Our thanks to Jameson Gonad Publishers for their kind permission to publish this short extract from 2012 hardback edition of NEPAD OR BUST: The Memoirs of Thabo Mbeki (1890 pp. R1 270 VAT incl)
To use a line of Shakespeare’s, it was the best of times and the worst of times. It was early June in 2005 and my personal Boeing was in for its annual five million kilometre airworthiness check. This meant I was marooned in South Africa for a whole consecutive 10 days.
Just as well, as it turned out. A certain high-profile trial had come to its predictable end in the Durban High Court the week before, and the political fall-out was pouring down. A murky Durban businessman had been dipping his fingers into our sixty billion rand arms deal. Got them singed right up to the armpits. Fifteen years in chookie. The trouble for me was that my honourable deputy pres, a solid sort of Zulu chap with impeccable struggle credentials, had been all but co-convicted with the shady businessman. The judge said that the latter had been supplying my honourable deputy pres all the way from a brand new Mercedes limousine to snazzy suitings, humungus under-the-counter payments from a French arms manufacturer and lending him seven hundred rands in a plain brown sandwich bag.
Naturally the media were like flies to a coffin. “Fire him!” “Throw him to the dogs!” “We can’t have a fellow like this taking over after the sustained brilliance of the stellar Mbeki presidency!” A typical racist stew.
As usual I maintained an oracle-like silence and let it all simmer down. I called my honourable deputy pres in for a glass or two and a little heart-to-heart.
“Well Jumbo,” I said, “this time you’ve really dropped your knackers in the mangle. I thought that when I put you in charge of the country’s moral regeneration you’d take the hint and withdraw to a safe distance from a -certain sub-tropical brotherhood. I hear they’re called The Morningside Mob.
He sighed heavily. “There are sides to this story you haven’t heard,” he said.
“And which I don’t intend to hear,” I snapped. “What I’ve got to do now is bit of urgent damage-control. — I’m coming out of this thing far worse than you,” I added as I started to stuff my pipe.
This time he sighed with intent. “If you think I’m going to resign to save your face, you’d better think again,” he rumbled. “I say we should shoulder this one together. Let’s behave like we always do when a major -corruption crisis threatens our party. Stick to each other like the proverbial army blanket and brazen it out.”
I dipped the flame of my Bic into the Rum & Maple. “Try to think of the alternatives,” I said softly through a pillow of smoke. “As much as I love and admire you, I can’t be seen to step in and stop those vindictive mothers in the National Prosecuting Authority from throwing several books at you. By pure chance I had the honourable NPA director on the plane with me to Chile the other day and, try as a I could, he refused to listen to democratic reason.”
He sat up at that. “What are you saying? I thought you could stop that with a flick of your presidential wrist.”
“And I know a trial will be a terrible strain for you,” I said, trying to sound kindly. “All the expense, and this time the Morningside laddies aren’t going to come sidling up waving their cheque books.”
“I’ll face my accusers proudly,” he said with a jaunty tilt of his shoulder. “I’ve got spin nurse-aid, Ranjeni, on my side. And the ANC Youth League.”
I sucked on my pipe, ejecting an acrid plume. “I’m not too sure the ANCYL will come running to pay for your defence. They’d have to give up their Beemers, designer jeans and Moets & Chandons.”
“I’m just an innocent victim,” he bristled.
“Aren’t we all,” I mused. “But, if you do have to take it on the chin in court, I’ll make sure I appoint a judge just as impeccably fair-minded, meticulous, conscientious and unbiased as that Squires bloke.”
He suddenly slumped. “What will I say?” he bleated. “People out there trust me.”
“Of course they do,” I warbled, pushing home my advantage. “We’ll make sure that your honourable departure is done with all the dignity you so richly deserve. Leave it to us.” I tapped my pipe. “I do the smoke, Joel does the mirrors. When Snuki phones up for his daily briefing, he’ll be told to put it across as something between a gesture of patriotic nobility and a national tragedy.”
I hung an arm on his shoulder as he stumbled out. “Just remember, debt-relief is very much in the air these days. I’ll even talk to Trev and see whether, from our side, we can toss in the Mercedes.”
The rest, of course, is history. Two days later I was off to the G8 and another challenge to my extraordinary bow.