RAVI PILLAY | The art of the lie

In 1987 Donald Trump published The Art of the Deal, a brash manifesto celebrating negotiation as theatre, bold claims, relentless confidence, narrative dominance. The premise was simple: in business, perception shapes leverage and leverage shapes outcomes.

Three decades later, in his first term as US president, that theatrical instinct appeared to evolve. What began as deal-making often seemed to drift into something more troubling: the strategic normalisation of falsehood. If The Art of the Deal suggested that perception can shape reality, modern politics increasingly resembled a darker sequel, The Art of the Lie: repetition over verification, certainty over correction.

Trump did not invent political dishonesty. Nor is deception confined to one ideology or geography. Fact-checkers documented an unprecedented volume of false or misleading claims during his presidency. What unsettled observers was not merely inaccuracy; it was the unapologetic insistence on alternative realities even after contradiction.

Recent developments surrounding the attack on Iran during his second presidency illustrate how quickly negotiation can slide into narrative theatre. Statements about the scale of military success, the imminence of victory and the strategic objectives of the conflict have shifted rapidly as the war unfolds. At times the messaging appears less like traditional diplomacy and more like narrative management, confident declarations issued even as facts on the ground remain contested.

Analysts and fact-checkers have already begun disputing some of the administration’s claims about Iran’s capabilities and the impact of recent strikes. In that sense, the author of The Art of the Deal continues to demonstrate how the language of negotiation can drift toward something else entirely, the shaping of reality through repetition rather than verification.

A deal operates within shared facts. Parties may disagree fiercely on value, but evidence constrains argument.

—  Ravi Pillay

The distinction matters.

A deal operates within shared facts. Parties may disagree fiercely on value, but evidence constrains argument. A lie attempts to renegotiate reality itself. It is persuasion untethered from verification. And once that tether snaps, politics drifts from deliberation into spectacle.

South Africans should resist the temptation to view this as distant theatre. We know this script. Under apartheid, deception was institutional architecture. Statistics were distorted. Language softened brutality. Official narratives masked systemic injustice. Truth was subordinated to power.

The democratic transition promised moral recalibration. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission embodied a national recognition that societies cannot heal without confronting the facts. Yet recent years remind us how fragile that commitment remains.

The Judicial Commission of Inquiry into Allegations of State Capture revealed more than procurement irregularities; it exposed a culture of evasion, selective memory and carefully constructed testimony. Witnesses forgot conveniently. Documents surfaced late. Technical denials narrowed moral responsibility into legal technicalities.

The pattern continues.

Legal defence is a constitutional right. But when patterns of convenient amnesia and narrative engineering repeat across commissions, boards and courtrooms, citizens are justified in asking whether we are confronting isolated lapses or a broader culture of “strategic misrepresentation”.

The Tembisa Hospital matter is especially painful because health care is not abstract. When procurement irregularities are masked or misrepresented, the consequences are not theoretical. They are borne by patients waiting for medication, equipment or care.

This is where the art of the lie becomes structural rather than rhetorical.

Globally, similar dynamics surface whenever power is threatened. The Epstein saga revealed how proximity to influence can produce layers of distancing, reframing and carefully worded statements. In several high-profile cases — involving the likes of corporate executives, public figures and royalty — the choreography of reputational containment is striking. Legal exposure and moral clarity did not always coincide.

South Africa’s own era of state capture illustrated this vividly. The now-infamous Gupta Sun City wedding became symbolic not simply because of extravagance, but because it exposed blurred lines between public office and private interest. In hindsight, many distanced themselves and regret attending. Fewer interrogated their earlier proximity.

There is a personal dimension to this.

False narratives mobilise loyalty. They buy time. They reframe scrutiny as persecution. And confusion dilutes outrage.

—  Ravi Pillay

Years before the full architecture of state capture was widely understood, I was a corporate executive for a food processing company and met members of the Gupta network in the context of a potential commercial transaction involving, ostensibly, a provincial developmental BEE project aimed at uplifting marginalised black farmers. On paper, the proposal appeared commercially rational, linking a developmental agricultural asset to a reputable buyer, hence sustaining black farmers and growing them into becoming commercial farmers.

But site visits and engagement with the authorities revealed inconsistencies. Something felt misaligned.

In consultation with headquarters and senior leadership, we withdrew, quietly and professionally, and declined to legitimise a supply chain that was tainted.

Why? Not because wrongdoing had been legally established at that time. But because values and early warning signals matter. Due diligence is not only financial; it is ethical. When alignment feels strained, it often is. That experience reinforced a broader lesson: vigilance is rarely dramatic. It is often simply the discipline to pause when something does not feel right.

Lying itself, of course, is not new. Evolutionary psychologists argue that deception evolved as a survival mechanism in complex social systems. Humans are adept at impression management. But when deception migrates from interpersonal navigation into institutional governance, it scales. It corrodes.

Hannah Arendt warned that systematic lying in politics destabilises the shared factual world required for democracy to function. Once facts become negotiable, accountability becomes theatrical. Governance becomes performance.

In the digital age, the problem compounds. Falsehood spreads faster than correction, amplified by algorithmic ecosystems that reward engagement over accuracy. Emotional certainty outperforms nuance.

Why does it persist? Because in the short term, it works.

False narratives mobilise loyalty. They buy time. They reframe scrutiny as persecution. And confusion dilutes outrage. But the long-term cost is steep. Trust in public institutions underpins both democratic stability and economic performance. When trust erodes, investor confidence weakens. Social cohesion fractures. Cynicism replaces participation.

When dishonesty becomes routine, integrity appears radical. And when integrity appears radical, democracy is under strain

The deeper issue is not merely that leaders lie. It is that electorates adapt. Partisanship breeds selective outrage. When opponents deceive, we call it a scandal. When allies do so, we rationalise it as strategy. Over time, the ethical bar lowers. Dishonesty becomes normalised as political theatre.

Democracy does not self-correct automatically. It corrects when citizens recalibrate expectations. That recalibration need not be punitive. It requires civic discipline, a structured refusal to surrender facts to faction.

If we are serious about resisting the cultural normalization of deception, we might adopt a simple integrity filter before accepting major public claims:

• Is there verifiable evidence? Are independent documents or data available — or only assertion?
• Is the claim falsifiable? Can it be tested against observable facts?
• Has the speaker demonstrated a pattern of correction? Integrity is not perfection; it is the willingness to admit error.
• Who benefits from this narrative? Does it deflect accountability or consolidate power?
• Would I apply the same standard if the opposing party made this claim? Is my response rooted in evidence — or allegiance?

This is not amateur body-language analysis. It is civic maturity. South Africa’s constitutional architecture of judicial independence, parliamentary oversight and investigative journalism demonstrates resilience. But institutions alone cannot inoculate a society against normalised deception. Electoral culture determines incentives.

History offers reassurance. Authoritarian systems often rely on what Arendt called the “big lie”, when repetition overwhelms contradiction. Yet sustained deception collapses under evidence and moral fatigue. The apartheid state’s narrative machinery did not survive the weight of truth.

Truth can be delayed. It can be distorted. It can be litigated. But it remains durable.

The question for South Africa is not whether lying exists. It always has. The question is whether we allow it to become routine. When dishonesty becomes routine, integrity appears radical. And when integrity appears radical, democracy is under strain.

The art we must refine is not the art of the lie, but the art of vigilance; steady, principled, evidence-based vigilance. Because when truth regains its value, power regains its legitimacy.

• Pillay is co-founder of the Food Safety Leadership Initiative (FSLI), based at Wits Business School. He writes in his personal capacity.