In the shadowed corridors of Gauteng's Union Buildings—or whatever's left of them after years of "maintenance"—Premier Panyaza Lesufi stood before the cameras, smiling like a man who'd just discovered the last bottle of whiskey in a dry province. "Today," he announced with the gravitas of a funeral director, "we welcome the EFF into our executive council. And talks with the MK Party? Oh, they're going swimmingly. Multiple options on the table."
The Unholy Trinity was born. Not with thunderous applause or revolutionary fireworks, but with the quiet click of cabinet doors swinging open for old rivals who'd spent years calling each other sell-outs, counter-revolutionaries, and worse. ANC, EFF, MK: the three horsemen of the South African apocalypse, now saddling up together in the province that was supposed to be the country's economic heartbeat.
Picture it: Julius Malema's red berets, once storming stages with fists raised against "wh monopoly capital" and ANC corruption, now cozying up to the very same ANC that had "betrayed the revolution." Their man, Nkululeko Dunga, freshly installed as MEC for Finance—yes, Finance. The portfolio responsible for the money that somehow always vanishes into tenderpreneurs' pockets, ghost employees, and potholes big enough to swallow a minibus taxi whole.
How delightful. The party that screamed " expropriation without compensation" and "nationalise everything" now gets to sign off on the budget. One can only imagine the first meeting: "Comrades, the books are bleeding. Quick, print more land expropriation notices and blame the DA."
Meanwhile, Jacob Zuma's MK Party lurks in the wings, still nursing grudges from Nkandla to the ballot box, their talks "ongoing" like a bad sequel no one asked for. "They could join the executive," Lesufi cooed, "or the legislature, or other state arms." Translation: anywhere they can draw a salary while the lights flicker and the taps run dry. The old man himself probably chuckled from his compound, whispering, "See? Even the ANC needs the spear now."
The citizens of Gauteng—those brave souls dodging load-shedding, e-hailing through gang turf, and watching their property values circle the drain—watched this merger with the weary eyes of people who'd seen it all before. "Unity," the spin doctors called it. "Ending instability under minority rule." Funny how "instability" only appears when the opposition asks uncomfortable questions about service delivery, and "unity" means lashing three ships together as they all head for the same iceberg.
In the dark heart of this story, the Trinity doesn't fight over ideology anymore. They've transcended that. No more tedious debates about radical economic transformation versus cadre deployment. Now it's simple: power. The kind that keeps the patronage flowing, the tenders sweet, and the blame perpetually shifted onto apartheid's ghost, the weather, or those meddling "opposition forces" who clearly hate bl people succeeding (even if success looks suspiciously like another R500 million blown on a stadium no one uses).
As the cameras flashed and handshakes were exchanged—awkward, forced, like exes reuniting at a funeral—the province's future flickered like a faulty streetlight. Roads would crumble a little faster. Clinics would run out of medicine with fresh excuses. Youth unemployment? Still sky-high, but now with three parties competing to promise free stuff they can't afford.
And somewhere in a Johannesburg township, a grandmother switching on her candle during yet another blout would sigh and mutter, "Unholy indeed. They finally united... against us."
The Unholy Trinity had arrived. Gauteng's power shift wasn't a new dawn. It was just the same old night, wearing better suits and more berets. Sleep well, Mzansi. The comrades are in charge. All of them. Together. What could possibly go wrong?
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