In a development that has all the hallmarks of a discarded Le Carré script, South Africa’s top copper, General Fannie Masemola, had his morning tea rudely interrupted by a hail of bullets. The would-be assassins, presumably lacking in both aim and ambition, failed to turn the general into a colander, leaving him merely irritated and slightly late for his 10am briefing. The South African Police Service (SAPS), in a move that suggests they have finally discovered the concept of ‘asking for directions’, has invited British counter-terror advisers to ‘observe’ and ‘offer guidance’. Because nothing says ‘post-colonial sovereignty’ like a bunch of chaps from Hereford telling you how to spot a bomb in your bakkie.
Let us paint a picture. General Masemola, a man who has stared down more criminals than I’ve had hot dinners (and I’ve had many, mostly involving gravy), was ambushed outside his home in Pretoria. The attackers, displaying a tactical prowess that would embarrass a toddlers’ paintball team, managed to fire several rounds without so much as grazing the general’s bespoke uniform. It is believed they fled the scene in a getaway vehicle that was later found abandoned, presumably because the driver realised he’d left the oven on. SAPS have since launched a manhunt, which I imagine involves a lot of squinting at grainy CCTV footage and murmuring ‘that’s him, I’m sure of it’ about everyone with a pulse.
Enter the British counter-terror advisers. These are the same folks who have been advising on everything from hostage negotiation to proper queuing etiquette in conflict zones. They will ‘work alongside’ South African authorities, a diplomatic phrase that translates to ‘stand in the corner and try not to patronise anyone’. But let us not mock the import of British know-how. After all, Britain’s counter-terror record is impeccable, provided you ignore the IRA, the 7/7 bombings, and the fact that their own prime minister was once filmed jogging with a man who had links to extremist preachers. But details, details.
The deployment was confirmed by a spokesperson who, in true official fashion, said nothing and took two hours to say it. The British team will ‘share expertise’ and ‘build capacity’. Expect seminars on the proper way to brew tea during a siege, and the correct formation for forming a cordon while wearing a bowler hat. Meanwhile, South African taxpayers are left to wonder: if the SAPS can’t keep their own chief safe, what hope for the rest of us? Perhaps the answer lies in a stiffener of gin, a commodity I have advocated for decades.
This is the state of our world. A world where police chiefs need foreign nannies to survive a Tuesday morning. A world where the assassination attempt is so bungled it becomes almost comedic, yet the underlying rot remains. Gang violence, political instability, and a creeping sense that the only thing being protected is the status quo. General Masemola, I salute your survival. But ask yourself: why do you need Yorkshire puddings to keep you breathing? The answer, I suspect, is as murky as the waters of the Limpopo. And twice as full of crocodiles.
For now, we wait. For the next bulletin, the next outrage, the next shot of gin to steady the nerves. I shall be at the bar. Do not disturb me unless the SAS arrive to discuss my column. They’ll find me in the corner, wearing a flak jacket and a terrible tie.
