Every public discussion in this country now runs on crude noise, where hard facts are treated as optional. When shouting replaces thinking on national issues, the problem is no longer a minor annoyance—it is a full-scale crisis that needs an official ministry.
By Themba Khumalo
I have reached the hair-pulling conclusion that South Africa urgently needs a brand-new government department.
Do not look at me with horror. I am not talking about another useless ministry designed to establish a committee that appoints a task team to review the recommendations of a steering committee before commissioning a fat expert report that absolutely nobody intends to read.
Heaven knows we already have enough of those bureaucratic paper-pushers to keep the timber plantations of Mpumalanga working triple shifts, running their chainsaws into the ground just to feed the insatiable appetite of the state photocopying machines.
No. What we need is a fully fledged, round-the-clock Ministry of Stupidity.
It needs walk-in offices in every province and municipality, from the high-walled fortresses of Sandton to the dustiest corners of Limpopo.
Judging by the sheer, unadulterated nonsense flooding our national conversation daily, it would become the busiest department in the history of public administration before the ink has even dried on the Minister’s appointment letter.
The Ultimate Field Guide to the Republic
The brilliant realisation hit me after I sat down with the work of the late Italian economist, Carlo M. Cipolla. Many years ago, he penned a short essay titled The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity.
The dear fellow probably imagined he was writing a highly sophisticated, theoretical piece about the human race at large. Bless his innocent soul. He had absolutely no idea that he was actually drafting the definitive, unofficial field guide for survival in modern South Africa.
Cipolla’s first law is a beautifully depressing slap in the face: every single society contains a fixed, permanent, and terrifying proportion of stupid individuals.
At first, my patriotic chest puffed out, and I fiercely disagreed.
Then I logged onto social media.
Then I turned on the rolling twenty-four-hour television news.
Then I tuned into a talk-radio phone-in programme while sitting in traffic.
By the time the sun went down, I was ready to book a flight to Rome to personally demand that the Pope nominate Cipolla for immediate sainthood.
Every single morning, without fail, our beautiful country receives its daily weather forecast of pure, unfiltered rubbish.
The storm always begins on social media, where the proud, self-congratulating graduates of WhatsApp University confidently diagnose every complex macroeconomic crisis before they have even finished their first mug of instant coffee.
Then comes the real comedy hour: prime-time broadcasting. The television studios flick on their blinding lights. The radio microphones spring to life. The newspaper hits the streets.
Suddenly, the same species of spectacular, unshakeable certainty arrives on our screens, wearing expensive Italian silk suits and designer spectacles instead of a blurry, cropped profile picture.
Some of these commentators speak with such breathtaking, chest-thumping confidence that you almost forget to listen to the actual words tumbling out of their mouths.
Then they begin expanding on their theories, and the penny drops: the village idiot has simply discovered studio lighting, a wardrobe allowance, and a microphone.
They analyse our national fiscal policy with the jaw-dropping precision of a person attempting to assemble flat-pack furniture in pitch-black darkness using nothing but a raw potato.
They discuss complex regional migration as though a deep, multi-layered geopolitical crisis can be permanently resolved with a three-word bumper sticker.
They explain violent crime without dropping a single shred of verified forensic evidence, and they debate politics as though hard facts are merely optional extras that can be ripped out of the car to save weight on the journey.
The studio presenter nods with deep, solemn thoughtfulness. Another commentator strokes their chin in profound agreement. A third independent expert chimes in to declare, “That is an incredibly excellent point, Chief.”
Before you know it, an entire panel of highly educated, well-salaried adults is enthusiastically applauding an idea that would struggle to survive a five-minute encounter with common sense.
There are agonising moments when you want to climb directly through the television screen, march onto the set carrying nothing but a blank whiteboard and a giant box of crayons, and gently ask the panel, “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we perhaps all start again from the very beginning?”
The Great Equal-Opportunity Employer
There was once a time when being handed a national newspaper column, a radio microphone, or a television slot suggested that somebody, somewhere, had actually checked whether you had a functioning brain cell.
Those were simpler times. Today, broadcasting airtime appears to operate on the same principle as a local church raffle ticket.
Put enough unearned arrogance into a sentence, remove every single trace of verifiable evidence, sprinkle the mixture liberally with righteous outrage, and before long, the host introduces you to the nation as a “senior political analyst”, a “social commentator”, or an “independent expert.”
Expert at what exactly remains one of the greatest mysteries of the modern world.
The truly magnificent thing about this brand of stupidity is that it does not care who your father is. It has absolutely no respect for professional qualifications. It does not bow before old money, and it definitely does not salute a tailored blazer.
It has been discovered lurking in JSE-listed boardrooms, taxi ranks, the hallowed halls of Parliament, university lecture theatres, secure golf estates, township taverns, Cabinet meetings, and, judging by certain recent panel discussions, in the studio make-up room before the programme even commences.
Let us call a spade a spade: stupidity is the single most successful transformation programme ever implemented in South Africa.
It excludes absolutely nobody. It discriminates against no one. It recruits with wild enthusiasm from every race, every social class, every profession, and every political persuasion.
It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most inclusive movement in the history of the Republic.
Some citizens still cling to the romantic notion that a long string of university degrees provides total immunity against foolishness.
Bless their sweet, optimistic little hearts. Degrees can successfully teach you medicine, engineering, economics, or constitutional law.
What they cannot teach you is the magnificent, lost art of knowing when to keep your mouth firmly shut.
Some of the most breathtaking rubbish ever spoken in this country has emerged from mouths carrying enough academic titles to wallpaper an entire RDP house.
The Anatomy of the Fool
Cipolla also observed a profound truth that explains every single public shouting match currently raging from Johannesburg to Cape Town.
The ordinary criminal usually wants something tangible. They want your cash, your power, or your influence.
The bandit operates on a system of crude logic; they benefit themselves by taking from you.
The fool, however, wants absolutely nothing. They simply manage to make life infinitely worse for everybody around them, including themselves, while gaining zero advantage from the destruction.
That is a rare, terrifying talent.
A criminal will steal your bicycle because they want to ride it or sell it for a profit. A fool will spend three weeks convincing the entire neighbourhood that bicycles are a secret, malicious conspiracy invented by foreign agents to destabilise the local transport industry.
One leaves you angry; the other leaves you staring blankly at the wall, wondering whether humanity has quietly resigned from the evolutionary race.
The greatest mistake intelligent citizens make is assuming that stupidity will eventually tire itself out and go to bed. It never does. It has the terrifying stamina of an ultra-marathon runner combined with the unshakeable confidence of a man trying to explain the mechanics of childbirth to his wife.
Challenge it with audited financial reports, and it responds by increasing its volume. Present concrete forensic evidence, and it produces a crackling WhatsApp voice note from an anonymous source who allegedly “works very closely with the presidency.”
Ask for a single verifiable source, and it passionately accuses you of being an active participant in the grand cover-up.
Reason does not merely leave the room in these scenarios; it packs a heavy leather suitcase, applies for a visa, and permanently emigrates to Australia.
Slogans over Substance
This is precisely why our national debate around hot-button topics like regional migration has become so completely exhausting.
One side of the debate insists that every single socioeconomic failure in South Africa can be laid squarely at the door of immigrants.
The other side occasionally behaves as though national borders are merely an outdated colonial rumour that modern states should politely ignore out of courtesy.
Meanwhile, the facts of the matter stand frozen in the corner like neglected children, waiting for an adult to remember they exist.
Complex, multi-layered problems are reduced to catchy bumper stickers. Nuance is formally declared a traitor to the cause. Evidence is loudly booed off the stage.
And somewhere in the great beyond, Carlo Cipolla quietly mutters, “I warned you.”
The real danger to our society is not the existence of stupidity itself. It is our endless, stubborn willingness to underestimate its destructive power.
We comfort ourselves with the fairy tale that facts will eventually prevail, that reason will triumph in the end, and that common sense will stage a heroic comeback in the second half of the match.
Then, in a moment of weakness, somebody opens the comments section beneath an online news article. Hope immediately calls an urgent family meeting to prepare for the worst.
So, perhaps it really is time to establish the Ministry of Stupidity. Its mandate would not be to arrest anyone, nor to censor a single voice.
Its sole function would be to dispatch officials to erect large, high-visibility public signs across the country:
CAUTION: You are now entering a high-density stupidity zone.
REDUCE EXPECTATIONS: Switch off your logic immediately.
PROCEED WITH EVIDENCE: Armed nonsense ahead.
South Africa has more than enough genuine, deep-seated problems to keep us occupied without the need to manufacture imaginary ones every evening on our television screens, every morning on talk radio, and every single second of the day on social media.
The true crisis has never been that foolish people exist among us. The crisis is that they so regularly manage to find a live microphone before sensible people find the courage to stand up, look them in the eye, and say, “That is complete and utter nonsense.”
Until we find that courage, ladies and gentlemen, pouring a heavy dram of single malt and waiting for the Ministry of Stupidity remains our only hope.