TO PAY for dinner at The Wolseley in London, first you have to book. Then, upon reservation confirmation two weeks later, you can redeem your nest egg — the 20,000 Rembrandt shares your wise grandfather bought in 1971. You don’t wear white shoes or pajamas (many a Gambian diplomat has tried and been sent packing), and for these conditions, you are relatively assured that you won’t see or hear of Jacob Zuma, or his son Edward, or even his nephew Khulubuse. But he wouldn’t like it; they don’t serve deep-fried Airbus A380 with egg and gravy.Regrettably, an Australian woman with a high-pitched voice seated three tables away, defiled the occasion: "I don’t care what a president has done," she said in that accent forged by the legacy of drunken English slur, "you don’t have to be so rude."She was talking about an article by South African-born author Justin Cartwright, published in The Independent, under the headline, "SA is a failed state under Zuma the illiterate clansman."I walked home ...
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