In a development that has left the international legal community reaching for a stiff drink, a South African television personality has been arrested for an alleged kidnapping, with the long arm of British justice reaching across continents in a twist that would make a telenovela blush.
Let us set the scene. The accused, a man whose primary claim to fame is pretending to be someone else for a living, now finds himself at the centre of a real-life drama that involves accusations of grabbing a person, presumably against their will, and stuffing them into a vehicle or similar conveyance. The details, as they trickle out of the Johannesburg constabulary, are murkier than a pint of London porter. But what is crystal clear, what shines like a beacon of bureaucratic absurdity, is that Her Majesty's Government has invoked the sacred cow of the extradition treaty.
Now, I am no legal scholar. I am a man who gets his legal advice from the back of cereal boxes and the muttered asides of hungover magistrates. But even I can spot a farce when I see one. Here we have a man accused of a crime in South Africa, a sovereign nation with a perfectly functional judicial system, and yet the British are involved. Why? Because the alleged victim is British, of course. Because in the grand theatre of international law, a British passport is a golden ticket to have the full weight of the Crown Jewels hurled at your problem.
Let us examine the alleged crime. Kidnapping. A serious charge, undoubtedly. But let us not forget that this is a man who makes his living by pretending. If he has indeed abducted someone, it is likely he was just method acting for a role that was cruelly cancelled. Or perhaps he was simply confused, mistaking a real person for a prop. In the world of soap operas, people vanish and reappear with alarming regularity, usually with a twin brother no one knew about. Is it so hard to believe that the lines have blurred?
The British extradition treaty, that hallowed document designed to ensure that no corner of the earth is safe from the Queen's justice, has been wheeled out with the pomp of a state funeral. The accused will now have the privilege of facing a British court, where he can be judged by people who have never been to South Africa and think 'braai' is a typo. He will be flown, at great expense, to a land where the weather is grey and the gin is warm, to answer for a crime that may or may not have happened in a country that is perfectly capable of handling its own affairs.
One cannot help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man. He is a pawn in a game of geopolitical chess, a bit player in a drama written by diplomats with no sense of humour. The real kidnappers are the ones who stole his freedom, who have taken him from his homeland and will parade him before the cameras like a captured beast. And for what? To satisfy the ego of a nation that still thinks it runs the world.
Mark my words, this will end in tears or laughter, probably both. The accused will either be acquitted and return to his soap opera, or he will be found guilty and become a minor celebrity in a British prison, where he can entertain the inmates with tales of his acting career. Either way, the treaty will have done its job, proving once again that no one is beyond the reach of the British legal system, not even a man who gets paid to say dramatic things in a flamboyant accent.
So raise a glass of cheap South African brandy to Biff Thistlethwaite's newest cause célèbre. May the truth come out, may justice be served, and may someone please think of the ratings.
