Extract

Cyril Ramaphosa wasn’t expecting a 10-minute ovation when he walked into the state of the nation (Sona) after-party — that hadn’t been compulsory since the day Thabo Mbeki left office, leaving behind a 450-page thank-you note and a soggy pipe-stem so that his saliva could be used to clone him once humanity was ruled by philosopher-kings — but some muted oohs and ahs, and perhaps a smattering of heartfelt applause might have been nice. Except now the goddamned French had found a billion barrels of paydirt in Mossel Bay, and Cyril felt like chopped liver.

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