When liberation swapped the streets for boardrooms

There was no drumroll. No grand announcement. No whisper even. But it happened – quietly, suddenly and irrevocably.

Somewhere between the last exile’s return and the first black economic empowerment (BEE) deal signed, the liberation struggle changed outfits.

It swapped khaki fatigues and wood-handled AKs for navy-blue suits, Montblanc pens and private equity portfolios. That day, the struggle went corporate and at first felt like victory.

For decades, the architects of the struggle fought not for title deeds and car allowances, but for dignity. For the right to exist, speak, learn and lead.

In prison, exile and underground, they endured the unimaginable so that future generations could live unshackled.

When the gates of Robben Island opened and negotiations began in earnest, the idea was simple: liberation should now mean transformation.

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It was time to take the reins of power. Politically, yes, but also economically.

By the late 1990s, the symbols of victory were shifting. Comrades who once huddled over Marxist pamphlets in Lusaka or Dar es Salaam were now being seen in Sandton skyscrapers and five-star conference centres.

The rallying cry of “the people shall govern” evolved into strategic board appointments, BEE scorecards and shareholder activism. Some wore it well.

But for many, especially those groomed in struggle circles but disconnected from post-liberation policy, the new terrain was confusing and seductive.

Deals were structured not around need or equity, but access. Who you knew and the struggle resumé you carried.

The term “Struggle Credentials” found new life.

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No longer just a badge of honour, but a currency.

It would be disingenuous to pretend this evolution was all betrayal. For many, it was a genuine shift in the theatre of struggle. If capital had been the tool of oppression, then surely mastering it, reclaiming it, was the next phase of emancipation.

Then, the language of freedom became interchangeable with financial jargon.

Development was measured not by clinics or clean water, but by returns on investment. Public intellectuals who once challenged state power now issued press releases defending profit margins. And corporate events began with liberation songs, rendered in mezzo-soprano as background entertainment between keynote addresses.

The tragic brilliance of the South African story is that it was so well-intentioned. We wanted to believe that wealth could be wielded ethically. That capitalism could be tamed and Africanised. That executive power could be used to empower, not just enrich. But markets have no memory. And soon, neither did we.

In the process of “being taken seriously”, the movement adopted the postures of the very structures it once vowed to dismantle.

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Respectability became strategy. The revolution wore a Rolex and arrived late to the AGM.

Those who raised questions about extractive economics, about moral drift, about the marginalisation of communities were quietly pushed aside.

“Idealist.” “Out of touch.” “Still stuck in the past.”

The real thinkers, agitators and grassroots leaders, many of them women, many of them youth, were left at the periphery.

Not everyone succumbed. There were those who tried and are still trying to reimagine power. To hold space between justice and profit.

Thinkers like Mamphela Ramphele, who never shied from critiquing the dilution of the liberation dream. Or Neville Alexander, who warned about replacing one elite with another.

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Thuli Madonsela, who demonstrated that integrity could exist inside high office without being swallowed by it. Duma Gqubule, whose economic commentary continues to call out the illusions of inclusion.

Many remain unsung. Men and women who chose less glamorous paths.

As once-famous names died, obituaries would reveal their “covert” roles in the struggle.

“Underground operative,” “MK combatant,” “intelligence courier.” Sometimes the claims rang true. Other times, we squinted.

The real resistance was, and still is, unglamorous. Unrewarded. The woman who fed exiles with her last meal. The teacher who snuck in black consciousness literature. The nurse who hid activists during curfew. The ones who never got invited to sit on a board and never asked to be.

If the first liberation was political, and the second economic (however flawed), then perhaps a third is emerging: a moral and intellectual reawakening.

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One where liberation is not measured by wealth or status, but by how we care for the most vulnerable. Where blackness is not sold back to us through branding. Where struggle is not a springboard to entitlement, but a commitment to service.

This doesn’t mean we must abandon ambition or success. It means interrogating its purpose.

The day the struggle went corporate was not a betrayal. It was a choice. As history marches forward, we must ask ourselves, honestly: what kind of legacy are we building?

– This article first appeared in Global South Media Network – www.gsmn.co.za.