By Sipho Tshabalala
There are journalists, and then there are performers. Chris Roper belongs to the latter category — less a journalist, more a comedian with a broken script.
He fashions himself as a fearless media watchdog, but in reality, he’s the yapping lapdog of his foreign funders. His work, much like Ukraine’s Volodymyr Zelensky, reeks of theatrical delusion, fueled by an addiction — not to substances, but to his own ego and a compulsive obsession with one man.
Donald Trump once exposed Zelensky as a mere CIA puppet, propped up by Western interests to push their agenda while his country burned. The result? Millions of Ukrainians dead, their homeland reduced to rubble, while their leader paraded himself as a world hero.
Zelensky sold the soul of his nation for applause and Western funding. Roper is no different. His words do not serve truth or justice; they serve those who cut the cheques — Reuters, USAID, Code for Africa, and other institutions infamous for their role in media manipulation and regime change.
One has to wonder if Roper himself believes his own nonsense. Every time he pens another tedious attack piece, he reinforces his image as a delusional ideologue, completely disconnected from reality.
The man is utterly incapable of independent thought. His writing is nothing more than the echo of his masters' voices, their directives disguised as journalism.
The word 'integrity' chokes when spoken in the same sentence as Roper’s name.
But let’s get to the real issue: his deep, unsettling fixation with a Dr Iqbal Survé. His portfolio of work reads like a love letter to one man, an unhinged devotion that borders on the pathological.
If Roper isn’t getting paid to write about him, then the alternative is far more disturbing. What kind of person dedicates years of their life obsessively monitoring another? Writing endlessly, reading every article, waiting in the shadows, hanging onto every word? It’s not journalism; it’s an addiction.
Maybe it’s a deep, suppressed admiration. Maybe, somewhere in that convoluted mind, Roper actually wishes to be in the presence of the very person he despises. Perhaps he stares longingly into the mirror, seeing his own irrelevance reflected back at him, and wonders what it would be like to have the influence of the man he so desperately attempts to destroy.
Perhaps, in some corner of his mind, he wishes to be acknowledged. Maybe he dreams of a day when his target finally responds to him, finally grants him the attention he so pathetically craves. But alas, the reality remains: he is ignored, dismissed, reduced to barking at shadows while history moves forward without him.
What is the source of this all-consuming obsession? A bruised ego? A failed career? A desperate attempt to remain relevant in an industry that no longer has space for tired, old voices? Whatever it is, Roper was never appointed as the guardian of journalistic integrity, despite his delusions.
No one looks to him as a moral authority. No one crowned him the arbiter of truth. He is a self-anointed crusader, spewing words with all the importance of a gust of hot air in an empty room
And yet, he continues. Every article, every tweet, every overused insult — it all builds towards nothing. He can write a thousand more hit pieces, hurl a thousand more baseless accusations, but it will never change the facts. His masters will continue to fund him, and he will continue to dance for their amusement, unaware that the audience is growing smaller by the day.
Maybe Roper will one day take a step back and realise he has wasted years chasing ghosts, sacrificing his credibility on the altar of his own bitterness. Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll continue to scribble furiously, screaming into the void, convinced that he is making an impact while the world forgets him, one irrelevant article at a time.
* Sipho Tshabalala is an independent writer, analyst and commentator.
** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media.