Dreaming of R14-a-ltre petrol? Keep dreaming. The government’s reviews are as convincing as a burglar’s investigation into your missing TV. As officials juggle figures and slide decks, the only thing dropping is optimism.
By Themba Khumalo
The night was stitched together with the slow swirl of single malt whisky in my glass—a peat-laced promise tracing gold across the rim.
Outside, the Joburg traffic hummed its tired nocturne, but I was adrift in amber warmth, letting the world’s edges blur.
Then, mid-sip, I stumbled upon a headline so rich in absurdity it nearly upstaged the whisky itself. The South African government, it seemed, was once again preparing to reverse-engineer reality.
Suddenly, the smoky complexity on my tongue was nothing compared to the dizzying notes of farce in the news before me.
As the whisky’s warmth lingered and the absurdity of the headline on my laptop screen deepened, governance’s latest spectacular act unfolded. This act from the Theatre of Government Absurdities came courtesy of the Department of Minerals and Petroleum Resources, which staggered onstage like a character from the Chinese flick Drunken Master, clutching its 2026/27 Annual Performance Plan.
The department was on stage to bamboozle us with contemplations, once again, of a review of the fuel price formula.
Yes, the same formula that has turned filling up your tank from a routine chore into a test of emotional endurance—somewhere between paying your municipal rates and taxes, and negotiating school fees with a private school bursar.
A quick flashback to October 2024, that golden age of political vaudeville, when Gwede Mantashe, with the gravitas of a magician revealing a trick even his rabbit did not see coming, declared that South Africans should be paying R14 per litre for petrol.
This was no slip of the tongue. With the patient condescension of a parent explaining that vegetables are a precondition for dessert—or perhaps a government spokesperson explaining why potholes are a sign of progress—he explained how petrol prices had been artificially bloated beyond R20 by the Road Accident Fund levy and the general fuel levy.
“So, instead of buying a litre of fuel for R14, you buy it for R20. Our argument is: you are distorting the price of fuel. Let us find the formula to separate these things and have the price of fuel visible,” Gwede intoned, as if he had just discovered gravity.
It was a dazzlingly candid moment. For years, motorists were fed the comforting fiction that each stomach-churning price hike was the inevitable result of international turmoil, oil prices, or some distant ship getting stuck in a canal.
The government was admitting that a sizeable portion of the agony was, in fact, homegrown—like learning your migraines are caused by repeatedly banging your own head against the wall.
And then, as is tradition, the sound of crickets. The department responded with all the urgency of Home Affairs on a Friday afternoon. Two years slipped by.
One can only assume that separating fourteen from twenty required a PhD in metaphysical arithmetic, and possibly a séance.
But now, as if haunted by the restless spirits of failed policies that refuse to stay buried, the review has slithered back onto the stage—draped in the same threadbare promises, ready to deliver yet another rerun of bureaucratic farce.
Officials promise a forensic, soul-searching examination of administered prices. The Regulatory Accounting System will be scrutinised with all the intensity of a teenager reading a maths test. Wholesale margins, retail margins, storage, distribution—nothing will escape the bureaucratic gaze.
Data will be summoned. International benchmarks will be consulted. The spreadsheets will be worked over until they start questioning their own existence.
And then comes the punchline that should make every motorist clutch their wallet: A downward review of South Africa’s fuel price is like hearing your burglar has set up a task team to investigate why your television is missing. Spoiler: you are not getting it back.
That, in one sentence, is the tragicomedy of this entire exercise.
The numbers themselves are intoxicating. Fill a modest hatchback, and you could be R600 richer. Fill a large SUV and the saving nudges past R1,100—enough to make you forget, briefly, that your retirement annuity is just a rumour.
It is an enticing prospect. But here comes the inconvenient question: if petrol really should cost R14, who has been pocketing the difference all these years?
No need to call the Hawks or the SIU. The culprit is hiding in plain sight: a maze of levies and charges so entrenched that to question them feels like heresy. They have slithered into the pump price over decades, until they are as natural as traffic or potholes.
Here, satire throws in the towel, overpowered by the merciless logic of arithmetic.
Cutting the pump price is not about tweaking a formula; it is about admitting the state is hooked on fuel revenue, like a gambler eyeing one more spin. Expecting the government to surrender that cash cow out of altruism? You would have better luck finding a unicorn at a cabinet meeting.
The department assures us its review will conclude this financial year. South Africans, ever the optimists, will applaud politely, celebrate the announcement, and wait for the outcome to materialise somewhere beyond the event horizon.
Until R14 appears on the forecourt instead of in a government slide deck, it is best to keep praying fervently over your empty wallet and keep your applause barely audible—because, these days, even applause needs to be managed with great care; it has become fragile, even if it is still cheaper than unleaded petrol.
Perhaps, as I nurse the last smoky remnants of single malt in my glass, I will toast to the day when a litre finally drops R6 below twenty. Until then, all I can do is swirl, sip, and marvel at a government that ages its promises far longer than any whisky—yet never delivers the finish.