Reader, do not scream. I am about to write about Malusi Gigaba without making a pun about his private life.
I know. It’s weird. It almost feels as if I’m breaking some sort of South African journalistic law by not stooping down to pick the lowest-hanging fruit in the national conversation. And holy Benny Hill, Batman, the fruit is low: some of the sexual innuendos labouring across our headlines would make a 10-year-old look like Oscar Wilde.