I live near the M4 north of Durban and for the last few days I’ve listened to police sirens wailing up and down the freeway between Ballito and the city, waking the neighbour’s hateful baby and setting off the hadedas.

Living here, you’d think a terrible disaster had occurred. And you’d be right. It was called the Southern African Development Community’s 46th Ordinary Summit of Heads of State and Government.

The massive police presence was so the big political knobs from the region wouldn’t have to sit in traffic while being driven from their rented shacks in Zimbali to the International Convention Centre in downtown Durban. There is no uptown.

The talkshop’s theme was: “Resilient, sustainable and inclusive industrialisation through infrastructure development, agricultural and critical minerals transformation in pursuit of a just world.” Catchy as hell, you have to admit. Good luck fitting that onto a T-shirt.

Monday was also SADC Day and, like any good patriot, I began drinking early to celebrate this momentous occasion. I have a specially designed costume for days like these. When I put it on, you’d swear I was an overweight African dictator grown fat from plundering my country’s resources and stealing from the poor. The only giveaway is that I’m white.

Our government, not wanting to waste an opportunity to put the frighteners on their guests, tweeted ahead of the gabfest: “You are about to land on the soil of a king who united nations. King Shaka kaSenzangakhona built one people from many through vision, discipline and purpose. This week, KwaZulu-Natal welcomes the #SADCSummit2026 in that same spirit.” In other words, any delegates who refuse to give us what we want will be herded down to North Beach and slaughtered at dawn. Some will be taken to Shaka’s Rock and pushed over the edge.

Instead of doing the sensible thing and taking the next flight home, they weighed up the odds and decided this probably wasn’t an ambush. President Ramaphosa is, after all, one of our Venda people. There’s a video clip on Wikipedia with the caption, “Venda woman singing about a successful trip to collect stinkbugs.” During the Mfecane, it’s unlikely Shaka was out in the veld collecting smelly arthropods, and the Venda no doubt thought the Zulu king could benefit from anger management classes.

Zimbabwe’s democratically elected dictator, Emmerson Mnangagwa, tweeted on Sunday night: “I have arrived safely in Durban…” Not the accomplishment you might think, comrade. It’s a two-hour flight from Harare. Also not an announcement that was met with widespread rejoicing.

In his opening remarks to the well-fed delegates, Ramaphosa said: “You have come not as strangers or visitors, but as brothers and sisters…” Well, family is fine, I suppose. Just don’t send us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. Actually, much of the wretched refuse has already returned to the teeming shores from whence they came.

As the sounds of joyful singing by the pop group Jacinta and the Xenophobes drifted in from the street, our leader added: “We hope that during your time here, you will experience the warmth, friendship and hospitality of the people of South Africa.” Malawians huddled around the radio in a Lilongwe shebeen, still recovering from the heat of their fellow SADC partner’s warm welcome, cheered and ordered another round of locusts.

“Let us turn our borders into bridges!” This gem was met by the audible narrowing of a hundred pairs of eyes. Bridges, you say? These people aren’t fools. They know what happened to Piet Retief.

As is his wont when addressing large crowds, Ramaphosa admitted to having visions. It’s okay, mate, we all have them. One concerned the securing of Africa’s future through cooperation, integration and unity. My visions are way more entertaining than that. Agenda 2063 is the African Union’s master plan. You can accuse Africans of many things, but being in a rush isn’t one of them. We’ll all be dead by then. Oh, right. That’s the point. Make the deadline so far ahead that you won’t be around to see it go whooshing by. Go far enough down any dirt road in Africa and you’ll always find a can or two.

“Let us turn our solidarity into shared prosperity!” This was met by a smattering of applause. “Great idea,” thought Lesotho’s prime minister. “You go first, Cyril. We’ll share ours later. Promise.”

Look, it’s better than still being ruled by the British, Belgians, French or Portuguese. Isn’t it?

The region’s economy grew by 3.4% last year. That’s what I got for maths in matric and I got a beating from my father when he saw my report. Perhaps this is what we need. When the leaders turn up at Durban’s international airport to fly home, they must pass through a gauntlet of six men and six women equipped with sjamboks. They all get a whipping and are sent on their way. It’s the only language they understand. And it’s what King Shaka would have wanted.