When a president asks a nation to stop what it is doing and listen, the moment should feel heavy. A national address is a civic instrument, a rare, solemn gathering that signals something has shifted in the ground beneath us. It is a family meeting in the truest sense ― reserved for war, catastrophe or a constitutional emergency.
What we witnessed on Sunday, and in recent family meetings, was a presidential address by President Cyril Rampahosa that risks turning that instrument into background noise, dulling the senses and corroding democratic muscle.
The broadcast after the G20 summit was defensible in one narrow respect. South Africa hosted a major diplomatic event and the absence of the world’s most powerful members raised questions. But the substance of the broadcast — self-congratulatory rhetoric, a reiteration of a public rebuttal of allegations levelled abroad and a defence of national dignity — could and should have been handled without interrupting the nation’s evening. What followed was less a measured defence of national interest than a public performance that blurred the distinction between necessary transparency and political theatre.
Rituals derive power from scarcity. When addresses are rare, they command attention and create a shared public record. When they are frequent, they lose moral authority. We learn to treat them like weather alerts — tune in, then tune out. The presidency risks becoming a channel of constant interruption rather than a steward of national calm. That is not a trivial consequence. The symbolic weight of a national address is a form of political capital. Squander it on routine updates, and it will become harder to marshal the nation when real emergencies arrive.
The symbolic weight of a national address is a form of political capital. Squander it on routine updates, and it will become harder to marshal the nation when real emergencies arrive.
Yes, Ramaphosa spoke often during the pandemic, but pandemic briefings were operational. They delivered life-saving guidance, explained shifting public health rules and co-ordinated a national response to an ongoing emergency. They were, by necessity, frequent and technical. Those broadcasts were about behaviour and survival.
There’s also a practical cost to this present habit. A prepared speech is a monologue. Without live questions, claims go untested and nuance is lost. Journalists cannot press for evidence, experts cannot immediately challenge assertions and the public is left with a polished narrative rather than contested truth.
Other mature democracies draw a clearer line. Leaders reserve prime time addresses for existential threats, major policy shifts or moments of national mourning. Routine updates are handled through scheduled briefings. Even then, when updates are delivered in routine briefings, follow it with a live Q&A so that claims are tested and accountability is visible. That separation preserves the dignity of the address. It also keeps the presidency accountable. When a leader speaks rarely, each speech is scrutinised rather than shrugged off.
Reserve the presidential address for moments that truly require national mobilisation or moral leadership.
This editorial is not a call for silence in the face of slander. South Africa must defend its reputation. But there is a middle way that preserves ritual and protects the national interest. Reserve the presidential address for moments that truly require national mobilisation or moral leadership.
Critics will say the public has a right to hear directly from its president. They are right, to a point. But when a head of state disrupts the ordinary rhythm of a nation to speak directly into living rooms, kitchens and taxis, they raise expectations that the problem is catastrophic and if the public judges the issue less severe, trust erodes. We begin to wonder if the presidency is managing crises or manufacturing them.
The presidency must remember that gravity is not manufactured by volume but earned by restraint. We face pressing, tangible crises — unemployment and inequality, to name just two — that deserve sustained attention. If every diplomatic spat, every cabinet reshuffle, becomes a family meeting, the family will stop gathering.
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