You see, my leader, fictional renewal is easy. It only requires slogans, Instagram-ready images and conference resolutions that gather dust before the ink dries.
Real rebirth? That is different. It is messy, bloody and humbling. It is about scraping the rot from the marrow, reconnecting not with conference delegates and caterers but with street committees, stokvels, minibus taxi ranks, informal traders and, yes, the tired grandmothers queuing for social grants.