The cash-in-the-sofa scandal is the gift that keeps on giving for South Africa's president, Cyril Ramaphosa. If you thought the saga of the stolen US$580,000 stuffed into a couch at his Phala Phala game farm was old news, think again. The scandal refuses to die, providing endless fodder for his political opponents and a stark reminder of the rot that pervades the post-apartheid elite. One cannot help but draw parallels to the late Roman Republic, where the opulence of the few became the ruin of the many. Here we have a president, elected on a promise to clean up the kleptocratic legacy of his predecessor Jacob Zuma, now entangled in a tale so farcical it could have been penned by Evelyn Waugh.
Let us dissect the facts. In 2020, Ramaphosa reported the theft of a large sum of foreign currency hidden in a sofa at his private game reserve. The money, allegedly from the sale of buffalo to a Sudanese businessman, was never declared to the tax authorities. The president claims it was legitimate, but the secrecy and the sheer shabbiness of the arrangement suggest otherwise. Is this the behaviour of a statesman or a provincial racketeer? The scandal has been a boon for populists like Julius Malema and the Zuma loyalists, who decry Ramaphosa as a hypocrite. Yet the more profound issue is the moral decay of the African National Congress, a liberation movement now indistinguishable from a criminal syndicate.
The comparisons to the fall of Rome are apt. When the Roman aristocracy began hoarding wealth in villas and engaging in lavish displays of excess, the empire's moral fibre unravelled. Similarly, the South African elite, black and white alike, have retreated into gated compounds and game farms, oblivious to the suffering of the millions. The Phala Phala affair is not merely a personal embarrassment for Ramaphosa; it is a symptom of a nation that has lost its way. The question is whether the president can survive. His opponents scent blood, and the ANC's internal factions are circling. But Ramaphosa is a survivor, a master of the grey art of political evasion. He will likely weather this storm, as he has weathered so many before.
Yet the damage is done. The scandal reinforces the perception that South Africa is a state where the rules do not apply to the powerful. It feeds the narrative of a failed transition, where the promise of democracy has been betrayed by greed and incompetence. One cannot help but recall the words of the Victorian historian Thomas Carlyle, who wrote that 'the history of the world is but the biography of great men.' But what of great men who hide cash in sofas? Perhaps the modern historian must revise Carlyle: the history of the world is the biography of great men caught with their trousers down.
In the end, the Phala Phala affair will pass, as all scandals do. But its lingering stench will remain, a testament to the intellectual and moral decadence that has gripped the Rainbow Nation. The president may survive, but the idea of a clean government has been dealt a mortal blow. And that, dear reader, is the tragedy of our times.
