A determined inquisitorial process, as the Catholic Church demonstrated in the medieval era, can draw blood from a stone.
Alas, thumbscrews and the rack are now frowned upon. But the modern parliamentary or judicial inquiry has proved a remarkably successful substitute.
That is why the normally somnolent President Cyril Ramaphosa is suddenly scuttling about. The trigger was the Constitutional Court ordering parliament to refer the Phala Phala matter to an impeachment inquiry.
The first prong of the president’s response to the judgment has been exactly that of his corrupt predecessor, Jacob Zuma: to profess a desire for accountability while doing everything possible to postpone its arrival. He wants the panel’s report taken on high court review.
The strategy is obvious. Ramaphosa will attack the report at source and argue that parliament cannot proceed on the basis of a document that he claims is legally flawed. However, unless his lawyers can conjure up some dazzling legal footwork, this will be difficult.
The panel had no power to subpoena witnesses, compel the production of documents, hear oral evidence, or test witnesses under questioning. Its function was that of a constitutional filter, and it was on that limited record – including the president’s own written submissions – with material in places “revealing gaps at crucial points” that it made its finding.
The second prong to Ramaphosa’s response is political containment. Reports suggest that Ramaphosa is preparing an urgent interdict to halt the establishment or work of the impeachment committee until the high court has ruled on his review application.
With likely appeals, this could give the president another two years of breathing space.
What South Africans are being asked to accept is not a credible account so much as a fairy tale. It is a story that goes something like this:
Once upon a time, a mysterious merchant of Sudan, lately of Dubai, arrived at the rural palace of the great king Ramaphosa in remote Limpopo. He bore with him a substantial treasure: at least $580 000 in freshly minted notes. His original quest had been to buy a KwaZulu-Natal mansion for his pampered concubine. But instead, seized by one of those whims that afflict men of large means and uncertain paperwork, journeyed into the furthest hinterland to purchase a herd of the king’s buffalo.
The king was abroad. In his absence, the royal steward unfortunately also succumbed to a whim. Instead of placing the treasure, as was custom, in the safe prior to transferring it to a bank, he hid it in furniture. Thus came into being the Magic Money Sofa.
Alas, some wicked robbers came by dark of night and found the enchanted hiding place and made off with the treasure. Thereafter, they celebrated with the restraint villains are famous for: flashy cars, diamond-capped teeth and all other baubles of sudden prosperity.
When the king learned of this, his concern, as is the nature of benevolent monarchs, was for the welfare of his subjects. To spare the farmers needless distress, he secretly dispatched emissaries to a neighbouring kingdom to haul back the miscreants and recover his riches.
Regal honour was satisfied and the natural order restored. All would have lived happily ever after, were it not for a former spymaster and now sworn foe of the king’s court, who spoiled the ending for everyone.
That, more or less, is the tall story the world is being asked to swallow. But South Africans are tired of The Tales of One Thousand and One Nights from fawning courtiers. They want the king to tell the real story himself – plainly, under oath – to the nation in parliament.
So far, it’s been like trying to get blood from a stone.
