Hofmeyr could meet Trump to discuss 'white genocide in SA'
‒ headline in IOL News
It was a dark night in September - the result of energy-saving light bulbs attached to the roof of a lower middle-class house in a low-income suburb north of Cape Town. A heavyset man in a two-tone shirt approached me.
"The name is Bond, Broeder Bond," he introduced himself holding out an oversized hand that folded around mine like a tranquillised bear. I looked at the Claerhout knock-offs on the wall, the family sitting on the couch. It was clear I was high up – in the very top echelons of Afrikaner black ops - and if this mission was not top secret, it was top priority.
Bond came closer, his stubble beard within centimetres of my shell shocked face. "We need you to take money to Penny," he said, matter-of-factly. "Surely you mean Moneypenny," I responded recalling the sprightly secretary synonymous with Bond movies. "No, I mean secret agent Sparrow," he said. "We need to send her money at once – she's our only hope."
"I didn't know we were in danger," I replied to which the family looked up, baffled by my ignorance. "We're always in danger, boetie," said Bond. "Don't you watch the news?" I had to concede I hadn't kept up with the news as much as I would have liked, but remembered talk of a white genocide I took to be a reference to rhino poaching. "I need you to go to Absa," Bond went on. "And draw a gazillion rand."
"Fok," said Bond. "Fok, fok, fok. Plan B. We'll get Hofmeyr to go to Sanlam himself and beg for money from the trust fund. Launder it through the church? Could work. Maybe KWV can help. What about the Rupert connection? Is there a Rupert connection? Jesus, this thing is getting out of hand."
"I'm with Capitec," I replied which drew a stunned expression from Bond's face as he stood incredulous as to how anyone in their right mind could not bank with an institution that clearly had South Africa's best interests at heart. "Afrikaans Bank South Africa?" he asked. "You don't bank with them?" "No," I replied plainly.
"Fok," said Bond. "Fok, fok, fok. Plan B. We'll get Hofmeyr to go to Sanlam himself and beg for money from the trust fund. Launder it through the church? Could work. Maybe KWV can help. What about the Rupert connection? Is there a Rupert connection? Jesus, this thing is getting out of hand."
More than out of hand, it was getting awkward. I turned my focus to the energy-saving light bulbs and inspected them with the intensity you'd expect from an electrician. Bond looked down at the ground as if the funds to get Hofmeyr to the States would magically appear through the floor. "M," he said finally with a gravitas I took to indicate it was a last resort.
M: white South Africa's last man on the inside. Many Afrikaners believe M to be Mandela, his death faked to keep him operational wearing a number six Springbok jersey. To others, M is Mbeki - a counter-intelligence agent driven mad by inner demons and the pressures of a double life.
"M sounds like a great plan," I said confidently, fully aware that the tide had turned in my favour. All the secrecy – the lies and counter-lies – had caused Bond to lose track of M, to let her slip below the radar where the mechanics of a decades-long conspiracy to keep big business in white hands was as clear as day. "I'll get to M right away," I said slyly. "I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see me."
Bond's face turned white(er) as he grappled with the information presented to him. "She'?" he asked. "Who do you work for? Mkhwebane?!" "Madonsela," I retorted as I flashed my long, black cape over my face and disappeared through the window and back into the dark night.