Special leave or velvet-glove suspension? A trend in the public sector:
In recent weeks, South Africa has witnessed two high-profile figures, the minister of police and the chief executive of the Road Accident Fund (RAF), being placed on what is termed “special leave”.
Although cabinet ministers are not employees for the purposes of the Labour Relations Act, this raises the question of whether this concept of “special leave” is just suspension dressed in a velvet glove or whether it carries a different meaning in law and in practice.
This article does not analyse the legality of, nor provide commentary on the “special leave” imposed on the police minister and the RAF chief executive. Instead, it attempts to locate the concept of “special leave” within the realm of labour law in South Africa.
Special leave v Suspension
Suspension refers to a temporary removal of an employee from their duties. Suspension in South Africa is typically divided into two categories: precautionary suspension and punitive suspension. A precautionary suspension is usually imposed when an employer is conducting an internal investigation that may lead to disciplinary proceedings. The aim is to safeguard the interests of the organisation by ensuring that the employee does not interfere with the investigation or operations.
A punitive suspension, by contrast, is a disciplinary measure taken against an employee found guilty of misconduct. It is less severe than dismissal but entails suspension without pay or benefits — the suspended employee does not receive a salary or benefits while away from work.
“Special leave”, on the other hand, is not expressly provided for or defined in South African labour legislation. But it can be said that it is a form of leave granted by an employer to an employee, usually at the behest of the employee, and it can either be based on a policy or an employment contract. Like precautionary suspension and unlike punitive suspension, special leave is generally paid and the employee receives full benefits.
But, without a clear definition in legislation or case law, the concept of special leave can be misconstrued and, in some instances, used as means to (indirectly) suspend employees.
This was the case in Sibanyoni v Speaker of the City of Mbombela and Others. Here, the applicant, the chief financial officer of the City of Mbombela, approached the labour court on an urgent basis seeking to have the council’s resolution to place her on “special leave” declared unlawful and set aside. This followed a report accusing her of alleged misconduct and recommending that it be investigated.
The court found that the special leave as contemplated in the regulations can only be granted at the behest of an employee and there is no such concept as “forced special leave”.
In reaching its decision, the court referred to other precedents, including Heyneke v Umhlatuze Municipality, where the court in dealing with the placement of a municipal manager on “special leave” found: “Special leave that is imposed on employees is effectively a suspension in the hope of subverting the residual unfair labour practice provisions of the Labour Relations Act No 66 of 1995 (LRA) and all the time and other constraints that accompany suspensions.”
Likewise, in South African Municipal Workers Union obo Matola v Mbombela Local Municipality, it was held that what the respondent labelled as “special leave” resolution was nothing but the suspension of the applicant in that case.
In the end, the court in Sibanyoni found that the special leave imposed by an employer is essentially a euphemism for a precautionary suspension, to create an impression that the provisions were complied with. Whether the special leave is imposed for a prolonged period or short period is irrelevant, because it remains a suspension regardless.
As a result, the court declared the resolution adopted by the council to place the chief financial officer on special leave unlawful, set it aside and ordered her reinstatement.
While special leave and suspension are theoretically distinct principles, the growing use of special leave to suspend employees blurs the lines between the two.
Accordingly, when an employer considers placing an employee on “special leave”, it must do so in a manner consistent with the employment contract or the workplace policy regulating such leave.
Failure to do so may result in a finding that the special leave was, in fact, a suspension, and that the employer used the term to mask procedural unfairness and evade legal obligations. If the employer intends to suspend the employee, it should follow the legal prescripts governing suspensions to avoid exposure to unfair labour practice claims.
Andile Mphale is a dispute resolution attorney at Lebea Inc Attorneys.
Red beret, red cap: The wearers are populists that offer theatre, not solutions:
When Donald Trump launched his 2016 campaign, he electrified a disillusioned electorate with three words, “Make America Great Again.” That bright red cap became a symbol of defiance against globalism, multiculturalism and liberal consensus.
Thousands of miles away, in a vastly different context, Julius Malema dons a red beret and declares South Africa for South Africans. He promises land without compensation, nationalisation of financial institutions and the dismantling of entrenched economic powers.
The context and audience may differ but are we watching the same populist theatrics under different lights?
It would be tempting to see these two figures as ideological opposites. One draws from the language of conservative nationalism, the other from radical, post-colonial liberation. But peel back the surface and a more unsettling truth emerges that despite their differences, both movements are powered by a similar engine, one that thrives on discontent, sharp binaries and the relentless search for someone to blame.
In both cases, the nation is portrayed as having been betrayed by elites, hijacked by outsiders and stripped of its rightful identity. The red cap and the red beret become more than symbols, they are uniforms of resistance. But resistance to what? And in service of whom?
The economic message, though packaged differently, often rests on the same populist foundations that the system has failed citizens, and only bold, uncompromising intervention can restore justice.
Although that argument has merit, especially in the wake of rising inequality and deepening mistrust in democratic institutions, the solutions offered are often blunt, simplistic interventions that appeal to the emotions but seldom hold up to the complexities of modern economies.
Such movements reduce the economy to a zero-sum game. In other words, for one group to win, another must lose. Redistribution becomes a battlefield, not a process of repair. Economic justice is stripped of nuance and transformed into a chant, ready for mass mobilisation but not for structural policy.
Behind the populist fervour lies another crucial dynamic, the nature of leadership itself. Populist figures often present themselves not just as representatives, but as embodiments of the people’s will. Performance becomes the goal. Whether it’s storming the Capitol or staging walkouts in parliament, the drama of defiance often takes precedence over the slow work of governance.
But real change requires more than charisma, it demands character. Leadership that transforms must go beyond volume and spectacle. It must mobilise across difference, acknowledge complexity and create room for multiple voices to shape the future.
And here is where the question of inclusion and belonging becomes central. Populist movements claim to speak for “the people”, but often narrow the definition of who “the people” are and in turn they reinforce exclusion. True leadership understands that dignity must be extended to all. A society fractured by inequality does not need more division, it needs healing built on justice.
This also demands reflection from within. In South Africa, some of the loudest admirers of American-style populism come from quarters that simultaneously dismiss South Africa’s potential. There’s a troubling trend among certain white South Africans who replicate US right-wing talking points, lament decline and frame their homeland as irredeemable, all while ignoring the cracks in the system they idealise.
Fuelling much of this sentiment is a steady diet of outrage-driven content on platforms such as X, where curated feeds reward polarisation at the cost of perspective. Many opinions are dressed up as informed critique but are little more than algorithm-fed bias. And populist theatre thrives in this vacuum.
But the contradiction runs deeper. The same voices that criticise transformation policies such as broad-based black economic empowerment or land reform are silent when American politicians call for immigrants to be expelled or barred from owning land. Why is it acceptable for the US to control access to its economy, but a crisis when South Africa tries to ensure its citizens benefit from economic activity? Why is redistribution condemned in the Global South, but protectionism celebrated in the Global North?
This double standard is exposed when the US imposes 30% tariffs on South African exports, based on flawed claims of trade imbalance. Ironically, these punitive measures harm the very white farmers and exporters who often criticise transformation while relying on global markets. When global populism turns inward, it punishes those who once championed its simplicity.
Just recently, South Africa joined Brics leaders in Brazil to call for a more balanced global order and again this summit was dismissed by some in the West as subversive. The irony is that those who champion sovereignty in the Global North are often the first to panic when the Global South asserts its own.
These contradictions were made more stark when Trump recently praised African leaders for “speaking good English”. That patronising remark, delivered without irony, reflects how African leadership is viewed, not as equal but as novelty. Which raises the question: why do some South Africans admire a man who sees the continent through a colonial gaze?
Equally concerning is the defence of the indefensible. Governance failures, collapsing infrastructure, endemic corruption and basic service failure are too often excused in the name of loyalty to liberation movements or fear of empowering reactionary forces. In the face of dysfunction, silence becomes complicity. Recently, the KwaZulu-Natal police commissioner publicly accused the police minister of obstructing investigations into political assassinations and colluding with criminal syndicates. When senior police officials feel compelled to blow the whistle, it is no longer a partisan concern, it is a national emergency; one which the president should not be taking his time to act on.
It is also worth asking why transformation in the public sector is tolerated, or ignored, while the same policies provoke outrage in the private sector. No one raises the alarm when our police force is overwhelmingly black, or when employment equity guides public hiring. But when companies are asked to diversify boardrooms, the cry of “reverse racism” grows loud. Racial representation becomes a problem only when capital is at stake.
South Africa’s post-apartheid promise was bold: justice, equality and prosperity for all. While millions are still trapped in poverty, that promise remains unmet. And the longer we defend incompetence out of fear or nostalgia, the further we drift from that vision.
And yet, something revealing happens when the national rugby or cricket team wins. Divides soften, flags wave with pride and a fractured nation briefly remembers its potential to act as one. But unity built on sport alone is fleeting. It cannot compensate for economic exclusion or governance failure. A nation cannot live on symbolic victories; it must deliver real ones.
Perhaps what connects the red hat and the red beret is not ideology, but shared desperation. Both movements arise from real fractures. But rage alone does not rebuild a nation. Leadership that thrives on division ultimately breaks the very societies it claims to protect.
In moments like these, we must return to deeper questions. What does it mean to lead with virtue? What does it mean to be excellent, not merely in achievement, but in character? For Aristotle, excellence (aret?) was not a title claimed or a performance staged. It was a habit, a way of being anchored in reason, justice and the pursuit of the common good. It required phronesis, practical wisdom, to discern what is right not only for oneself, but for one’s polis.
Populism seduces us with certainty. But a virtuous democracy demands patience, humility and courage. The leaders we need are not those who amplify anger, but those who ask harder questions. What is owed to others? How do we build a society in which dignity is not rationed? How do we move from appearances of greatness to the practice of justice?
We should not be seduced by boldness that masks shallow thinking. Nor should we mistake disruption for direction. The leaders we need must be courageous enough to listen, humble enough to admit uncertainty and wise enough to build, not with applause, but with purpose.
In the end, the red hat and the red beret may not be so different. Both reflect societies searching for coherence in chaos. But if we are to move from theatre to meaning, we must return to virtue as the discipline of building something better. A democracy animated by virtue is not forged through volume, but through vision and ultimately delivered by us as citizens in service of each other.
Professor Armand Bam is the head of Social Impact at Stellenbosch Business School.
Azania has no link to South Africa; it’s to do with slavery in East Africa:
There is no link between the name “Azania” and the indigenous people of South Africa
The proposal of a constitutional amendment by the African Transformation Movement (ATM) to change the name of South Africa to the “Republic of Azania” is nonsensical, unnecessary and irrelevant to the inhabitants of this place.
We should be asking ourselves where the word “Azania” originates from, which language and how it is related to the people of South Africa. There are no cultural, historical or linguistic connections to the name.
It was during my time as a young activist in the Pan Africanist Congress (PAC) that I was firmly convinced that South Africa should be renamed Azania. I had been persuaded by the argument that “South” was merely a geographical direction and therefore did not have substantive cultural and historical connections befitting a nation’s identity.
I later realised that my comprehension of the word “Azania” was limited to its use in Pan Africanist and Black Consciousness discourses.
The name “Azania” has no historical or cultural connection to my people. It was never part of our vocabulary or identity. The term did not exist in our oral traditions or historical records, and my community had never encountered it before modern political movements began to invoke it.
The pre-colonial society in what is now South Africa was home to various independent kingdoms and queendoms, each governed by its rulers. I descend from the Bahurutshe, one of the largest sub-groups of the Batswana people, who previously occupied the area now known as the Marico region or Zeerust.
Our ancestors referred to their kingdom as Kaditshwene (a place of baboons) and Tshwenyane (a little baboon), an ancient twin-city settlement that thrived from 1300 to 1884. Like many other indigenous polities, it functioned as a sovereign polity, free from foreign or external domination.
There was a shift in the geopolitical landscape after the Berlin Conference of 1884, where European powers gathered to partition Africa among themselves, laying the foundation for the modern nation-states we recognise today. As a result, the various kingdoms were forced to adapt to these new political realities and form countries under Western-imposed frameworks.
A country known as the Union of South Africa was established in 1910, led and governed by white minority rule. A referendum was held in 1960, in which white South Africans decided to leave the Commonwealth, become independent and call the country the Republic of South Africa. The new republic came into being on 31 May 1961.
While the name “South Africa” is descriptive of a geographic location, the name gives a strong cultural, political and historical connection. It reminds us of different epochs in our history and how we interacted with other countries.
The use of the word South in the name of a country is not unique to South Africa; other countries have adopted names that are geographically descriptive such as South Sudan, Central African Republic (CAR), North and South Korea, North Macedonia and East Timor.
My discomfort at the name Azania was vindicated after I came across one of the compelling writings of South African freedom fighter and journalist Paul Trewhela, who is now based in the United Kingdom. Through his sharp historical analysis, he provides a well-substantiated account of the origins of the name “Azania”, demonstrating that it was a term imposed by slave traders/masters to demean the Black Africans in some parts of East Africa.
Trewhela contends that the name Azania does not bear any link to the indigenous people of South Africa and carries connotations or implications of oppression rather than liberation. His scholarship helped clarify that the name Azania lacks authentic historical, cultural, political, or linguistic connections to South Africa and its people.
“The name ‘Azania’ celebrates the centuries of enslavement of black Africans by Islamist Arab imperialism down the east coast of Africa. It is a disgrace for reactionary ideologists to be using this concocted name to replace the name South Africa,” he remarked.
This name, Azania, is primarily used by people who identify themselves as revolutionaries or radicals in South Africa’s academic, political and social spheres. It is used by political formations such as the PAC, the Azanian People’s Organisation, the Economic Freedom Fighters, and trade unions affiliated to the National Council of Trade Union, among others.
Just as I once did in the past, many of these individuals and groups adopt the term “Azania” as a symbolic rejection of apartheid and white supremacy. Their chief motivation emanates from a desire to eliminate any association with the apartheid regime, including the name “South Africa”, which they regard as a legacy of colonialism and racial oppression.
Kenneth Mokgatlhe is a political analyst and consultant.
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