Slow Poison Gym & Boxing

When Extremes Change Skin but Keep the Same Pulse
An opinion by Bulelo Tsotso
South Africa has already buried one version of racial fanaticism. We know what it sounds like. We know how it dresses. We know how it mobilizes fear, humiliation, and grievance into political theater.
Eugène Terre'Blanche embodied white supremacist militancy through the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging — uniforms, spectacle, emotional fury, and a promise to “restore” a threatened people.
Years later, a different generation rallies behind Julius Malema and the Economic Freedom Fighters — red berets, revolutionary chants, a language of confrontation, and promises to reclaim what was taken.
Different skin.
Different history.
Same intoxicating energy.
Extremism does not care about race. It feeds on grievance. It thrives on division. It simplifies complex problems into enemies. It tells followers that anger is virtue and volume is courage.
And here is the uncomfortable truth: when politics becomes theatre of rage, when crowds are intoxicated by symbolism more than substance, when opponents are painted as existential threats — history begins to whisper warnings.
South Africa fought too hard to escape racial absolutism to flirt with its mirror image.
Justice is necessary. Economic reform is necessary. Accountability is necessary.
But the romanticization of militant populism — from any direction — is reckless.
Regardless of whether the uniform is khaki or red, regardless of whether the voice is defending old privilege or attacking inherited inequality — the authoritarian spirit of Adolf Hi**er has no home here.
We do not need recycled strongmen.
We do not need messianic anger.
We do not need leaders who build identity through enemies.
History does not always repeat with the same face.
Sometimes it changes color, changes slogans, changes songs.
But the pulse — the dangerous, intoxicating pulse of extremism — remains the same.
And South Africa should know better.

Am just enjoying this read, but reading 📚 about corruption, murders and stuff can be depressing at the sametime.

The Animal Farm Betrayal

This farm was built by the white man, developed by the white man, and well managed by the white man. But us animals revolted against his ill-treatment. He found us in the jungle, fenced it with borders, and domesticated us. Those who resisted were ring-fenced into what he called Bantustans. Some royal animals, like K.D. Matanzima, Gatsha Buthelezi, Patrick Mphephu, Lucas Mangope, and Lennox Sebe, accepted their corners of land and ruled their Bantustans as chiefs, kings, or princes.

But politicians came, declaring that the Bantustan idea was a prison, not freedom. They formed movements like the ANC and PAC to unite the farm. After years of struggle, the animals dethroned Mr. Jones — Apartheid — and declared themselves free.

At first, it seemed like a new dawn. The pig Old Major, Nelson Mandela, reconciled the farm and promised unity. But his time was short. Snowball, Thabo Mbeki, took over, but he stumbled in the face of a deadly disease, denying its impact while animals perished.

Then came Napoleon, Jacob Zuma, brought to power by nine dogs: Julius Malema, Fikile Mbalula, Blade Nzimande, Zwelinzima Vavi, Sdumo Dlamini, Nomvula Mokonyane, Gwede Mantashe, Tokyo Sexwale, and Mathews Phosa. They disbanded the Scorpions, the very watchdogs meant to protect the farm, and opened the gates to vultures — the Guptas. Nine wasted years followed, and the farm was captured.

After him, Squealer, Cyril Ramaphosa, rose to power. He promised a new dawn but found himself trapped by the ruins left by Napoleon. Even he confessed the truth: the animals cannot run the farm as it is. He looked to the neighboring farm, the Western Cape, to learn again from the humans — the whites.

The Truth for the Poor Animals

After 31 years of Kakocracy and Sh*tocracy, the truth is bitter:

The Animal Farm has been the worst era for the poor animals, the lower-class blacks.

But for the Black Elite pigs, it has been the best of times — luxury, wealth, and endless feasting.

The freedom promised to the poor turned into hunger, unemployment, and hopelessness.

Now the poor whisper, “Was the farm not managed better under the old farmer?” For all his cruelty, he built, developed, and maintained. The pigs promised prosperity but delivered ruin.

Bulelo Tsotso

The youth unemployment rate in South Africa sits at a staggering 62.4 percent. And yet, despite this crisis, the youth remain quiet at the ballot box. If South Africa’s young people were to rise and cast their votes in overwhelming numbers—using their power to express their unhappiness—the failing team in charge could be replaced, and a new one could be tried.

But as long as the failing team continues to win, the cycle of poverty and frustration will remain. Why? Perhaps because the crumbs—social grants, and the easy access to cheap alcohol—have been enough to keep the calm, to numb the anger, and to silence the urgency for real change.

Bulelo Tsotso

Helen Zille for Johannesburg Mayor? The Real Fear Behind the Dismissal

By Bulelo Tsotso

Helen Zille should be mayor of Johannesburg. But here is the truth: she cannot win Johannesburg.

Not because she is incapable, not because she lacks vision, but because Johannesburg has become a city that thrives in chaos. Lawlessness, dirt, and disorder are not accidents here—they are the very soil in which corruption grows strong.

In such an environment, it is survival of the toughest. The weak are cornered into poverty-stricken townships where desperation feeds on itself. Out of this, local mafias emerge: taxi bosses, small business “forums,” and so-called associations that pretend to be guardians of the people while fencing off their own empires. Police officers? They eat from their hands.

Step outside the township, and the picture remains the same. Mafias in business circles sabotage systems to secure tenders—whether they do the work or not is irrelevant. The money flows regardless. Look at our hospitals, the filthiest in the land, or our neglected townships. Hundreds of millions are allocated for development, yet the money disappears into thin air. Life goes on, because the majority of people have grown used to this dysfunction.

This is why ringing the bell of a Mafia State changes nothing. The majority hears no devil and sees no evil. Chaos has become normal.

And so, when someone like Helen Zille—or any leader—promises to clean up the mess, close the tap of corruption, and restore order, hostility is guaranteed. The idea will be dismissed, and the excuse will be racial: “No, we can’t let whites take back Jo’burg.”

But the truth is deeper. It is not really about race—it is about protecting the tap. Closing the tap of corruption threatens the entire structural chaos from which many are feeding. That is the real reason why good leadership in Johannesburg is rejected before it can even begin.

Until ordinary people see that they are the ones losing most under this arrangement, the cycle will continue.

White people in South Africa, whether Europeans or part of the broader West, have always carried with them a certain aspiration — to replicate the systems of Europe wherever they settled. Banking, trade, infrastructure, industrialisation, capitalism, property rights, rule of law — these became the cornerstones of what they built.

Africans, by contrast, emerged from kingdoms, chiefdoms, rural and informal settlements, rooted in traditions that often resisted change and modernisation. So I ask myself, and now I ask you: after colonialism, after “white rule” ended and “black rule” began, what have we aspired to build?

Look at South Africa today — 30 years under the ANC. Yes, the transition was necessary; dignity had to be restored to the African who was undermined, silenced, dehumanised. But once dignity was reclaimed, what came after? Where was the vision to match the courage of the struggle?

The truth is hard: white rule excelled at building systems, structures, and economies — but failed at building equality among human beings. Black rule corrected dignity, yes, but failed to build sustainable development. Instead, we inherited corruption, decay, and disillusionment.

As if life is a book, we’ve turned many pages already. It is time to turn to another.

History and Fear Don’t Feed Our Kids

History and fear don’t put food on the plate,
They keep us in chains while the rich celebrate.
They wave the old struggle like a flag in the sky,
But today our children still hunger, still cry.

We give them our votes, they give us their lies,
They eat at the buffet while the poor compromise.
Greed has no ending, their plates never fill,
And fear is the weapon that bends to their will.

They say: “Without us, the whites will return,
No grants, no houses, no schooling you’ll earn.”
So the poor chase the crumbs, the crumbs that they throw,
Blind to the truth of the loaf that they owe.

But we are not ants, we are not sheep,
Our dignity runs in the blood that is deep.
The wolf may be strong, but the flock can unite,
And darkness will tremble when we carry the light.

The solution is simple, the vision is clear,
We must break from the chains of history’s fear.
Teach skills to the people, build jobs with our hands,
Take ownership boldly of our homes, of our lands.

No more false kings, no more thrones made of greed,
We’ll water the soil with the poor people’s seed.
For justice, for freedom, for families to rise,
For futures that shine in our children’s eyes.

Dear Former State President Thabo Mbeki,

Mholweni Dlamini, Z**i, Jama ka Sjadu.

I greet you in the spirit of our Xhosa traditions, and I call upon your conscience as a former leader, as a man who once stood side-by-side with OR Tambo to argue the case for the oppressed — not just in South Africa, but to the world.

You once represented the hopes of a movement. A movement that said the ANC was the spear of the nation, fighting for the poor, the voiceless, the dispossessed.

But today, I write not to praise the ANC. I write to hold it accountable. I write to declare, with no hesitation, that the ANC must be removed from power if there is ever to be a future for the poor in this country.

Mr President, you speak of renewing the ANC. But how do you renew something that has become a safe haven for thieves? How do you renew a party that has turned corruption into an internal culture, not an exception?

Let’s not pretend anymore.
Let’s name it:

The Asbestos tender scandal in the Free State — where R255 million meant for replacing dangerous roofs was looted, while poor people still live under toxic structures.

The COVID-19 PPE looting, where ANC-linked companies saw a global pandemic as an opportunity to enrich themselves with state money.

The Digital Vibes scandal, where public health funds were redirected to cronies and connected individuals while hospitals remained without equipment.

The Estina Dairy Farm — where poor, rural black farmers were promised empowerment but the money ended up in luxury accounts and foreign bank statements.

The billions looted from Transnet, Eskom, PRASA, Denel — you name the institution, and you will find an ANC cadre behind its downfall.

All these crimes, committed while the poor watched their dreams burn.

And what did the ANC do?
It accepted donations from the looters.
Money made from corruption is now used to print ANC t-shirts and buy campaign cars. Instead of rejecting these “gifts,” the ANC embraced them. Not once did the party stand up and say, “Not in our name.”

In fact, one of your own leaders once said:

> “We all have skeletons in the ANC National Executive Committee.”

That wasn’t a confession.
That was a warning: that the ANC is too dirty to clean itself.

So no, Mr President.
There will be no renewal.
There must be a removal.

The poor are waking up to the betrayal. We are not fooled by the race card anymore. We see the black elite, the connected few, the cadres in suits, who have turned freedom into a feeding trough — while the rest of us live in broken townships, crumbling RDPs, potholes, clinics without medicine, schools without teachers, borders without order.

Even the roads built yesterday, during the ANC's watch, cannot survive a single storm. They are like the party itself — built fast, cheaply, for show — but collapsing under the weight of neglect.

We can no longer afford your project of “internal reform.”
You had 30 years.
You wasted it.
Now it is our time — the time of the poor, the time of the unheard, the time of those who were used for votes, and then abandoned.

We will write our own liberation songs.
We will tell our own truths.
And this time, it will be the ANC we liberate ourselves from.

Your time has passed. If you truly believe in the people, stand aside, and let us take it from here — without fear, without slogans, without skeletons.

Yours in open defiance,
Bulelo Tsotso
Voice of the Poor Class
No longer fooled by struggle credentials.

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A whole lot going on here 😳