It is a scene so absurd, so redolent of a banana republic that one might suspect it was scripted by a satirist with a grudge. And yet, here we are: the President of South Africa, Cyril Ramaphosa, allegedly caught with sums of foreign currency stuffed into the upholstery of his furniture. Not a mattress, mind you, but a sofa. The very symbol of domestic comfort has become the repository of state secrets and, presumably, the hopes of a nation’s fiscal probity.
Let us pause to savour the historical irony. South Africa, the nation that gave the world the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, that emerged from apartheid with a moral authority unmatched in the post-colonial world, now finds itself reduced to a Punch and Judy show of corruption. The Commonwealth, that motley collection of former colonies and dominions, looks on with a mixture of horror and grim recognition. After all, what is the Commonwealth if not a club of nations that have agreed to pretend that their civil services are impartial and their treasuries honest?
This scandal, which has been euphemistically termed ‘Farmgate’ by the press, reveals a deeper rot. It is not simply that President Ramaphosa may have committed a crime. It is that the crime is so tacky, so pedestrian. We have grown accustomed to grand larceny: billion dollar embezzlements, offshore accounts, yachts in the Mediterranean. But a few hundred thousand dollars in a sofa? That is not the stuff of high finance. That is the behaviour of a man who does not trust the banks, perhaps because he knows that the banks do not trust him. It is the mark of a provincial kleptocrat, a village chieftain who hides his wealth under the thatch.
The timing could not be worse. The Commonwealth is already ailing, its relevance questioned by its own members. The United Kingdom, its erstwhile patron, has turned inward, obsessed with Brexit and the delusion of a global Britain. Canada and Australia are eyeing the Pacific Rim with increasing interest. Africa, the continent that gives the Commonwealth its moral purpose, is being run by men who cannot keep their cash out of the upholstery. What message does this send to the world? That the post-colonial order is nothing but a façade: independence merely substituted white robbers for black ones, the same greed in a different skin.
But let us not be too harsh on President Ramaphosa. He is, after all, a man of his class and time. He rose to prominence as a trade unionist, then a businessman, then a politician. He knows the value of money, and he knows how fragile power can be. If he chose to hide his wealth in a sofa, it is because he has no faith in the institutions he leads. That is the true scandal: the President of South Africa does not believe in South Africa.
What, then, is to be done? The Commonwealth must act, but with what teeth? It can suspend South Africa, as it did Zimbabwe and Fiji. But suspension is a gesture, not a solution. The real remedy lies in the slow, grinding work of institution building: independent judiciaries, free presses, vigilant civil societies. South Africa has these things, but they are being eroded by the very man who should be defending them. Mr Ramaphosa should resign. He will not. And so the Republic will continue to sink, not into the abyss, but into the cushions of a very comfortable sofa.
The lesson is as old as Aristotle: the character of the ruler is the character of the state. If the President stashes cash in his sofa, the state becomes a sofa. And so we must ask ourselves: what kind of Commonwealth do we wish to inherit? One of upholstered thieves, or one of honest men? The answer, I fear, is already hidden between the cushions.
