Is the ANC's dominance ending?

The creation of a new political party in South Africa is the latest sign of the ANC's problems.

The formation of the Agang party in South Africa is the latest reflection of the failings of the post-1994 settlement.

Agang – Sesotho for "Let us build" – aim to capitalise on tensions highlighted by the deaths of 34 miners on strike last year. Their mantra is to restore political accountability and social justice.

Mamphela Ramphele is a potentially formidable leader of the new party. A renowned anti-apartheid activist, she was politically and romantically tied to Steve Biko and spent seven years under house arrest. Ramphele, 65, can also make a claim to economic expertise, as a former Managing Director at the World Bank.

Ramphele has already created political noise with her party – that the ANC have already expressed concerns about the party receiving funds from abroad shows that Agang are regarded as a threat.

Agang lack the infrastructure and organisational capacity to challenge for victory at next year’s elections. There was similar excitement over the Congress of the People party before the 2009 elections, but they only received 8 per cent of the vote. Still, Agang's formation remains troubling for the ANC.

Perhaps the real puzzle is why the ANC has been so dominant until now - since apartheid, their vote share has never fallen below 62 per cent. A weak and divided opposition, loyalty to the revolutionary movement and the notion that regime change could be effected within the party, as with the fall of Thabo Mbeki, explain their electoral success.

The ANC's success has not been confined to averting the feared Civil War. Rates of economic growth have been steady. Whatever the popular perception of the ANC "selling out" to neo-liberalism, South Africa boasts a more generous welfare system than comparatively sized economies, especially in childcare and pensions. Since 1994, the income of the poorest has increased, despite high levels of immigration and population growth.

Yet goodwill towards the ANC is rapidly eroding. Under Jacob Zuma’s leadership, the party’s reputation for being too close to big business has only grown. Educational standards, persistent accusations of ANC corruption - most seriously regarding a $5bn arms deal in 1999 - and draconian media laws have also added to discontent. And Mbeki’s appalling handling of the HIV / AIDS epidemic still haunts the party. No wonder striking has become endemic, costing over 6 million working days in 2011.

While Agang are attempting to exploit such anger, of more immediate concern for the ANC is the Democratic Alliance. Once regarded as essentially a party for the white middle-class, the DA have matured into a formidable operation. At the 2009 election, they increased their vote share to 17 per cent, and they gained control of the province of Western Cape. Recognising the need to broaden their appeal, in 2011 the DA selected Lindiwe Mazibuko as their first black parliamentary leader. 

The ANC will win again in 2014, but they face a more powerful political opposition than anytime since transformation. Given the corruption and complacency charges increasingly sticking to the party, it may be no bad thing.


Mamphela Ramphele announcing the birth of the Agang party Photograph: Getty Images

Tim Wigmore is a contributing writer to the New Statesman and the author of Second XI: Cricket In Its Outposts.

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Must I unremember the day I wept over the long, slow suicide of a 27-year-old man?

At that time we did talk about the occupation of Ireland. Now we have to pretend we didn’t and it’s all the jolly UK and thank you, England for the peace process.

The misremembering of history interrupts these tales of my own squalid past. Very often I find myself wishing my memories were wrong, or that I’d forgotten more than I have. This would certainly be the case were I to be a politician, albeit a small-time one in big-time government. In the era of renunciations and sincere apologies, I would have to say sorry most of the time.

But I can’t. I can’t get past that clear day in May 1981, when the tangy cold spring air of a New York day got right inside me. Ambling home from another long, messy night in the Village, I was near 52nd when I saw people carrying a coffin.

“It’s not him, of course. It’s a fake coffin,” said a woman who saw the shock on my face. Maybe I was already crying. I knew and didn’t know but asked anyway.

“Yes. Bobby.”

Bobby Sands had died. Crowds were gathering with banners about Smashing Long Kesh and Smashing Thatcher.

The shock of it has never left me and God knows “martyrs” come two a penny now. Yet the idea that someone can starve themselves slowly to death for an idea is shocking. The idea that someone can let them do it, either “for” a United Ireland or “for” a United Kingdom, remains profoundly disturbing to me.

I need no lectures about what vile and murderous bastards the IRA were, or the numbers of innocents they killed. Nor about the smeary sentimentality of martyrdom itself. All I can say is that I had little idea of what “we” did in Ireland as long as I lived in England. A boy at school had run off to join the IRA. My mum said, “Well, he’s always been tapped, that one.”

We were kept ignorant. For some stupid reason, I did not think that Thatcher would let the hunger strikers die.

Their demands, remember, were the right not to wear prison uniform or to do prison work, rights to free association and education within the prison, one visit, one parcel, one letter a week. They wanted to be treated as political prisoners. Thatcher said Sands had no mandate. He was actually an MP, with more votes than she ever won in Finchley.

In New York that day, when we got to Third Avenue, there was anger and then solemnity. There were mumblings about what a death like that entailed . . . Mandela then instigated a hunger strike on Robben Island. There were protests in Milan and Ghent. French towns would name streets after Sands.

At that time, though, yes, we did talk about the occupation of Ireland. Now we have to pretend we didn’t and it’s all the jolly UK and thank you, England for the peace process.

So, must I unremember that day when I sat down on the pavement and wept over the long, slow suicide of a 27-year-old man? Let me know how to uncry all those tears shed for that terrible, terrible waste.

Suzanne Moore is a writer for the Guardian and the New Statesman. She writes the weekly “Telling Tales” column in the NS.

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide