It’s been so bad that it has even flickered across Western screens recently as one of those brief human-interest stories. The lights have gone out in South Africa.

Eskom, the state-owned power utility, has imposed severe ‘load-shedding’ on the country, switching off parts of the grid for many hours a day because of ‘severely constrained’ generation capacity.

For those who are living it, there’s little opportunity to skim to the next story. It’s less a human-interest piece than a slug in the solar plexus, materially and emotionally. That’s the mild version. The growing number of doomsday prophets see it as the apocalypse, or part of it—the beginning of South Africa’s long-expected death spiral.

Certainly, an already-bilious economy has taken a sickening hit. Five percent was lopped off GDP growth by load-shedding in 2022—and halfway through 2023, there were already more power cuts than in all of last year. The economy contracted in the last quarter of 2022 and narrowly avoided a repeat in the first quarter of this year. Forecasts for 2023 range between 0.1% and 0.3% growth.

There has been no shortage of mellifluous masterplans and roads to recovery. Following on from President Cyril Ramaphosa’s declaration of a ‘national state of disaster’ in February, government ministers and Eskom executives have become expert in the art of death by PowerPoint, if nothing else. The latest magic bullet is the announcement of a number of cooperative deals with Chinese power companies. Most South Africans have taken such assurances with a spadeful of salt.

But the notion that Eskom has inaugurated the country’s end times is simplistic. South Africa’s power crisis is more a national analogy than an apocalypse, the manifestation of a deeper malaise that has metastasised and is becoming more visible to the naked eye. The cancer in the body politic is catching up with it.

The roots of Eskom’s troubles lie in the period shortly after the end of apartheid. In the 1990s, as access to the grid was ramped up in formerly segregated black areas, Nelson Mandela’s government was warned repeatedly that electricity demand would outstrip supply by 2007 if new power stations weren’t built. Nothing was done; instead, a ban was placed on the construction of generators until 2004. And, lo and behold, the country plunged into its first round of load-shedding in late 2007. Within three months, US$6 billion had been wiped from the economy’s bottom line.

Superficial improvement after 2008 disguised an ongoing slide in the background. Poor planning was—or, more precisely, continued to be—conjoined to a haemorrhaging of human resources and systemic corruption. An urgent emphasis on racial transformation displaced a critical bloc of experienced managers and technicians, substituting it not with the most capable black alternatives but with the most politically connected.

The effects were both linear and exponential. The ability to maintain and build infrastructure plummeted in keeping with the loss of corporate memory and experience, while sleaze magnified the impacts. In 2011, a turbine at a major power station blew apart when an automatic cut-off system failed and there was no one in the control room to flick the switch manually; 600 megawatts of capacity, enough to power a city of half a million people, was sliced off the grid. Three years later, a furnace at the same plant exploded when a basic ignition sequence was mistakenly reversed.

Those were just two of the more spectacular incidents that highlighted the unremitting corrosion of operational capacity occurring beyond public view. Meanwhile, corrupt coal contracts leached hundreds of millions from Eskom’s coffers and resulted in the delivery of substandard product, damaging generators and causing more load-shedding. Stop-gap, emergency measures like diesel generators cost the utility nearly five times more per kilowatt hour, produced less electricity and opened a door to yet further corruption.

Construction of two new showpiece power plants began in 2007, but they are still not fully functional, 15 years down the track, and are billions over budget. One was completed in 2019, five years late, but was knocked out of action shortly after by a blast that resulted from ‘management failures’.

Ramaphosa’s accession to the presidency in 2018, replacing the notoriously corrupt Jacob Zuma, raised hopes of a turnaround at Eskom and elsewhere, but his redemptive impact has been indiscernible. Eskom’s latest CEO, Andre de Ruyter, resigned in early 2023 after blowing the whistle on criminal syndicates that had effectively taken over power stations and whose reach extended from the lowliest employees to the deputy president. De Ruyter has also alleged that the intelligence service was deployed against him when he was investigating the rot. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t been thanked by the government, but instead threatened with legal action for publishing a tell-all book—a mere fleabite after having survived an attempted arsenic poisoning the day after he tendered his resignation.

Eskom is a microcosm of South Africa’s failures because its flaws are paralleled in every sector, at every level of society. The problem begins at the top but doesn’t end there. Just as Mandela’s administration was warned time and again of the power-deficit bear-trap—and then fell right into it—the African National Congress has ignored the lessons post-liberation Africa had taught ad nauseum, beginning in the 1960s.

As the inheritor of the last country to free itself of white rule, the ANC was not short of poor examples. It abdicated the opportunity to lead, instead submitting itself as a vehicle for instant gratification: it rewarded comrades from the struggle with patronage (the first priority) while splurging in the early days on populist promises (a subsidiary concern), just as Robert Mugabe and others had done to its north. In the process, both elements, patronage and populism, corrupted the process of Africanisation, prioritising speed and political orientation over capacity. Layers of perverse incentives have multiplied, creating a socioeconomic ‘operating system’ that rewards criminality, small and large, and penalises the diligent, black and white.

But this is not simply a tale of malfeasance, lawlessness and the gradual erosion of the common good. That would be to mistake symptom for cause, just as it would be to place the country’s woes at Eskom’s doorstep. Significant philosophical threads run through it all. A vast overestimation of apartheid’s capitalist fat reserves is one of them. Power stations weren’t built, the comrades were allowed to loot, and poorly equipped managers were appointed to complex roles because it was assumed that there was more than enough to go around—that the coffers could comfortably absorb the losses. It’s the same outlook that led to de Ruyter—against a backdrop in which Eskom’s debt had ballooned from US$2 billion in 2007 to US$25 billion in 2020—being told by a senior minister ‘to be pragmatic … to enable some people to eat a little bit’.

An unwillingness to engage with the mechanics of development is another attitudinal root. In the minds of many, the road to economic transformation has always been redistributive rather than cumulative and generational. But South Africa’s economy has never been large enough to reproduce white wealth via transfer, nor do such methods address the challenge of sustainability. Indeed, they war against it.

It’s been said that Eskom is too big to fail. The same words have been used on many occasions of South Africa. But with size comes momentum. The disease that has ravaged it is too extensive for it not to fail. Measured against even the most modest hopes that greeted the advent of the ANC’s rule, that has, in fact, already happened. The questions that remain are about the shape, rate and magnitude.

Papua New Guinea’s legal system, especially its supreme and national courts, is a true success story. The PNG judiciary is competent, is unaffected by political influence, and resolutely upholds the constitution and the fairness of national elections.

On many occasions since PNG achieved independence in 1975, the courts have declared bills passed by the national parliament to be unconstitutional or illegal.

Australia has played a positive role in helping fund judicial and legal training in PNG, and Australians continue to serve on the bench of the National Court of Justice. Australian lawyers regularly travel to PNG to appear before the courts on a whole range of commercial, and some criminal, matters and do so with absolute confidence in the integrity of the judiciary. The impartiality of the courts is made even more important by the absence of juries in the justice system.

It is therefore galling that the new complex for the supreme and national courts in Port Moresby is being built by a company wholly owned by the government of the People’s Republic of China.

China Railway Construction Engineering Company got the job for around US$190 million in a tender process in which a respected and experienced Australia–New Zealand construction company lodged a significantly lower bid.

This signature project was approved in 2014, before Australia launched its step-up program.

A close inspection of PNG national government tenders across the board reveals an alarming situation that Australia must address in the name of transparency, and to advance the legitimate interests of Australian companies and their PNG partners.

The lion’s share of tenders for state-funded and partner-funded capital works in PNG now goes to PRC-owned companies. China Railway is the most prolific, but it’s not the only one. Most of these contracts have been awarded through a selection process that lacks transparency.

Some funding for roads and other construction and repair work comes from the PRC government—by way of loans that are generally not on favourable terms. Almost none of it is in grant form. On the other hand, Australia’s development assistance to PNG is provided almost entirely as grants. It defies comprehension that PRC companies can bid for some projects funded by Australia.

Australia’s development assistance to PNG is around $600 million a year, easily the largest of any country. A further $440 million was provided during the current financial year as a concessional loan, the initial repayment on which has already been deferred.

Australia also provided $20 million from its project aid budget to the struggling PNG Treasury—in cash that is non-repayable and to be used for recurrent spending. This is a wholly undesirable step. Given the parlous state of PNG’s finances and economy, it will make little difference.

How much more will Australia be asked to provide beyond the appropriate constraints of a development assistance program?

We may be able to do little about the contract process that results in Australian and even PNG companies being excluded from projects such as the courts complex and road construction work.

But a window of opportunity is about to open, and Australia must take it—robustly and urgently.

Legislation to establish the long-promised, and long-delayed, PNG anti-corruption commission is now very close to becoming a reality. Earlier this month, the Independent Commission Against Corruption Bill had its second reading in the parliament and it is expected to pass the final hurdle in August.

Australia must use all its influence with the PNG government to ensure that the new commission is focused on weeding out corruption and misuse of funds at all levels of public administration.

We should offer to second experienced investigators, and perhaps even commissioners, to the new PNG entity to help ensure maximum effectiveness.

The commission’s membership must be dominated by PNG lawyers, accountants and probably judges, but we are in a position to offer substantial assistance.

Many of PNG’s laws have historic links to Australian laws, especially the criminal code. We have played a constructive role in training members of the legal profession, accountants, auditors and even investigative police personnel.

Australia’s Pacific step-up initiative is not without its imperfections. The rushed sea cable between Solomon Islands and PNG to boost internet services may not be perfect; nor may other programs that we have funded and are currently developing, such as rural electrification. Progress on the latter program, very worthy though it is, has been slow, and the cost of internet services facilitated by the cable might be too high for many Papua New Guineans.

But at least we have stepped up.

If we’re to ensure that our development assistance is used properly, and that Australian companies investing and operating in PNG are treated fairly, we must work with PNG to ensure its anti-corruption commission delivers what has been promised.

The chair of the PNG parliamentary committee that scrutinised the bill stressed that it must address the ‘cancer of corruption’ in public and political life.

Australia needs to work with PNG, especially with leaders such as deputy prime minister and attorney-general Davis Steven, who are genuine about reducing corruption and abuse.

That means we shouldn’t be afraid to toughen up our message to our closest neighbour as a matter of urgency.

Pakistan’s prime minister Nawaz Sharif was ousted from office on 28 July for the third time, not because he lost an election but because of the intervention of non-parliamentary institutions in the political process. He was dismissed by the president in 1993 on corruption charges, was overthrown by a military coup in 1999, and has now been forced to quit by judicial order. This latest episode resulted from allegations which emerged from the so-called Panama Papers leak that his family members had illegally amassed wealth and used those assets to buy properties abroad.

In light of those allegations, the Pakistan Supreme Court determined that Sharif was ‘not honest and reliable enough’ to hold office. The court ordered that he swiftly stand trial before an accountability court to determine the validity of the corruption allegations made against him.

While on the face of it that decision seems to uphold the norms of accountability even for the highest in the land, the picture looks much murkier when one scrutinises the decision carefully. First, the criterion applied to remove Sharif from office, namely, that he was ‘not honest and reliable enough’, is far too broad to be of legal value and could be used to define most, if not all, Pakistani politicians. The second reason why the decision appears suspicious is the selectiveness with which it was applied.

However, the most important critique of the Supreme Court’s decision is that it has the potential to derail Pakistan’s fragile democracy by intervening in the functions of elected institutions. The court’s action reinforces the dangerous precedent that non-elected bodies have the power to remove governments from office even if the latter have the confidence of the national assembly.

In a country such as Pakistan, which has been under direct military rule for half its life, such intervention can send jitters not only among the political class but also among intelligent observers of the political scene. Sharif himself was forced out of office and eventually into exile in Saudi Arabia by the then army chief, General Musharraf, in 1999. In a remarkably double-faced gesture, Musharraf, now in self-imposed exile in the UAE to escape a treason trial, congratulated the Supreme Court for its ‘brave decision’ to oust Sharif from power.

Some observers see that as an indication of how the army top brass views this episode. Sharif has had a rather rocky relationship with the army generals since his return to power in 2011. He never forgot the army’s betrayal of 1999, and the generals didn’t trust him because of his independent streak, especially in matters of foreign policy. The military brass were particularly wary of him because they saw him as being too accommodating towards Pakistan’s regional adversary India, a suspicion reinforced by his personal bonhomie with Indian prime minister Narendra Modi.

Many people in Pakistan and abroad view the Supreme Court’s decision to remove Sharif from office as a joint conspiracy of the court and the military high command. That suspicion is strengthened by the fact that last April when the Supreme Court appointed a joint investigation team (JIT) to examine allegations against Sharif it included representatives of the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) and of Military Intelligence in the team.

The inclusion of two military members in the six-member JIT immediately raised hackles within Pakistan’s political circles for two reasons. First, the military representatives had no expertise in matters of financial irregularities, unlike other members of the JIT. The second and related reason was the fact that the ISI is seen as the arm of the military that engages in controlling the terrorist groups that owe their origins to its support since the 1990s. It is also seen as the branch of the military that engages in subverting political institutions, threatening political activists and journalists, and in general using muscle power to control dissident elements within the country. The inclusion of the military representatives in the JIT was seen as a sign that the Supreme Court was colluding with the military to remove Sharif from office.

Also throwing suspicion on the impartiality of the judgement was the Supreme Court’s decision to investigate allegations against Sharif at the behest of Imran Khan, the cricketer turned politician who sees himself as the nemesis of the Sharif family. Khan is reported to be close both to elements in the military and to the Taliban in Pakistan. The latter group is based largely in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, which borders Afghanistan and is governed by Khan’s party. Since Khan is seen to benefit most from Sharif’s ouster and since he is supposedly close to the military, it has convinced observers that this affair is a command performance undertaken at the GHQ’s orders.

How this drama unfolds between now and the parliamentary elections scheduled for 2018 is likely to decide the fate of Pakistan’s fragile democracy. The PML, Sharif’s party, has the numbers in parliament to continue to hold office until the next elections. The big question is whether a combination of military machinations and unruly street demonstrations, which have become the hallmark of Imran Khan’s political tactics, will allow the PML to govern effectively in the run up to the next elections. It cannot be ruled out that if the military high command comes to the conclusion that the PML is likely to be returned to power it may abort the entire process either by direct intervention or through proxies creating mayhem in the country.