An Open Letter to Errol David Elsdon

Dear Errol,

(Or whatever name presently adorns your business card),

You must be clever - clever enough, at least, to have pirouetted gracefully around both the Panama, Pandora and Paradise Papers while presiding over Caribbean affairs for years. Yet, alas, not quite clever enough to slip past uSpiked’s gaze. Genius, it seems, has a blind spot: journalists do not enjoy being characters in their own exposés. That, incidentally, is why the editor to whom you dispatched your coyly menacing correspondence has politely recused himself from this letter. Consider it an act of professional hygiene.

Whoever advised you to electronically send him his own passport-sized photograph - uninvited, unexplained, and unsolicited - did you no favours. Haven't you ever heard of something called metadata? We now know who is aiding you locally. But you obliged with admirable confidence, and in doing so handed us a thread. We pulled. The tapestry began to unravel. One photograph, Errol, can be worth more than a thousand subpoenas.

You may flatter yourself that we were to blame you for your failed attempt to relieve Mr. Makate of his rightful award. Rest easy. That particular humiliation was administered by the South African judicial system well before we arrived on the scene. If we take credit for anything, it is merely for ensuring you do not return for seconds.

Let us revisit Monday, 8 December 2025, at 9 a.m. - that ill-fated call. Bluetooth betrayed you first; truth followed shortly thereafter. When Thomas looped us into the conversation, his opening was courteous, almost paternal: “If you lie to courts, that’s perjury. If you lie to us, you lose our respect. All we require is honesty.” You agreed. But on his second question, with impressive efficiency, your very next answer disproved that earlier pledge.

We indulged you. Briefly. We were, after all, enjoying ourselves. But when you announced (without irony) that you had served as an Air Force pilot during the Second World War, the room fell silent. At that precise moment, our cyber specialist, Mr. García, texting in from San Francisco, sent an emoji best left to the imagination.

Given your British lineage, allow me to borrow and paraphrase from Sir Walter Scott’s 1808 narrative poem: “Oh, what a tangled web you weave, when first you practice to deceive.” Unlike your legal advisers, journalists rarely ask questions without already knowing the answers. Our questions seek explanations or justifications; not confessions, though you seem determined to supply the latter inadvertently.

By lying so freely, you revealed either a contempt for our intelligence or an indifference to our regard. Either way, respect was never on the table.

Perhaps the proverb we quoted previously escaped you: “A man is known by his friends before he speaks.” Since South Africa now appears on your list of temporary homes, let me offer the isiXhosa rendering: Iintaka zohlobo olunye zibhabha kunye. In English, for convenience: Birds of a feather flock together. As your own identity proved elastic, we examined your associates instead - past and present. That task, being based in Spain, fell to me.

It is evident you suffer from what might politely be called Walter Mitty Syndrome. Yet even fantasy requires discipline. The real underworld - take the ’Ndrangheta, for instance - learned long ago that threatening journalists is amateur hour. That is why I drove this weekend to Reggio di Calabria: to learn, first-hand, from reporters who survived by understanding that simple truth. A lesson, regrettably, you missed.

Then came Monday, 16 December 2025. During a routine check-in with our Cape Town team, we learned that attorneys previously acting for Black Rock Mining, now apparently also acting for you - had dispatched what can only be described as a cease-and-desist flavoured letter. Our editor remained measured. I did not. Still, he was resolute: “Remain professional. Finish the work. Our duty is to the public.” Permission was granted. Hence this letter.

I have since read your attorneys’ correspondence. One wonders whether you shared with them your wartime aviation heroics. Or explained why courts in other jurisdictions should be politely ignored. Or how fond you have suddenly become of Arabic proverbs; and how poorly they age under scrutiny.

Tell me, Errol: which chapter unnerves you the most; London, Equatorial Guinea, or Angola? Africa is our home ground. We turn over rocks here at remarkable speed.

We now know you to be a serial fabulist. Should you proceed with threats of litigation against uSpiked, I will personally attend to your deposition, line by line, lie by lie. Unlike Makate’s attorneys, we will not be charitable.

You might have benefited from consulting a competent media lawyer - there are many in South Africa. Instead, you appear to have sought counsel willing to accept your instructions as scripture. Do ask around and let me know if you discover a precedent - anywhere in England and Wales, or here - where a plaintiff dictates what evidence a defendant may rely upon. And while you are at it, count how many times New York Times Co. v. Sullivan has been cited in South African courts. I ran out of fingers some time ago.

If you care to accept advice from a low-level intern: either instruct your attorneys to withdraw this annoying letter, or consult Dario Milo—South Africa’s foremost authority on media law - if his fees do not induce vertigo. Otherwise, the drubbing awaiting you will resemble a Tom and Jerry cartoon, minus the charm.

As I file this letter for publication and begin my drive back toward Europe’s western edge, I wish you, most sincerely, a restful holiday season.

You may need it.