Fred Khumalo Columnist

The advent of spring is supposed to inspire in one the urge to wake up every day and sprint to the garden to say howdy to the flowers, wink at the bees as they go about their beesyness and strut around with a bounce to one’s gait. You know the feeling? Exhilaration, joie de vivre. I know it’s in the air somewhere, and has been for the past few weeks, but it continues to elude me. On my part dudgeon is bubbling up a bit; passions are rising. It’s not even the Gupta brothers’ refusal to come to testify before the commission into state capture that gets my goat. Yes, the mere mention of the Guptas causes my bile to rise. But what can I do? If a man is showing you the middle finger from Dubai and you are stuck in Joburg, you’re better advised to take a deep breath and look for a target that’s closer to home. As fate would have it, the target of my ire has just presented itself on a rusty platter: downtown Joburg. While it would be an exaggeration to call downtown Joburg a proper slum, i...

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