The latest diplomatic theatre unfolds in Pretoria, where two murdered Mozambicans have become pawns in a grand game of moral one-upmanship. The British High Commission, ever eager to brandish its conscience like a regal sceptre, demands ‘action’. But what action?
A sternly worded memo? A UN resolution? Or the usual flurry of press releases designed to make the sender feel virtuous while the bodies grow cold?
This is not 1899. The Empire’s writ does not run. Yet the ritual persists: a murder, a statement, a chorus of tut-tutting from London.
Meanwhile, South Africa’s own house is a shambles of corruption and incompetence. The Mozambicans deserve justice. But do the British deserve a say?
They speak as though the Rainbow Nation were a wayward colony, not a sovereign state. The real obscenity is not the crime, but the pretence that a high commissioner’s outrage can substitute for a functioning police force. We are watching the slow death of accountability, dressed up in diplomatic finery.
And the worst part? Everyone plays along.
