In a stunning display of diplomatic tap-dancing, the British High Commissioner has waded into South Africa's latest anti-migrant fracas, bleating for calm like a shorn sheep caught in a barbed-wire fence. The High Commissioner, a man whose job seems to consist of politely asking angry mobs to please stop setting fire to things, has urged all parties to exercise restraint. Because nothing says 'restraint' like a flaming tyre around a neck.
The violence, you see, is a spirited response to what some South Africans perceive as a migrant invasion. Never mind that the Rainbow Nation has more internal contradictions than a Bantu grammar textbook. The actual news is that the British government, fresh from its own migrant-soup follies, feels qualified to lecture others on hospitality. It's like having the Parisian chef tell you your burnt toast is overdone.
Let us examine the players in this theatre of the absurd. On one side, South African locals, armed with sjamboks and a Twitter account, are venting their spleen on foreign nationals. Their slogan, roughly translated: 'Our unemployment is your fault, you shiny-shoed migrant!' On the other, the migrants, huddled in corners, clutching their one-month rent and wondering if they'd have been safer staying in the war zone they fled.
But wait the UK's man in Pretoria has a solution: 'Call for calm.' Yes, that magical phrase that has never, in the history of human conflict, actually calmed anyone. It's the diplomatic equivalent of shouting 'stop that' at a hurricane. Yet he stands there, in his pressed linen suit, microphone thrust into his face, offering the eternal wisdom of 'be nice to each other.'
Meanwhile, the South African government, a machine that runs on corruption and good intentions, is doing what it does best: making contradictory statements. The President, a man who looks perpetually surprised by his own job, has condemned the violence while also blaming 'foreign elements.' Apparently, the migrants are now both the victims and the cause. It's Schrödinger's xenophobia.
But let's not forget the real architects of this mess: the global inequality machine. The same forces that shipped guns to dictators and jobs to Bangladesh are now surprised that desperation has legs. The EU, the WTO and the IMF all sit in a bar, clinking glasses, while the world burns. The High Commissioner's call for calm is like hosing down a bonfire with gin. Splendid gesture, utterly useless.
And what of the migrants themselves? They are the invisible players in this farce. They cook the food, clean the streets and drive the taxis. They are the pillars of the economy, the scapegoats of the psyche. When the mobs come for them, they run. When the High Commissioner speaks, they listen. But they listen in silence, because their voices are not part of this conversation.
So here we are, in a country that once redeemed the world with forgiveness, now turning on its own shadows. The High Commissioner's words will be forgotten by lunchtime. The violence will ebb and flow. And the gin I am drinking right now will continue to be the only honest thing in this story.
I propose a toast to the absurdity: may our diplomats always have fresh linen, our president always have a puzzled expression and our mobs always have something to burn. Because in the end, this is not about migrants or quotas. It's about the human capacity for cognitive dissonance. We want cheap labour and we want to hate the labourers. We want open doors and closed borders. We want calm. But we want it on fire.
So cheers to the British High Commissioner. He did his job. He said the words. Now let's watch the circus pack up and move to the next tent. Same clowns, different country.
