing. He was always checking to see if Danny was comfortable.
One evening, after lights out and before Mr Trebble came, a car had arrived and parked just outside the double doors of the ward that led to the gardens. Someone came in. It was dark but Danny thought he could recognise Mr Southwood, the mechanic. There was much whispering, and then Mr Wilson disappeared.
A long time later, he was back, bumping against the empty beds until he found his own. That night, Mr Wilson snored a lot.
With Mr Trebble there, the two men talked a great deal and told jokes. Danny didn’t mind. He laughed with them although some of the jokes, perhaps most, he didn’t really understand.
One sounded so funny, when Mr Trebble told it, that Danny decided to pass it on to his father when he came to visit at lunchtime, as he usually did.
‘Dad, have you heard this one?’ he said. ‘This man goes to the doctor for an, um, examination and the doctor tells him he should take more exercise on an empty stomach.’
‘Yes?’ said Digger, with some apprehension.
‘So he goes home and starves his wife!’ said Danny.
Digger nodded, and changed the subject to ask Danny if he had managed to do any of the schoolwork his teachers had set him. But a short while later he walked across to talk to George Trebble. Although Danny couldn’t hear the conversation, his father’s voice sounded angry.
After lunch that day, Danny had two visitors. One was Moses, with a bottle of ginger beer and the latest Argosy.
‘Keep it for me, Danny,’ he whispered. ‘I haven’t read it yet.’
The other visitor was Steyn Mostert who said he had a surprise. Steyn left the ward and returned with the broomstick crutch his cousin had used.
‘Nick says he heard about your accident,’ said Steyn, ‘and thought you could do with this when you start walking again. He says he’s sure your father can saw a bit off and make it shorter for you.’
Danny was astounded. A German spy giving him a present?
At first, his inclination was to turn down the offer, tell Steyn to take the crutch back to his cousin. Then he remembered what his father had ordered about not making Nick Mostert suspicious.
So he said, ‘Please say thank you very much.’
Billy, Alan and Charles had already been to see Danny and had received the message to stay out of the drains, or else the NRV and the police would be very upset. But Danny wasn’t sure if it sunk in with Billy.
He found the afternoons the longest part of the day, longer even than the nights. Mr Wilson and Mr Trebble said very little and what they did say he found hard to hear.
Later, however, after visiting hours, after the ward lights were lowered and he was supposed to be asleep, the two men raised their voices several notches.
‘So what else has happened out there, George?’ asked Gerald Wilson.
George Trebble was silent for a while. ‘Oh. One thing,’ he said then. ‘Arthur Davies, the scout master. He’s been given the push. The parents got together, well the mothers really because most of the fathers are away, and told him he had to go.’
‘It was only a matter of time,’ said Gerald Wilson.
‘But why would he do that kind of thing? That’s what I can’t understand. Good-looking wife. Reasonable job at Barclays.’
‘Well, you know what they say, George,’ said Wilson. ‘ “When wine and women lose their joys, try bottled beer and little boys”.’
‘And what else can you tell me?’ he asked.
Trebble was torn. Should he or should he not tell his friend about Fritz Buhl? He opted for a spell of coughing while he considered it. Eventually he thought: If I can’t trust Gerald, who on earth can I trust?
He said, ‘My friend, I’m passing this on in the strictest confidence. Digger O’Brien has already dumped on me from a dizzy height because I told the chaps in the bar about those bloody documents in the Drill Hall.’
‘Okay, George,’ said Gerald Wilson. ‘If I tell anyone at all, I’ll tell them in the strictest confidence too.’
‘Don’t joke, Gerald. Please, this is vital information.’
Then, as Danny listened with growing wonder, George Trebble proceeded to tell Gerald Wilson about the Buhls, about Fritz being a guard at Stalag VII where the Transkei boys were; about the suspicion that now must fall on his wife, Margaret.
John Ryan 