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If there is a legitimate explanation for the money hidden on President Cyril Ramaphosa’s farm, he should give it. If the foreign currency came from a lawful transaction, a buffalo sale, poor administration, confused accounting, or some internal failure in the management of his private business affairs, many South Africans would understand and be relieved at the same time, this newspaper first among them.

But the winds, insofar as they are blowing, are not blowing in that direction.

When the scandal first threatened his presidency, Ramaphosa reportedly considered resigning. Why? What frightened him so much that he wanted to pack it all in? And did he only agree to stay after being convinced that his party in Parliament would bury the Section 89 report alleging wrongdoing, a report drafted by a most honourable jurist? Now that a court has put that report back in play, he is trying to have the Section 89 report set aside before Parliament can test it through an impeachment inquiry. If that fails, he will apparently ask the courts to halt Parliament from proceeding with its inquiry by other means.

That approach is not in keeping with his promises on coming to power that no effort would be spared in exposing rot and accounting to the public. The African National Congress (ANC) must be seen to clean up – that is what he impressed on party colleagues at meeting after meeting.  But his current behaviour is not that of a man eager to clear his name by proffering a simple lawful explanation for the money. And as the Section 89 report itself imputed, bad faith can be inferred from the nature and circumstances of conduct.

That is why Parliament must proceed and clear up the following questions.

Where did the money come from, who brought it into South Africa, on whose behalf was that person acting, what was the amount imported, why did it have to be brought in cash, and what was the purpose of importing the money? The only information at hand, including that from Ramaphosa himself, suggests that the money came from the Middle East. Such claims do not prove wrongdoing. But they do, given South Africa’s foreign policy in the Middle East, a policy Ramaphosa has championed, perhaps above any other policy of his presidency, make secrecy impossible to defend.

Beyond that, why was the matter handled as it was after the burglary? What did the police do and what did they not do? What happened in Namibia?

An impeachment inquiry is not a kangaroo court. It is the constitutional mechanism for testing serious allegations against a sitting president. It allows witnesses to be called, documents to be demanded, contradictions to be examined, and the president to give his explanation in the proper forum.

Ramaphosa may have an innocent answer. He may even have a compelling one. But he must give it before Parliament, not bury it in litigation.

South Africa has seen this movie before. Jacob Zuma turned accountability into a war of delay, appeals, procedural fog, and political exhaustion. The country spent more than 25 years watching scandal drift from one effort at delay and obfuscation to another. In February next year, Zuma will finally be in court to face allegations dating from a 1999 arms transaction.

Parliament must force Ramaphosa to account. The impeachment committee must proceed. The president must testify. South Africans should not endure another presidential scandal managed through Stalingrad tactics and institutional exhaustion, not when the ANC no longer has a majority and when the Democratic Alliance and the opposition could easily come together to make sure that does not happen again.