What’s left of the ANC is infested to the core. There is no better comrade, only comrades with better PR, writes Qaanitah Hunter.
There’s a peculiar phenomenon in South African politics: a twisted version of comradeship that has, over the years, entangled corruption so tightly with the ANC that one can barely tell where ideology ends and personal interest begins.
It always starts small.
A young activist, hardened in the trenches of regional ANC structures, suddenly gets a seat on the regional executive committee.
Not long after, they are appointed to a mayoral council.
The pay is decent - the kind you’d expect for a mid-level professional.
But once the tax, UIF, and medical aid deductions come off, it’s not quite the dream.
Still, for someone who has spent years as a volunteer, hustling, campaigning, surviving off gigs and struggle cred, the appointment feels like a breakthrough. They have “made it”.
There’s a state-sponsored BMW X5. There’s awe from the township.
And soon, an instinct to level up kicks in. The phone never stops ringing. Old comrades from the trenches begin calling in favours.
As regional treasurer, the comrade now has access and responsibility.
The ANC has no money, but events still need tents, catering, and chairs.
So they make a plan. Company A provides the tent for free, and in return, they ensure that company gets municipal work.
The work starts modestly: tents for community outreach.
Calling in a favour
Then mobile toilets. Soon, Company A is charging inflated rates, submitting padded invoices, and pocketing millions - all thanks to the comrade’s wink and nod.
Then there’s a funeral in the family.
Private school fees for three kids. A partner who refuses to be seen in a Polo Vivo.
So the comrade calls in a favour. And once the favour is done, they realise how easy it all is.
Suddenly, their children are chauffeured by state bodyguards.
Their partner drives a Mercedes, courtesy of another comrade.
No one asks questions.
No one wants to. The comrade is now entrenched.
With their growing influence, they begin shaping municipal decisions, turning a blind eye to the indiscretions of others in exchange for loyalty.
By the time the next ANC provincial conference comes around, they have built an empire of transactional comradeship - “I scratch your back, you scratch mine” - bankrolled by companies whose only client is the state.
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They have tasted the lifestyle of tailored suits, private dining rooms, and weekend villas. Losing it is not an option.
So they become ambitious.
They raise their hand to join the ANC’s provincial leadership.
They secure campaign funding - bags of cash and discreet payments from tenderpreneurs eager to keep the taps open.
It works.
They are appointed provincial treasurer of the ANC and promptly land an MEC position. Bigger budgets, bigger projects.
And bigger expectations from family, friends, and hangers-on. The network expands. So does the cost of maintaining it.
They register a company in their partner’s name.
Kickbacks start flowing directly. They trade their modest home for a mansion in a posh suburb. Now they are courted by the elite of the tender world.
Every other night, there’s a caucus: steaks, whiskey, cigars at plush hotels.
On off nights, there’s the VIP lounge, a steady stream of girls and booze. They never see the bill. They don’t need to.
They begin bullying officials into bending rules and hiding evidence.
Companies that want to keep their tenders are coerced into donating to the ANC, but personal bank accounts are sent. They justify it. It’s political work.
These aren’t bribes; they’re strategic alliances. That’s what they tell themselves.
The lines blur, and the pursuit of power and the pursuit of wealth become indistinguishable.
They wear a R500 000 watch to the legislature and call it a gift from a friend.
Their childhood pal who was once unemployed now owns a company that rakes in millions supplying mobile toilets to government events.
There’s a growing network of acolytes: fixers, fetchers, cousins. Everyone eats.
Then, suddenly, the house of cards collapses.
The ANC provincial leadership is disbanded. The comrade loses their MEC post. The calls stop.
The VIP invites dry up. They return to the municipality where it all began.
They throw their weight around and demand favours. The comrade feels betrayed and is angry.
And so begins the comeback strategy. Daily meetings. Long nights. A few well-placed tenders through their partner’s dormant company.
Money starts flowing again. This time, they play for bigger stakes: a seat on the ANC’s national executive committee.
They change allegiances to get a foot in the door. They are suddenly campaigning on an anti-corruption ticket.
Deepening rot
They tell anyone who will listen that they are better than those before them. There are no damning reports or adverse findings from commissions.
They always made sure the “movement” benefitted first.
They win. They are back.
And this time, there’s no ceiling. One mansion becomes three. Kruger National Park trips are traded for holidays on the French Riviera.
Side dish allowances are added to partner allowances. And the rot deepens.
This is the culture of the comrade class in the ANC.
A lifestyle funded by state contracts, justified by political loyalty, and camouflaged in liberation rhetoric.
Serving the movement now means betraying the state. There is no other way.
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So when you wonder how a deputy president who has never had a job outside the state lives in a R70-million mansion, or how a deputy minister once hailed as an anti-corruption crusader now benefits from school nutrition tenders awarded to his wife’s company - this is how.
Those who campaigned against the kleptocratic regime that came before have proven no better.
Some loot directly. Others look away.
These are the “reformers”- the people who don’t ask who paid for their lunch as they devour steak on a weekday afternoon in a luxury hotel.
The Ramaphosa years have shown us that it’s not getting better.
In fact, at municipal level, it’s open season. A feeding frenzy.
What’s left of the ANC is infested to the core.
There is no better comrade. Only comrades with better PR.
So what about the dream of ANC renewal? It has sadly died quietly long ago. There’s no incentive to change things up.
Don’t take my word for it. Read the declarations, follow the paper trail, and look at the company ownerships behind billion-rand nutrition tenders.
The cancer isn’t a few bad apples. It’s systemic.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch. And no such thing as a cleaner comrade. Not anymore.
- Qaanitah Hunter is a political journalist and author.
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