Ian Martin in Pearly Beach

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Post Script

Postscript – Ten Years Later

(Extract from “The Revolution Decade: South Africa 2026–2036”, by Dr. Lindiwe Mokoena, Institute for Contemporary History, University of Cape Town, published 2037.)

When historians speak of the September Revolution, they now do so not in whispers of conspiracy or fear, but with the measured respect reserved for turning points that altered a nation’s trajectory.

Ten years have passed since those tense weeks of 2026, when a coalition of academics, business leaders, and civil rights groups — led by the unlikely figure of Professor Harvey Jacobs — toppled a faltering government and assumed stewardship of a broken republic.

At the time, it seemed almost impossible that such an experiment could succeed. Yet it did — through discipline, integrity, and a refusal to repeat the errors of ideology that had ruined so many post-liberation states.

A Decade of Reconstruction

Between 2026 and 2031, the new administration rebuilt the state not through slogans, but systems.
By 2036, independent studies confirmed that South Africa’s GDP had doubled, unemployment remained below 10%, and per capita income had risen by over 60%.

The Reconstruction Councils — dismissed at first as unelected technocrats — became models for pragmatic governance across the developing world.
Their blend of social compassion and fiscal realism, guided by Rawlsian fairness and the ethos of Ubuntu, achieved what neither neoliberalism nor populism had managed: a working moral economy.

The Referendum

The referendum of 2031 proved decisive.
Sixty-two percent of voters chose to extend the Council government for another five years, citing stability and continued reform as their reasons.

By 2036, when a return to full democracy was finally negotiated and ratified, South Africa stood transformed — not into a utopia, but into a functioning, confident state with a clear sense of purpose.

Political parties, once defined by race and patronage, found themselves forced to adopt the new standards of accountability and merit or face irrelevance.

The Legacy of Harvey Jacobs

Harvey Jacobs, the quiet academic who became the reluctant leader of a revolution, retired from public life soon after the transition.
He refused monuments, titles, or wealth.
When asked by a journalist what he considered his greatest achievement, he replied simply:

“That children no longer wake to the sound of hunger, and that our people trust one another again.”

His death in 2035 was marked by national mourning, but also a calm assurance — the sense that his work was complete.

Lessons of the Revolution

The decade that followed the coup remains one of the most studied periods in African political history.
Scholars continue to debate its legality, morality, and necessity.
Yet few dispute its outcomes:

· It demonstrated that technocratic governance, rooted in ethics rather than ideology, could deliver stability and growth.

· It proved that state power, when wielded transparently, could repair rather than destroy.

· It showed that reform did not require repression — only discipline and courage.

Perhaps most importantly, it restored the idea of citizenship — that rights and responsibilities are inseparable, and that justice must be built, not begged for.

The South Africa That Emerged

The South Africa of 2036 is no longer the anxious, divided nation of 2026.
It remains imperfect, unequal in parts, but animated by a spirit of common enterprise.

New industries thrive — renewable energy, biotechnology, and defence technology among them.
The country exports not only goods but governance expertise, advising other African nations on post-corruption reconstruction.

In villages, farmers till land they own.
In cities, children learn in functioning schools.
And though debate and dissent are lively once more, they occur within institutions that command respect.

Conclusion

In retrospect, the September Revolution stands as one of the rare examples in modern history of a coup that built rather than broke.

It did not create perfection, but it restored possibility — the belief that nations, like people, can redeem themselves through reason, work, and moral courage.

As one observer wrote at the time:

“The Revolution was not a storm that destroyed, but a wind that cleared the sky.”

And so it remains — not the story of a man, or even a government, but of a people who, in their darkest hour, found the will to begin again.

(End of “Revolution” — total narrative length approx. 21,800 words.)

Tuesday, March 3, 2026

Revolution: Chapter Thirteen

Chapter 13 – Five Years of Change

Five years had passed since the coup that reshaped the Republic. What had begun in secrecy and peril had, through persistence and reform, become a functioning and remarkably stable new order.

The country was unrecognisable compared to the fractured, cynical society that had stumbled into the mid-2020s. Roads were repaired, trains ran again, hospitals functioned, and classrooms were filled. Crime had fallen dramatically, confidence in public institutions was the highest it had been in three decades, and the words “Made in South Africa” were once again a mark of pride.

In March 2031, President Harvey Jacobs called a national broadcast from the Union Buildings — his first major address in nearly a year. He appeared calm, older, but still possessed of the measured authority that had made him the unifying figure of the revolution.

The President’s Address

“Fellow South Africans,” he began, “five years ago, we took a step few thought possible. We chose reform over ruin, principle over politics. And though the road has not been easy, today we can say with humble confidence: the Republic lives.”

Jacobs spoke without triumphalism. His words carried the tone of a historian rather than a politician — a chronicler of a collective struggle.

He summarised the transformation with his typical blend of candour and quiet pride.

“When we began, unemployment stood near forty percent. Today it is eight.
Our economy, once stagnant, grows by more than seven percent a year.
Our currency has stabilised, our reserves are strong, and our exports — from fruit and wine to technology and machinery — reach every corner of the globe.”

He paused, allowing the figures to sink in before continuing:

“But these are not merely numbers. They represent dignity restored — men and women who once waited for handouts now earning honest wages; children who once studied by candlelight now reading by electric light; families who once shivered in tin shacks now turning keys in their own front doors.”

The camera cut briefly to scenes of new housing estates, classrooms, and factories — visible symbols of the five-year renewal.

The State of the Economy

At this point, Jacobs invited Professor Leonard Cooper-Smith, the Minister of Finance and Economic Planning, to the podium.

Cooper-Smith, tall and understated, carried a thick sheaf of notes but spoke largely from memory.

“Five years ago, when we proposed debt monetisation, there were those — both here and abroad — who called it reckless. They said printing money to rebuild would collapse our currency, that inflation would devour our gains. But we understood that in an economy with vast idle capacity, the true danger was not inflation, but stagnation.”

He detailed the government’s strategy — the controlled creation of money channelled directly into infrastructure, housing, and productive enterprise, never into consumption or corruption.

“Every rand created,” he explained, “was tied to tangible output — a road, a school, a factory, a farm. It was not money for nothing; it was money for building.”

Inflation, he noted, had remained below six percent through disciplined monetary control and the rapid expansion of the tax base.

“When people work, they pay tax. When industries produce, they pay tax. When goods move, revenue flows. That is how we kept balance.”

The results were undeniable.

Exports had risen sharply — particularly in agricultural produce, renewable energy technology, and defence manufacturing.
Tourism, once crippled by crime, was booming again.
The national debt-to-GDP ratio had fallen below 40%, and foreign investment had surged.

“We now borrow at the lowest rates in our history,” Cooper-Smith concluded. “Because investors trust a nation that trusts itself.”

Applause followed, not thunderous but steady — a sign of quiet confidence rather than exuberance.

The President’s Reflection

Jacobs resumed the podium. His tone shifted from statistical to philosophical.

“We have proven that a people, united in purpose, can rebuild a nation without selling its soul. We did not beg from the world; we stood, we worked, we built. And though we have made mistakes, we have learned the rarest lesson of all — that justice and prosperity are not enemies.”

He acknowledged those who had opposed him — economists, former politicians, even foreign leaders — but did so without rancour.

“They feared we would become tyrants or ideologues. Yet we have shown that power, held in service to principle, need not corrupt.”

A Nation Renewed

The President then turned to the tangible achievements of the Revolution:

· Law and order restored — violent crime had dropped by nearly half, and the courts functioned with efficiency.

· Education reformed — teacher training colleges were overflowing, literacy rates climbing, and dropout rates halved.

· Health revitalised — hospitals clean, medicine available, partnerships with private clinics functioning seamlessly.

· Agriculture revived — exports doubled, rural employment soared, and hunger rates fell dramatically.

· Defence renewed — the SANDF professional, respected, and once again capable of protecting both borders and citizens.

· Governance streamlined — corruption prosecuted ruthlessly, with transparency portals allowing any citizen to track public spending in real time.

“We are not yet a paradise,” Jacobs admitted, “but we have left the wilderness.”

A New Question

Then came the moment that would dominate discussion for months to follow.

Jacobs leaned slightly forward, his voice lower, deliberate.

“Our Revolution was never meant to be permanent rule. It was meant to be a bridge — from chaos to stability, from corruption to competence. But now we must decide how to cross the river fully.”

He paused before delivering the announcement that electrified the country.

“Therefore, in accordance with the principles of democratic consent, I am calling for a national referendum. In six months, every citizen will have the right to decide:
Shall we return immediately to a full constitutional democracy with party politics, or shall we extend the Council government for another five years to complete the reconstruction?”

A silence followed. The words hung in the air — not a threat, not a plea, but a challenge to conscience.

“Whatever the people decide,” Jacobs continued, “I shall abide by it. For no revolution is complete until it restores choice to the people in whose name it began.”

Reflections Across the Nation

The address sent ripples across the land.
In townships and suburbs, in universities and farms, people debated late into the night.

Some feared a relapse into old politics if democracy returned too soon. Others, wary of any prolonged rule, argued that the time had come to test the nation’s institutions anew.

Foreign correspondents marvelled at the irony — a leader who had seized power by force now inviting the electorate to decide whether he should keep it.

But within South Africa, the gesture was recognised for what it was: the ultimate expression of confidence.

“Only a strong man,” wrote one editor, “dares to ask the people if they still need him.”

The Legacy of Five Years

Whatever the outcome of the referendum, the verdict of history seemed already written.
In five years, the Revolution had lifted millions from despair, restored order and productivity, and offered a working model of moral governance — not perfect, but principled, efficient, and humane.

The old cynicism had faded. In its place was something subtler and stronger: belief.

Epilogue: The Address Ends

Jacobs closed his speech not with slogans, but with a quiet benediction:

“We began with nothing but conviction. We endured storms, doubt, and sacrifice. But tonight, as I look upon this nation — rebuilt from its own ruins — I know that the dream of South Africa has not died. It has only begun again.”

The broadcast faded to the national flag over the Union Buildings, the dawn light washing across Pretoria.

Five years after the coup, the Republic stood upright — scarred, wiser, but undeniably reborn.

The Revolution had delivered not merely a change of government, but the rediscovery of something rarer: the idea that a country, even one broken by history, could still choose its future.

Saturday, February 14, 2026

Revolution: Chapter Twelve

(Image: Reve)

Revolution: Chapter 12 Defending the Nation

By the fifth year after the coup, the Council turned its attention to a sector long neglected, yet essential to any sovereign nation: defence.

Under previous administrations, the South African National Defence Force (SANDF) had suffered years of decay.

Once among the most capable militaries on the continent, it had become hollowed out by corruption, poor leadership, and budget starvation.

Aircraft lay grounded for lack of spares, naval vessels rusted in port, and army units struggled to deploy for lack of fuel and rations.

Even the once-celebrated Rooivalk attack helicopter, a symbol of South African ingenuity, had seen production halted and maintenance suspended.

Foreign policy drift and internal instability had left the defence establishment demoralised and uncertain of purpose.

A New Strategic Vision

The Council’s Defence Subcommittee, chaired by retired General Sibusiso Khumalo, declared that “a state that cannot defend itself cannot govern itself.”

It was agreed that a reinvigorated defence capability was not a luxury but a necessity — for maintaining peace, safeguarding economic infrastructure, and protecting South Africa’s long and porous borders.

The new strategy rested on three pillars:

1. Rebuilding capacity — restoring the SANDF’s operational readiness and morale.

2. Revitalising the defence industry — to make the country less dependent on foreign suppliers.

3. Aligning defence with development — ensuring that military spending also generated civilian benefit through research, technology, and employment.

Rebuilding the Armed Forces

The defence budget, long stagnant, was increased by 2% of GDP, a significant but calculated investment.

Funds were earmarked not for ceremonial prestige but for readiness and capability.

Training bases were reopened, and recruitment standards reinstated. Thousands of young men and women — many previously unemployed — enlisted for two-year voluntary service.

This revitalised the Citizen Force concept, giving youth not only jobs but discipline, technical training, and civic pride.

The army regained its ability to deploy rapidly in response to natural disasters, border incursions, or internal emergencies.

Its engineering corps rebuilt rural bridges and roads, while medical units assisted in clinics and vaccination drives.

Thus, the SANDF became not merely an instrument of war, but a partner in nation-building.

Reviving the Navy

With over 2,800 kilometres of coastline, maritime defence had long been South Africa’s Achilles heel.

Illegal fishing, smuggling, and piracy off the east coast had flourished under the previous government’s neglect.

The Council approved the Naval Renewal Programme, commissioning the refurbishment of corvettes and patrol vessels at the Simon’s Town dockyard.

Local shipbuilding firms were retooled to produce smaller, multi-role vessels suitable for coastal patrol and rescue operations.

Partnerships were established with the private maritime sector to share maintenance facilities, creating jobs and boosting coastal economies.

By 2033, South Africa once again maintained a visible naval presence in both the Atlantic and Indian Oceans — a deterrent to criminal syndicates and a reassurance to neighbouring states.

Air Power Restored

The South African Air Force (SAAF), once among the most respected in the Southern Hemisphere, was also brought back from near dormancy.

Runways were repaired, simulators recalibrated, and long-grounded aircraft restored to service.

The most symbolic move was the resumption of production of the Rooivalk helicopter, suspended two decades earlier.

A consortium led by Denel, in partnership with private aerospace firms, began assembling a new, upgraded model — the Rooivalk II, boasting improved avionics and dual civilian-military roles, capable of firefighting, search and rescue, and disaster response.

This project provided thousands of skilled jobs and reignited national pride in South Africa’s engineering prowess.

Additionally, a new light transport aircraft, the Springbok, was designed domestically to replace ageing C-47s and to serve humanitarian missions across Africa.

The Defence Industry Reborn

The Council recognised that a strong defence industry could be an engine of economic growth.

During the years of state capture, Denel and related enterprises had been bled dry through mismanagement and corrupt contracts.

Now, under strict auditing and transparent procurement, the industry was rebuilt on commercial principles.

Export restrictions were relaxed, allowing South African firms to sell defensive equipment to vetted African and Asian partners.

The result was a resurgence of manufacturing in Gauteng and the Eastern Cape, with spin-off benefits for universities and technical colleges.

Research in materials science, optics, and robotics — once neglected — began feeding innovations into the civilian economy, from drones for agriculture to precision tools for mining.

Strategic Doctrine: Defence and Development

The Council’s doctrine, articulated in the White Paper on Defence and Development (2032), broke decisively with the old dichotomy between guns and butter.

It stated:

“A capable defence force safeguards prosperity. Economic growth without security is sand built on wind.”

In practice, this meant that the SANDF’s resources would serve dual purposes.

Military engineers would assist with dam building; the Air Force would conduct aerial surveys for environmental monitoring; the Navy would collaborate with marine scientists to protect fisheries.

This alignment made the armed forces visible not as a cost centre, but as a national asset serving the people directly.

Restoring Pride and Discipline

The rejuvenated military became one of the government’s most trusted institutions.

Clean leadership, clear mission, and tangible service restored its dignity.

Drug abuse and absenteeism, once rampant, were sharply reduced through strict discipline and education programmes.

Public confidence followed. Military parades, once viewed cynically as hollow spectacle, now drew cheering crowds — not for show, but as symbols of competence and unity.

Regional and Global Role

A revitalised SANDF also resumed a stabilising role in southern Africa.

Peacekeeping missions in neighbouring states were re-established, earning respect for their professionalism and restraint.

South Africa rejoined the African Standby Force with renewed credibility, contributing logistics and airlift capability to humanitarian operations in drought-stricken regions.

Abroad, defence partnerships were rekindled with friendly nations, but the new policy was clear:

“South Africa will trade with all, ally with none, and submit to no foreign base on its soil.”

This stance — independent, non-aligned, yet cooperative — reinforced the image of a mature, self-reliant republic.

Economic and Social Impact

By 2034, the defence sector employed over 120,000 people directly and many more through subcontracting.

Export earnings from arms and technology sales contributed significantly to the balance of payments.

The renewed sense of discipline and purpose filtered into society itself.

Military training programmes offered technical certifications; ex-servicemen entered civilian life with skills in mechanics, logistics, and leadership.

For a generation of youth once trapped between unemployment and despair, the SANDF had become a pathway to dignity.

A Nation That Could Defend Itself

In his address marking the reopening of Air Force Base Waterkloof, HJ Jacobs summarised the transformation:

“We do not arm for conquest. We arm so that no one may ever again plunder our wealth, our borders, or our dignity.

A nation secure in its strength can extend a hand in peace.”

The crowd that day — soldiers, engineers, and citizens — understood the deeper message: South Africa’s strength lay not only in its weapons, but in the will that built them.

By restoring its capacity to defend itself, the Republic had completed another stage of its rebirth.

Where once there had been fear and decay, now there was confidence — and the steady hum of industry where the forges of freedom had been reignited.

Thursday, February 5, 2026

Revolution: Chapter Eleven

Chapter 11 – Healing the Nation

(Image: Ideogram)

By 2031, as the housing and agricultural sectors surged forward, the Council turned its attention to another pillar of national recovery: healthcare.
If education was the heart of renewal and housing its foundation, healthcare was the measure of civilisation itself.

In the years preceding the coup, South Africa’s health system had verged on collapse. Hospitals were underfunded and overcrowded; clinics stood unfinished or unstaffed; corruption in procurement had drained billions; and morale among medical professionals was at a historic low.

The National Health Insurance (NHI) scheme proposed by the previous administration — though noble in principle — had been riddled with inefficiencies and political manipulation. It never functioned as intended, serving instead as a bureaucratic black hole consuming resources that might have saved lives.

At the first major policy meeting of 2031, held in Pretoria’s newly restored Union Buildings, the Council voted unanimously to scrap the NHI and replace it with a leaner, more pragmatic approach grounded in partnership, professionalism, and accountability.

A System Rebuilt, Not Replaced

The Council’s starting point was simple: rather than creating an entirely new structure, they would restore and rationalise the one that already existed.

South Africa already possessed hundreds of hospitals, thousands of clinics, and a core of highly trained professionals. What it lacked was coordination, efficiency, and trust.

Minister of Health Dr. Victor Ndlovu, a respected epidemiologist from Wits University and one of the few scientists who had stayed in the country during the dark years, set out a three-year plan titled “Health for All, by All.”

The key principle was integration — bringing the public and private sectors into alignment rather than treating them as adversaries.

Public–Private Partnership

Private healthcare, though often criticised for elitism, represented a world-class infrastructure of hospitals, laboratories, and specialists. Instead of nationalising it, the Council proposed a partnership model: the state would contract private hospitals to provide subsidised care to public patients, particularly in rural areas and during emergencies.

This hybrid system dramatically expanded capacity without new construction, while simultaneously reducing costs.
Private operators benefited from steady government contracts; public patients benefited from shorter waiting times and improved service.

Medical insurance schemes were standardised and made transparent. The Council’s Health Equity Act ensured that no citizen would be denied emergency care due to inability to pay.

Restoring the Public Hospitals

At the same time, the Council launched a massive hospital rehabilitation programme.
By the end of 2033, over 160 public hospitals and 1,200 clinics had been refurbished or rebuilt. Outdated management systems were digitised, medical stock control computerised, and corruption-prone procurement decentralised to regional boards monitored by independent auditors.

Austerity was replaced by strategic investment. Funds were directed not to vanity projects, but to functioning equipment, clean facilities, and adequate staffing.

The Return of the Healers

One of the most significant early successes of the reform era was the return of health professionals who had emigrated during the years of decline.

The new administration’s reputation for competence and integrity encouraged doctors, nurses, and pharmacists from the diaspora to come home. Incentive packages offered tax breaks, relocation assistance, and guaranteed positions in public–private clinics.

By 2033, the health workforce had increased by 30%, reversing decades of attrition.

Training and Recruitment

Simultaneously, the Council reopened nursing and medical training colleges closed under previous regimes.
Community health workers were retrained and professionalised, forming the backbone of rural healthcare delivery.

Scholarships targeted students from underserved provinces, binding graduates to return to their home districts for at least five years after qualification.

The programme produced not just new clinicians, but a generation of medical professionals rooted in the communities they served.

Efficiency and Accountability

The reformed system operated under a simple credo: “Every rand must heal someone.”

Administrative bloat was slashed. Paperwork was digitised, hospital budgets published online, and patient satisfaction metrics introduced.
For the first time, the public could see how their taxes translated into actual service delivery.

The Council’s Health Audit Commission, chaired by retired judge Thembi Radebe, conducted random inspections of hospitals. Her blunt reports — sometimes scathing, sometimes laudatory — were televised, keeping administrators alert and honest.

Health for the Poor

The greatest beneficiaries of the reform were the poor, who at last received reliable and dignified medical care.
The revival of mobile clinics brought doctors to remote areas, while telemedicine platforms linked rural nurses with urban specialists.

Vaccination rates climbed, maternal mortality declined, and life expectancy began to rise after years of stagnation.

Perhaps most tellingly, for the first time in decades, township clinics reported more births than funerals in their registers.

Mental Health and Social Care

Recognising the scars left by years of instability, the Council expanded access to mental health services.
Psychologists, counsellors, and social workers were integrated into the healthcare network, while trauma recovery centres were established for victims of violence and gender-based abuse.

These initiatives, championed by Minister Sakena Moloketsi, complemented her Justice portfolio, aligning law enforcement with social healing.

“A nation cannot be policed into peace,” she said. “It must be counselled into calm.”

Results and Public Reaction

By 2034, international observers hailed South Africa’s reformed system as one of the most balanced and efficient hybrid models in the developing world.
Health outcomes improved across nearly every measurable category — infant mortality down 25%, preventable deaths from chronic disease down 30%, hospital satisfaction ratings above 80%.

For ordinary citizens, the difference was tangible: waiting times fell, medicines were available, and staff treated patients with professionalism and respect.

In a country once synonymous with medical collapse, this was nothing short of a quiet revolution.

The Broader Impact

The rejuvenated health system had ripple effects beyond its immediate sector.
By keeping the workforce healthier, it improved productivity, reduced absenteeism, and lightened the fiscal burden of welfare.

It also served as a symbol of what competent governance could achieve — proof that reform, when pursued with pragmatism rather than ideology, could transform a nation.

As Cooper-Smith remarked in a later address:

“Our hospitals are now the best metaphor for our republic — cleaned, disciplined, and healing.”

By the end of the fifth year, South Africa’s hospitals no longer resembled places of despair but centres of renewal.
They stood as monuments not to wealth, but to will — proof that even the most broken systems could be restored through integrity and resolve.

Friday, January 23, 2026

Memory Project: The Bicycle

A bicycle is a human-powered vehicle consisting primarily of a frame, two wheels, pedals, a chain, gears, handlebars, and brakes. The frame acts as the core structure connecting all parts and supporting the rider's weight. The pedals connect to cranks which turn the chainrings, transferring power via a chain to the rear wheel, propelling the bicycle forward. The wheels are spoked and designed to be strong yet lightweight, supporting the rider and allowing smooth rotation. Gears and derailleurs control the chain position to change the mechanical advantage, facilitating easier pedalling on different terrains. Handlebars steer the front wheel to change direction, while brakes slow or stop the bicycle by applying friction to the wheels. (And the saddle? Very difficult to ride a bike if you can’t sit on it.)

I was given my first bike when I turned five. It was too big for me, even though my father set the saddle as low as it would go. Instead of getting me a smaller model, or waiting for my legs to grow longer, he cut four two-inch thick blocks of wood and bolted them to the pedals, thereby overcoming the discrepancy between my height and the size of the frame. He then expended considerable time and energy running up and down Dalton Road, where we lived in Fish Hoek, all the while helping me to remain upright. After a few of these sessions he began to remove his steadying hand for incrementally longer periods

until I was maintaining an upright position on my own. When I began to wobble, he shouted after me to keep pedalling, or I would fall off. This was when I first came across the physics of circular motion and discovered the importance of gyroscopic as well as centrifugal force.

It was not long after teaching me to ride that my father packed his old leather-bound suitcase and caught a train to Rhodesia. His intention was to start a new, more prosperous life and he soon contacted my mother and told her to pack up, find a removal firm and sell the house. This she did, singlehandedly, before boarding a train bound for Gwelo, a place somewhere in darkest Africa. She was accompanied by her three children, Alan 9, me 5, and Jean 9 months.

My father had acquired a low cost 3-bedroom house designed for habitation by low class European immigrants, and when the pantechnicon finally arrived from South Africa at this residence where we were waiting, Alan and I were overjoyed to see the two bicycles being offloaded. I consider this as marking the start of my cycling career.

From that time to the present day, I have never been without a bike for more than a year. In Rhodesia we went to and from school, frequented the Municipal Swimming Pool, visited other kids, ran errands, and generally went everywhere on what, to us, was the greatest invention to come out of the industrial Revolution.

Getting onto a bike was like overcoming gravity, and that feeling of freedom from being shackled to the ground still exhilarates me. That is not to claim cycling is without limitations and physical challenges requiring a great deal of physical exertion at time. Like when encountering a hill or a headwind. And it can be dangerous, too. Many motorists resent the presence of cyclists on the road and have been known to deliberately knock them over if they don’t get out of the way. When Alan was about 14, he hit a termite mound while taking a shortcut across a rough stretch of open veld. From the moment of impact to when he arrived back at the house, he had no recollection and, on examining the egg-sized lump on his head, my mother put two and two together and diagnosed a case of concussion. While a student in Grahamstown, Guy came off at high speed near the bottom of Prince Alfred Street and sustained multiple bruises and abrasions as well as a gash on the chin, which required stitching, and left him with a scar. I think he is a little proud of this minor disfigurement, seeing it more as the result of a war wound than an act of recklessness. I, too, have had mishaps, the most serious of which took place one night in Arcadia Street near the bottom of Crest Road more than 20 years ago. I can’t remember why I was riding in the dark but, at any rate, it proved a foolish thing to do. When I was about two metres from a middle-aged couple walking in the road ahead of me, I sensed their presence and swerved wildly. The man was knocked off his feet and I crashed to the ground, skidding on my back before striking my head on the tar. I wasn’t knocked unconscious, but actually saw stars in front of my eyes, as depicted in the comic books.

I used to think I had first got on a bike at an earlier age than anyone else in the family. That was until I was recently looking at an old album and came upon the photo of my mother standing astride her bicycle. Attached to her handlebars is a wicker shopping basket, and behind her is a baby chair. My little sister, not two years old, can be seen sitting in it and waving at the camera. So, that settles it: Jean, and not me, holds the record for the youngest to ride on a bike.

(Digression: In the background of this photograph is the first car from those days that I can remember. It was a 1950’s Ford Consul previously owned by an old man in Bulawayo. We all went through – I don’t recall how we got there – and drove the new acquisition the 100 miles back to Gwelo. The elderly gent had fitted a block on the floor next to the accelerator, so that, if one kept the foot slightly off-centre on the peddle, it was not possible to press down further than this ‘governor.’ This restricted the car’s top speed to 40 mph. Once on the open road, my father bypassed the obstacle and took the car up to 50. To our initial alarm and then amusement, clouds of dust began to billow from the roof lining like smoke. It proved be a reliable vehicle and was only replaced by a stronger Ford Zephyra few years later in order to tow a caravan.)

My mother was a keen cyclist in her youth, and enjoyed using her Raleigh, winch had a three-speed set of gears, as her means of transport while Dad was away. He, on the other hand, never owned a bike in South Africa or Rhodesia. I find this strange, because he had belonged to a cycling club in the UK, and had won trophies in several competitions.

I went on to acquire several bicycles over the years. First, there was the one I used to get to and from school on. It was a basic model without gears but served its purpose right through the junior and senior school days. When I started working I bought a racing bike with drop handlebars, thin tyres and a six-speed derailleur. An obscure make, it was pale blue, and I rode it hard for about six years until it was stolen while chained to a lamp post outside the main entrance to Groote Schuur Hospital. I used to cycle from Woodstock to Fish Hoek for lunch with Mum and Dad, and Jean, occasionally, on a Sunday. After two or three post prandial brandies and ginger ale, to ride back in thick traffic was an exhilarating challenge. It was on that bike that I entered the Argus Cycle Tour in 1979. I finished in the first hundred of a field of about 1500, which shows how fit I must have been.

It was shortly after the race that the blue bike was stolen, and I replaced it with a second hand Peugeot, wine red in colour. This, too, was destined to be taken from me by thieves. Before that calamity, however, I bought an old ‘dikwiel’ that might have belonged to a postman, but probably wasn’t, as it was not standard Government black. Of an indeterminate colour somewhere between green and blue, it is still in my possession, if some miscreant hasn’t nicked it from the shed while I sit here writing this drivel. I purchased it for its fat tyres, which suited it for the gravel roads in Pearly Beach.

In 1983 I participated in the Argus for a second time, mounted on the Peugeot and accompanied by Leonard. We set out in a field of several thousnand and got half way down the Blue Route when somebody cut in front of somebody else and caused a multiple pile-up. Leonard, poor chap, was brought down and landed heavily on his gammy hip. I dismounted in order to render assistance and help him back into the race. Barely able to get to his feet, it was soon apparent he would have to retire, and I was obliged to continue on my own. Despite losing at least five minutes at the accident site, I made good time and finished in the top 300 who completed the course.

The latest and, probably, the last two-wheeled conveyance to make up the list was recently acquired at the behest of Guy, who took pity on his aged father having to battle up hills and fight into the teeth of a gale without the assistance of gears. This is a modern mountain bike jointly owned by Martin and son. It is red, white and silver, has front suspension, and gears and disc brakes that are hydraulically operated, which makes my life considerably less strenuous. I would whizz about PB at high speed if my eyesight allowed it. Some 30 years ago, while my vision still permitted it, I enjoyed taking a ride from Westcliff out to the Vooelklip end of Hermanus after work. Coming back, and riding as hard as I could, my goal was the breakwater at the New Harbour. About 150 metres in length, it was usually deserted at that late time of day, and I was able to engage top gear and peddle furiously once on the concrete runway. The adrenalin-pumping climax came when I judged it time to slam on the brakes before doing an Evel Knievel into the ocean. This ritual helped me to believe there was more to life than being a builder.

Something all cyclists should bear in mind is that the crouching position they adopt encourages the build-up of gas in the gastro-intestinal tract. When peristalsis moves gas from the colon into the rectum a familiar sensation alerts one of the need to expel flatus, which is accomplished by relaxing the external anal sphincter. I have a strong memory of an occasion when I experienced just such a familiar sensation while riding back from Voelklip. Without thinking about it, I arose from the saddle and let rip with a vuvuzela-like blast. As chance would have it, another cyclist was in the process of overtaking me just at that moment. ‘I beg your pardon?’ the impudent fellow remarked as he went by. To disguise my embarrassment, I muttered something about jet propulsion. From that time on, I have always looked over my shoulder before spitting, snotting, farting or cursing and conversing aloud with myself.

No one who claims to be a veteran cyclist could deny having developed a neurotic fear of punctures. Mending a puncture entails removing the wheel and prising the tyre from the wheel rim in order to get at the inner tube. Once the leak is located, and this might require inflating the tube and immersing it in water and looking for telltale bubbles, it is then a matter of cutting a rubber patch, rounding the corners, applying solution to the puncture site as well as the patch, allowing them to dry until tacky, and then firmly pressing the two surfaces together. Then it is a matter of replacing the tube and tyre, and fitting the wheel to the bike. If successful, this process could take up to an hour of one’s time before the bicycle can be ridden once more. No wonder we detest punctures and their main cause: the dreaded duiweltjie. Also known as the duwweltjie, this diabolical plant (Tribulus terrestris) bears small multi-spiked fruit specially designed to breach the tyre’s outer defences and penetrate the tautly distended soft rubber within.

One might think that to become a puncture victim far from home and without a repair kit would mean a long walk back pushing the incapacitated casualty. Such an assumption, however, does not take into account the resourcefulness of the impoverished inhabitants of Africa. I am thinking of an incident that took place on the Que Que road back in 1959. Alan, 14, and I, 9, had been to visit Plug Sellars on his parents’ smallholding 5 miles out of Gwelo. On our way back, three miles from home, my brother’s front tyre began to hiss like an angry snake. A minute later, he was forced to dismount. He said we would have to take turns pushing and riding, a suggestion I objected to. While we were arguing, a Native came peddling towards us. He must have been returning to the Reserve, for he had a sack of mealie meal draped over his handlebars and a large bundle strapped to his back carrier. He drew to a halt alongside us and took in the flat tyre.

“Puncture? Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“You got pump?” Alan asked.

With difficulty, the man extricated himself from his laden mount and propped it up against a nearby Acacia tree. Of course, he had a pump, and soon used it to further antagonize the snake.

“Big puncture. Too big.”

Undeterred, he went to his baggage and came back with a roll of cobbler’s thread. He soon had the tyre separated from the rim and the tube removed. The puncture site was easy to locate, and we watched with fascination, not knowing what he was about to do next. He produced a kitchen knife, honed it on a nearby stone, and cut two short lengths of thread. I remember thinking that he could easily cut our throats wide open with that knife, but was unconcerned, because there was clearly no logical reason to do so. Close to the puncture, he looped one of the threads, pulled it as tight as he could and knotted it. As he began to repeat the procedure on the other side of the hole, we saw in a flash what he was up to. Aha! He was isolating the problem by inflicting a double strangulation on the tube. Once tube and tyre were back in place, he pumped up and said, “You ride fast.”

“Thank you maningi times,” Alan said as he jumped onto his bike. “You good muntu.”

His tyre was only half flat when we reached home half an hour later.

So much for punctures. The new bike has tubes that have been injected with a liquid that immediately seals a hole the moment air passes through it. I no longer fear the dreaded duiweltjie, and continue to enjoy the feeling of lightness and freedom whenever I get onto a bike.

Wednesday, January 14, 2026

Revolution: Chapter Ten

Chapter 10 – Feeding the Nation

(Image: Ideogram)

By the end of 2030, as the housing drive transformed skylines and the industrial sector surged, Harvey Jacobs and the Council turned their attention to a matter even more fundamental than shelter — food security.

For decades, South Africa’s agricultural sector had suffered from neglect, mismanagement, and political interference. Once the breadbasket of the region, it had been undermined by land uncertainty, violent crime, failing infrastructure, and erratic policy.

At the Council’s annual policy retreat held in Kimberley in early 2031, Jacobs opened proceedings with characteristic directness:

“No nation that cannot feed itself is free. Food is sovereignty; the farmer is the first defender of the Republic.”

Stabilising the Countryside

The Council recognised that agriculture could not thrive without security. Farm attacks, stock theft, and rural banditry had driven thousands of skilled farmers from the land, devastating production and morale.

Under the direction of Minister of Justice and Police Sakena Moloketsi, the government expanded the Rural Protection Command, a specialised branch of the police supported by the military and private security companies.

Modern surveillance systems, drones, and communication networks linked farming communities into rapid-response grids. Rural roads were repaired, and satellite patrol bases established to reduce response times. Within a year, incidents of rural violence dropped by more than 60%, and farmers — both commercial and emergent — reported a renewed sense of confidence.

Land Policy without Chaos

The Council also resolved one of the most contentious issues in post-apartheid history: land reform.

Rejecting populist demands for expropriation without compensation, Jacobs declared an unambiguous principle:

“The land will be shared, not seized. It will be productive, not political.”

Under the new National Agricultural Partnership Programme (NAPP), arable state-owned land was identified and released for redistribution. Additional parcels were purchased at fair market value from willing private sellers.

Prospective emergent farmers were required to undergo formal agricultural training, covering crop management, soil science, irrigation, and financial literacy. Only those who completed the programme successfully were allocated land, ensuring that recipients were equipped to succeed rather than destined to fail.

Each was paired with an experienced mentor — often a retired or semi-retired commercial farmer — who provided hands-on guidance for the first five years. These mentors were compensated through a state stipend and tax incentives.

Cooperative Farming and Shared Machinery

To overcome the barrier of capital costs, the government encouraged cooperative models. Machinery, irrigation systems, and storage facilities were shared among clusters of small farmers through locally managed agricultural cooperatives.

This model, adapted from successful schemes in Kenya and Brazil, allowed emerging farmers to access high-quality equipment without crippling debt. It also built community resilience, as members supported one another through fluctuating seasons and markets.

Expanding Infrastructure

Parallel to these reforms was a massive investment in rural infrastructure. Roads, silos, and cold-chain transport systems were upgraded to ensure that perishable produce reached markets quickly.

Provincial departments collaborated with the national Transport Ministry to rehabilitate thousands of kilometres of secondary roads linking rural areas to urban centres. Within two years, logistics costs dropped by nearly 25%, revitalising agricultural exports and local distribution alike.

Keeping People on the Land

A recurring problem in the previous decades had been the relentless migration of rural youth to overcrowded cities in search of opportunity. The Council moved decisively to reverse this trend by improving the quality of life in rural areas.

Basic services — electricity, healthcare, internet connectivity, and schooling — were extended to remote villages through targeted programmes. Agricultural towns were reclassified as rural development nodes, prioritised for investment in housing and micro-enterprise.

New vocational colleges specialising in farming technology, animal husbandry, and agribusiness management were established to train the next generation of rural entrepreneurs.

Technological Innovation

The Department of Agriculture and Food Security, working closely with universities and private-sector partners, launched a national drive for agricultural innovation.

Pilot projects introduced satellite-driven irrigation scheduling, soil-sensor technology, and drone-assisted crop monitoring. Mobile apps were developed to give farmers real-time access to weather data, pest alerts, and market prices.

Within five years, these technologies helped to increase average yields by 20–30%, especially among small and medium-sized producers.

Diversification and Sustainability

Environmental scientists on the Council insisted that expansion must not come at the cost of sustainability. Water management policies were tightened, with subsidies for drip irrigation and drought-resistant crops.

The government also incentivised agro-processing industries, encouraging local production of packaged foods, oils, and dairy products to reduce dependence on imports.

These value-added industries created jobs and boosted export capacity — particularly into Southern Africa, where demand for South African produce and processed goods rose steadily.

A Spirit of Cooperation

Perhaps the most remarkable change, however, was psychological. The rhetoric of racial hostility that had poisoned debates about land began to fade.

White commercial farmers, once vilified, were again regarded as national assets, while black emergent farmers were celebrated as the vanguard of renewal. Farmworkers, for the first time, were guaranteed profit-sharing agreements under the Rural Fairness Charter, ensuring that those who laboured on the land also shared in its rewards.

Jacobs summarised the new spirit succinctly:

“We have ended the war over land by ending the war in our hearts.”

HJ’s Address to the Nation

In his 2031 address, broadcast from the newly rebuilt Bloemfontein Agricultural College, Jacobs reflected on the transformation:

“When we took office, our shelves were empty, our fields neglected, our farmers afraid. Today, our granaries are filling, our markets are expanding, and the children of farmworkers are learning the science of soil and seed. This is how nations feed themselves — not by slogans, but by labour, courage, and knowledge.”

He praised the partnerships that had taken root between commercial agriculture, cooperatives, and the state, and ended with a call for vigilance:

“Let us never again confuse justice with vengeance. Let us never again destroy what feeds us in the name of politics. The soil belongs to all — but it yields only to those who care for it.”

The Harvest of Stability

By the close of 2032, agricultural exports had increased by nearly 40%, food prices stabilised, and South Africa once again achieved regional self-sufficiency.

In rural areas, crime rates fell, and young families began to return from the cities. Villages that had been fading into memory now hummed with life — grain silos, cooperatives, and small factories anchoring renewed local economies.

The countryside, long neglected, had become the quiet engine of the Revolution.

Wednesday, December 31, 2025

Revolution: Chapter Nine

(Image: Ideogram)

Chapter 9 – The Housing Drive: Building Dignity

By the third anniversary of the September Revolution, the Council’s achievements in restoring governance, stabilising the economy, and revitalising education had begun to bear fruit. Yet, as Harvey Jacobs repeatedly emphasised, “a nation cannot be said to have risen while its people still live in shacks.”

Nowhere was the legacy of inequality and state failure more visible than in the sprawling informal settlements that ringed South Africa’s cities. From Khayelitsha to Alexandra, from Umlazi to Galeshewe, millions of people continued to live without proper housing, sanitation, or ownership. It was, as Jacobs described in his 2029 National Address, “a visible wound on the conscience of the Republic.”

The Announcement

In that landmark address, Jacobs spoke plainly.

“We have rebuilt our institutions, we have begun to heal our schools and streets, but still our people live without walls strong enough to protect a child from the cold. This must end — not through handouts, but through the creation of opportunity. Over the next ten years, every South African family will be given the means to own a home built on dignity, not despair.”

The plan he unveiled became known as the National Housing and Infrastructure Drive (NHID) — an ambitious ten-year programme designed to transform both the built environment and the economy itself.

A Financial Innovation

At its heart lay a bold financial principle: state-guaranteed, low-interest mortgages issued through commercial banks.

The Council recognised that access to finance, not a lack of will or labour, was the main obstacle to home ownership among the working poor. Under the NHID, the government would provide long-term guarantees on mortgages for first-time buyers who met strict vetting criteria — proof of employment, a clean credit record, and a commitment to community standards.

This was not a giveaway. Each homeowner would contribute according to ability, but with interest rates capped at levels affordable even to low-income earners. The state guarantee meant that banks could lend safely, while borrowers gained access to credit markets previously closed to them.

Economists debated the plan intensely. Some warned of risk to public finances, but Cooper-Smith and the Treasury team argued that the long-term benefits outweighed the exposure. The construction boom, they reasoned, would stimulate demand across multiple sectors — steel, cement, timber, transport, and retail — generating revenue that would offset the guarantees.

Within six months of the announcement, the first pilot projects broke ground outside Johannesburg, Durban, and Bloemfontein.

Employment Through Construction

The NHID was more than a housing scheme; it was a national employment engine. Construction sites became hubs of work for previously unemployed youth, tradesmen, and suppliers.

By late 2029, over 400,000 workers were employed directly or indirectly in the housing and infrastructure sectors. Training programmes expanded to keep pace — bricklaying, plumbing, and electrical installation became high-demand trades, taught at new technical colleges built under the education reforms.

Each house built represented not just shelter, but a chain of productive activity linking dozens of industries.

Infrastructure and Community Design

The Council also rejected the old model of peripheral, dormitory-style housing. Instead, new developments were planned as integrated communities — complete with schools, clinics, libraries, and public transport links.

Urban planners emphasised walkability and green spaces. Where possible, renewable energy solutions such as solar micro-grids and water recycling systems were incorporated into designs.

The programme’s slogan — “Homes, not huts; communities, not camps” — captured its ethos of permanence and dignity.

Vetting and Oversight

To prevent corruption — the plague that had crippled previous housing programmes — the process was tightly monitored. The newly established Housing Integrity Board oversaw vetting and allocation, while the Community Liaison Officers (CLOs) played a crucial role in assisting applicants and ensuring transparency.

Each applicant underwent a background check and was required to attend workshops on ownership responsibilities, maintenance, and community governance. Fraudulent applications were prosecuted swiftly, sending a strong message that the new era would not tolerate the old habits.

Jacobs made the point repeatedly:

“This is not charity. It is a partnership between citizen and state. A house built on deceit will not stand.”

Economic and Social Effects

The economic impact was immediate. Demand for building materials surged, factories reopened, and transport companies expanded to meet logistical needs. The construction boom alone contributed nearly two percentage points to GDP growth by 2030.

At the same time, the social transformation was profound. Families that had spent decades in informal dwellings now possessed addresses, deeds, and a tangible stake in society. With ownership came pride, stability, and a visible reduction in crime and social unrest.

In many settlements, residents who once relied on illegal connections now paid for electricity and water. Local entrepreneurship flourished — spaza shops became supermarkets, backyard mechanics formalised their workshops, and small parks replaced refuse dumps.

Feasibility and Advantages

International observers were initially sceptical. The idea of guaranteeing millions of mortgages in a developing country seemed risky. But South Africa’s macroeconomic discipline — low external debt, careful monetary management, and strong export earnings — gave it the fiscal room to experiment.

Moreover, the multiplier effect of housing was undeniable. Every home built generated sustained economic activity across at least six other sectors. Studies later estimated that for every rand invested, the state gained 1.7 rand in economic return.

It was, in effect, a self-sustaining cycle of dignity and productivity.

A Moral Imperative

Jacobs saw the NHID as more than an economic policy — it was a moral one.

“For too long,” he told the National Assembly, “we have spoken of freedom while millions lived in bondage to poverty. True liberty begins when a family closes the door of its own home at night and knows that it is safe, secure, and theirs.”

Warning Against Corruption

The President ended his address with a characteristic warning — calm but unmistakable:

“This opportunity will not be stolen. Those who attempt to cheat, forge, or defraud this programme will face the full weight of the law. The house you take dishonestly today will be taken from you tomorrow. The age of impunity is over.”

The nation listened — and, for the most part, believed him.

By the end of 2030, the first 150,000 homes had been completed. Rows of neat brick houses rose where tin shacks had once stood, and for the first time in a generation, the South African skyline seemed to reflect renewal rather than ruin.

The Revolution, now entering its mature phase, was beginning to deliver the tangible symbols of its promise: roofs over heads, ownership in hearts, and hope beneath every foundation stone.