It’s been a while since a skilled and successful prosperity pastor was in the news, spraying his cynical flimflam into the faces of his flock and tossing off prophecies that never come true, but here, at last, we have a big name holy roller in the headlines: Julius Malema, talking to disgraced snake-oil-salesman Ace Magashule about joining his megachurch.
Yes, dear reader, the Church of Latter-day Fakes has crunched the numbers and understood that if it’s going to appeal to more than 5% of eligible voters, it needs to up its quotient of old-timey fire and brimstone. And who better to bring the magic that anointed Pope Zuma the Giggler than one of his longest-serving cardinals?
Whenever I write about Malema, some readers tell me to stop giving him oxygen. What they still don’t understand is that the EFF doesn’t run on oxygen. Instead, it is powered by 100% proof giggle gas; atomised Kool Aid that transforms every word Malema says into righteous revelation and every criticism from outside the tent into the hissing of Satan’s horde. Anyone who thinks my words are helping Malema get more famous and powerful either doesn’t understand how cults work, or hasn’t noticed that the EFF hasn’t grown substantially despite people like me commenting on it for over a decade.
Of course, it also hasn’t shrunk, thanks largely to the brilliant business model that lies at its heart, namely, the complex and incredibly powerful psychology of the cult or prosperity church.
For the people who remain, the lesson is clear: if criticising the group makes one a dangerous outsider, then in order to be a good insider, one must say nothing critical.
The strength of successful cults doesn’t lie in how many members they recruit but rather in the commitment of the ones they keep. Doubters or the disillusioned are seldom persuaded to stay, because it’s not in the interests of the cult leaders to have critical voices inside the tent. Instead, they are branded as troublemakers, divisive malcontents trying to cause disharmony, and their life inside the cult is made as difficult as possible until they are squeezed out.
For the people who remain, the lesson is clear: if criticising the group makes one a dangerous outsider, then in order to be a good insider, one must say nothing critical. And the best way to make sure nothing critical pops out of your mouth is to delete it as soon as it enters your brain.
It’s why so many politicians, and Malema especially, can be so profoundly wrong over and over again with not one polite bleat from their flock. If the CEO of a large company or the editor of a newspaper stood before the press and said that Jacob Zuma was worth killing for, and then that he was a criminal, and that Busisiwe Mkhwebane was an excellent choice for public protector, and that Cyril Ramaphosa wouldn’t become president, and then that he wouldn’t finish his first term, and then that he wouldn’t win a second term, that CEO or editor would be a national laughing stock. And yet Malema has said all those things, and his supporters love him more than ever, because that’s the deal they made when they handed over their critical faculties in return for belonging.
All of which is why, this week, you’re not going to see any EFF faithful nervously raise their hand and politely ask why Ace Magashule is being considered for membership when, in 2019, Malema publicly suggested to SAPS officers that instead of shooting at innocent protesters they should “go to Luthuli House and shoot Ace Magashule, a real criminal”.
No, best not to ask questions that require upsettingly honest answers. Rather just double down, squash down those counterrevolutionary thoughts, and await instructions.
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