Johannesburg. The scandal that refuses to die has a name: Phala Phala. For President Cyril Ramaphosa, the saga of the $580,000 stolen from a couch on his farm has become an albatross, a symbol of the disconnect between the ruling elite and a nation struggling to put bread on the table.
As South Africa’s unemployment rate hovers near a record 33 per cent, and food prices climb faster than wages, the ‘cash in the sofa’ affair feels like a visceral insult. It is a story that touches on everything that angers ordinary workers: the concentration of wealth, the opacity of power, and the sense that the rules apply differently to those at the top.
For months, Ramaphosa has tried to weather the storm. He has insisted that the foreign currency — hidden in a sofa at his farm in Limpopo in 2020 — was legitimately earned from the sale of game. But critics, including whistleblowers within his own security services, have questioned how a president could keep that much cash, in dollars, concealed from tax authorities, the central bank, and the anti-graft watchdog.
The scandal has now taken a new twist. The nation’s public protector, Busisiwe Mkhwebane, has released a report concluding that Ramaphosa “deliberately misled” parliament over the theft. It is a preliminary finding that could pave the way for impeachment proceedings, though the president’s legal team has vowed to challenge it. Meanwhile, the African National Congress, the party of Mandela, is deeply divided. Some factions want Ramaphosa to step aside, citing the damage to the party’s credibility ahead of elections in 2024. Others rally behind him, arguing that he is the victim of a smear campaign by rivals who fear his anti-corruption drive.
But beyond the political machinations, the scandal resonates because it strikes at the heart of the economic pain felt by millions. South Africa is the most unequal country on earth. The gap between the rich and the poor has widened since apartheid ended, and the Covid-19 pandemic only made things worse. Wages for factory workers and domestic staff have stagnated, while the cost of electricity, transport, and maize meal has soared. The president’s explanation — that the cash was meant for a farm sale — rings hollow to those who cannot afford a loaf of bread.
Trade unions have seized on the moment. The Congress of South African Trade Unions, an ally of the ANC, has called for a full inquiry. Cosatu’s general secretary, Bheki Ntshalintshali, said: “Workers are tired of seeing the wealthy get richer while they struggle. This scandal shows that even the president is not above the law. We need answers.”
Independent economists warn that the turmoil is damaging investor confidence. The rand has weakened against the dollar, and the yield on government bonds has risen, as the political uncertainty adds to the gloom. South Africa’s growth forecast for this year has been cut to just 1.1 per cent, well below what is needed to create jobs for the thousands entering the labour market each month.
For now, Ramaphosa remains in office, defiant. He has ordered an independent review of his farm’s security. But the ‘cash in the sofa’ story has a life of its own. It feeds the narrative that the post-apartheid elite, whatever its colour, has absorbed the habits of the old regime: secrecy, entitlement, and a disregard for the poor. As one mine worker in Rustenburg told me: “They tell us to tighten our belts. But they have all the cash stuffed in their sofas.”
The question is whether this shabby tale of hidden dollars will finally break the bond between the ANC and the working class, a bond that has frayed but held for nearly three decades. In a country where hope is in short supply, the answer matters more than the fate of one man.
