JUSTICE MALALA: The secret is out

You may have heard that this column, in its current form anyway, comes to an end at the end of the month. No, the editor doesn’t think I am rubbish, or jaded, or that I like Cyril Ramaphosa a tad too much even when he comes up with something so daft as playing at being a mini-Julius Malema. No, really, they love me here. I know. The editor told me so. Or was I hallucinating, the way the EFF does when it holds up Venezuela as an economic success? My plan is to try the US for a bit. I have been a bit dishonest with readers of this column since I started back in 2005. Those were the Mbeki years. Oh, those fat years. We fought over how to make the good times even better by breaking through 6% GDP growth. Big cars, big steaks and fabulous sunsets were the order of the day. I was supposed to write about restaurants. There was a catch, though: there were places I could write about and there were places I couldn’t. There were places I went to with my children that my lovely wife and I did n...