Chapter 17

Friday, 10 May 2019

This gathering of the National Executive Committee of the African National Congress was different to earlier such gatherings. For one, they could use a much smaller meeting room at the Saint George Hotel and Conference Centre outside Pretoria, just off the R21 that served as a pumping artery for commuters between OR Tambo International Airport and Pretoria. The 2017 elective conference of the ANC had reduced the main committee from over eighty to just thirty-two members. There were those they now called ‘The Big Five’ – the president, his deputy, the secretary-general, her deputy and the treasurer-general. There used to be a chairperson, but conference had done away with that. There were the thirty-two main members and the nine chairpersons of the provincial executive committees.

The forty-six individuals sat around tables arranged in a large rectangle, with the Big Five at one short end of the rectangle. A large black, green and gold banner took up most of the wall behind them, emblazoned with the shield, spear and wheel symbol, and big letters saying ‘African National Congress – Ke Nako!’

Behind them stood a lectern at which the secretary-general, Thembi Masondo, just managing to show her head above the rim, was now gathering up her notes from the organisational report she had given. She paused, tapped the pile of papers, raised her fist and shouted ‘Amandla!’ The members lifted their fists and responded in partial unison, ‘Ngawethu’, then waited for her to proclaim the next slogan, but she was quiet, picked up her notes and spoke: ‘Comrade President, can you please come and give the political report?’

President Moloi leaned over to say something to his deputy, raised himself up with his hand on the deputy’s shoulder, and moved to the lectern. The deputy turned to whisper something to the treasurer-general sitting to his left.

Moloi raised his fist and proclaimed, ‘Ke Nako.’ About half the gathering raised their fists enthusiastically. He waved a sheet of paper at the gathering. ‘Comrades, these are my notes. I have not prepared a speech. Nor have I allowed my office to draft something for me. This is not the time for jargon, for prepared speeches, for slogans.’ He turned and looked at the banner on the wall behind him, laughed and pointed to it. ‘Except, of course, for this slogan – Ke Nako! Now is the time for speaking from the heart. For brave thinking. Ke Nako!’

This time more than half the room responded. Moloi folded the sheet of paper and squeezed it into the side pocket of his black, green and gold tracksuit top. Someone in the room laughed.

Moloi placed both hands on the lectern, bent his elbows, leaned into it until his chin almost touched the top of the lectern, then pushed himself back upright, dropping his arms to his sides.

‘We’ve been given a second chance.’ Pause. ‘Perhaps a last chance.’ He paused again, walked over to his chair and placed his hands on the back rest. ‘Just under two weeks ago, the people, the electorate, asked us to rule, at least one more time.’ Murmurs in the room. ‘Yes, comrades, we all hope it is not just one more time. But that depends on us. We scraped through in the April elections.’ Murmurs again. ‘Why? You don’t think we scraped through? Forty-eight per cent. We got forty-eight per cent! That is not a landslide, not with our history of close to two-thirds. If it wasn’t for the votes our coalition partners garnered’ – he nodded towards the observers from the Communist Party sitting against the far wall – ‘the bloody opposition would be in power. We just held onto Gauteng, reduced majority in Eastern Cape. The opposition still controls Johannesburg and Tshwane and Nelson Mandela Bay. And they’ve retained Western Cape. Yes! Scraped through.’

Moloi turned to look at the banner, and walked slowly back to the lectern. ‘We are only back in power again because we took steps. We took steps to save our Movement. In 2017 we took steps, with the help of our ANC veterans.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the two representatives of the Veterans’ League in the far corner of the rectangle. ‘And the MK veterans – the real ones.’ He gestured again, this time with a wide sweep of his hand. ‘And the Party.’ He smiled broadly. ‘We took steps to reclaim our Movement. That’s why we are here. All of us. We took steps and we made promises.’

Moloi moved again from the lectern and walked slowly around the room, around the back of the chairs of the gathered executive members, every now and then, as he spoke, stopping behind a chair and resting his hands on the shoulders of the occupant, then moving off again with a tap on the person’s right upper arm.

‘We made promises. Firstly to cleanse the ANC. To rid ourselves of factions and slates and the buying of votes. To recapture the ANC and the state from those who’d captured us – old and new capturers.’ The person he was standing behind laughed, raised a fist and quietly said, ‘Amandla!’

Moloi moved off. ‘Amandla, indeed. We promised to deal with corruption. We promised to tackle, more ambitiously, the rise in crass materialism.’ He laughed. ‘And I don’t mean historical materialism, comrades of the Party.’ General laughter. Moloi grunted, then sunk for a moment into thought. He closed his eyes, swayed on his feet, then opened his eyes widely as if jerked out of sleep. ‘We promised many things to ourselves, to our members and to our people. And now, ke nako – now is the time! We are in government. We are in power. And this time ...’ He moved quickly back to the lectern, again put his hands on either side of it. ‘And this time, this time we are going to keep our promises!’

A few of the members began to applaud. Others joined in, until there was a crescendo of acclamation. Thembi shouted ‘Matla!’ The response was instant and loud.

Moloi stood back and watched, his face inscrutable. He waited for the slogans to subside. ‘Thank you, comrades, but I’m not done yet.’ Laughter. ‘This might be the shortest political report in the history of such gatherings, but it might be one of the most crucial for the survival of our Movement and the achievement of the goals we set ourselves from the earliest days of struggle.’ He paused, moved his eyes around the room, taking in the expressions of each one present. ‘So, I am not done yet. We are not done yet.’

Moloi retrieved the folded sheet from his tracksuit pocket, placed it on the lectern, unfolded and flattened it with his right hand, but did not look at it. ‘Yesterday, I was inaugurated as president of the Republic. Today is Friday. On Monday we must announce and swear in our new cabinet. Early next month we announce our plans to the new parliament. We have these three days to get ready.’

Moloi walked to his chair and sat down. A few people started to applaud. He held up both his hands. ‘As I said, I’m not finished yet. Just thought I’d sit down amongst you. And, anyway, my war wound is starting to throb.’ Someone sniggered.

‘Here’s my thinking on the way forward. After I’ve finished my input and we’ve had some time to discuss, we’ll break up into commissions. For the rest of the weekend, until teatime on Sunday morning. After that we’ll take reports from the commissions and take decisions. We’re only going to deal with governance issues. We’ve been dealing with organisational issues since conference. And here’s what I think commissions should deal with. First, a commission to look at all ANC conference resolutions relating to governance and policy, especially those from last conference – to prioritise those for urgent implementation and make suggestions on how.’

He stood up, made his way back to the lectern, retrieved his page of notes and returned to his chair.

‘The second commission – and this might upset some of you – should look at the size and make-up of cabinet. And also at the issue of official cars, blue-light brigades, presidential jets and other extrava—’

Loud voices, raised in frenzied chanting breached the walls. Something large and heavy banged against the ceiling-high wooden doors. Moloi stood up, pushing his chair back.

‘Comrade Sandile, go see what’s going on.’

Sandile Ndaba walked to the door and opened it gingerly. It opened inwards. The opening was blocked by a large presidential bodyguard in a black suit and opaque sunglasses.

‘Don’t come out, sir!’

‘What’s going on?’

‘A demonstration, sir.’

‘How did they get in?’

‘We’re not sure, sir. They just suddenly were here.’

Sandile craned to look over the outstretched arm the bodyguard was using to hold him back. Now he heard the chants. ‘Moloi must fall! Down with Moloi!’ He caught sight of placards – professionally printed – and banners with similar injunctions. Behind him the hall was quiet. The president still stood at his chair looking towards the door.

The bodyguard turned his head towards Ndaba. ‘We’ve called for reinforcements, sir – the riot squad.’

‘The riot squad? Do we still have such a thing? This is not a riot! We don’t want any violence here. Let me speak to them.’

‘I don’t advise that, sir.’

‘How many are they?

‘About a hundred, sir.’

‘Let me talk to them!’ Sandile tried to push past the bodyguard. The man leaned back. ‘Don’t do that, sir!’

Sandile stepped back, closed the door and turned around.

‘Well, Sandile, what is going on?’

‘It’s a demonstration, Comrade President.’

Moloi twisted his head as though from an involuntary tic. ‘What are they protesting about?’

‘About you, Comrade President.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘They want you out ...’

Moloi stepped back from his chair and faced the banner behind him. He laughed, from the belly. ‘Hawu! They want me recalled? I’ve only been president since yesterday and they already want me out. Wiser people tried for two years to get my predecessor recalled and failed. What have I done since yesterday?’ He paced between the lectern and the chair. ‘Who are they? How many? Are they ANC?’

Sandile returned to his seat and stood behind it. ‘They’re apparently about a hundred, Comrade President. I don’t know who they are. They seem to be well resourced, though – professionally printed placards, T-shirts and banners. They seem to be wearing ANC colours.’

‘Are we safe?’

‘They’ve called the riot squad, Comrade President. They won’t let me talk to the protesters.’

‘They? Who won’t let you?’

‘Your bodyguards.’

‘But we can’t have violence.’

‘Yes, I told them that, Comrade President.’

Moloi started circumnavigating the room again, hands clasped behind his back, head down. He mumbled to himself. As he completed one half-circuit, he began to limp. All eyes in the room followed him. At last he stopped and spoke in a curt, staccato voice: ‘Okay. That’s it. We’re going to continue. Take your seats.’

Moloi picked up his sheet of notes and went back to the lectern. ‘Right! Where were we?’

Through the heavy wooden doors the sounds of chanting, the stamping of feet, shouts and scuffling insisted their way into the room.

‘I was saying that the second commission must ask and answer some hard questions. We need to reduce the size of cabinet by at least half. We need to reduce expenses on fancy cars, battalions of bodyguards, flotillas of blue lights, lavish entertainment. We need to wrest the moral high ground back from the opposition. Where they govern they have done some of these things. Why? Why did we not retain the moral leadership we built with such difficulty in the struggle? We faltered. We fell. We failed. Now is the time to put things back where they belong. Ke Nako!’

The muted response from the gathering was smothered by the scuffles outside.

‘The third commission will look thoroughly and finally at real economic transformation. If the country is not yet ready for socialism, let’s at least do some real social democratic things. The fourth commission—’

Three rapid-fire shots rang out, reverberating through the hollow room as if fired within the four walls. From beyond the door a sudden silence. Members of the national executive started, scattered towards the wall furthest from the door. Moloi stared at the door. The deputy president, who appeared calmer than most, went up to him and took him by the elbow and guided him towards the others. Sandile Ndaba moved again towards the door. Moloi shouted: ‘No, Sandile!’

Sandile carefully opened the door, just wide enough to peer out. The large bodyguard, perspiration dripping down his face, held his arm in the air with a pistol pointed to the ceiling. He quickly extended his left arm to stop Sandile from coming through. ‘Please, sir, don’t!’

‘What the hell happened?’

‘They were trying to storm the room, sir.’

‘Who fired?’

‘I did, sir. They were trying to storm the room.’

‘Jesus, man! We don’t want a Marikana outside an NEC meeting! Is anyone hurt?’

‘I fired into the air, sir. They were pushing. The police are here now, sir. They’ll disperse them.’

‘Please, no violence! Let me talk to them.’

‘Please, no, sir. The police are here. They will talk to them, together with the hotel management. The main thing is to protect the president. Please go back to him, sir.’ And with his left hand he nudged Sandile back into the room, his right hand with the pistol still up in the air. The noise from the crowd, which had subsided following the gunfire, had risen again to an angry rumble, with only occasional outbursts. It reminded Sandile of a sudden, brief lull in a gale-force Cape Town southeaster. He closed the door. The executive members formed a static tableau. President Moloi stood slightly apart, his eyes fixed on Ndaba and the door. Sandile went up to him and reported back.

‘Okay, comrade. Thanks. Let us let things cool down a bit before we continue.’ Sandile was about to move off when the president called him back. ‘Sandile, wait ... When we break into commissions, there is something I need to discuss with you. Let’s meet in the holding room later.’