Few things are more isolating than watching a falsehood about yourself take on a life of its own. One moment you are a public figure answering a journalist’s question, and the next you are the subject of a viral clip, stripped of context, twisted into a soundbite you never spoke. This is the situation Justice Minister Mmamoloko Kubayi finds herself in, and she has decided that enough is enough. According to South Africa’s Justice Ministry, a social media account called “Baas Kruger” has for some time been publishing serious false allegations against her, pushing a narrative that the minister describes as cyberbullying and disinformation. In a statement, her spokesperson Palesa Rammitlwa made it clear that the decision to take legal action was not made lightly. It was, in her words, “an extraordinary step” taken to protect Kubayi’s dignity and reputation, after repeated appeals for the person behind the account to stop were ignored. Behind the formal language is a very human story: someone who has been publicly attacked, misrepresented, and mocked, and who has finally reached the end of her patience. The minister is not suing over a difference of opinion or a harsh critique. She is suing because she believes a line has been crossed—from criticism into defamation, from dissent into destruction of character.
The controversy traces back to a doorstep interview at the ANC’s Siyanqoba Rally in the Eastern Cape, where a journalist asked Kubayi a question about the “March and March” movement and used a striking phrase, saying something about the movement being “squeezed like cranberries.” A clip of the exchange was circulated on social media, but in that clip, according to her office, it was the journalist who used the phrase, not the minister. Yet online, the clip was presented as if Kubayi herself had said it, and from there the story grew, twisted, and multiplied. Rammitlwa was emphatic in correcting the record: “The phrase was used by the journalist in his question. Minister Kubayi did not utter these words, and any claim suggesting otherwise is false and misleading.” This distinction matters, and not because politicians should be shielded from uncomfortable questions. Public officials must be accountable for what they say, and Kubayi has never disputed that. What she objects to is being held responsible for words that were never hers—and then being subjected to a relentless campaign of mockery and abuse based on that falsehood. It is one thing to disagree with a minister’s policies. It is quite another to invent a quote, put it in her mouth, and then attack her for it as if she had actually said it.
What makes this case especially striking is the response from the account at the center of the legal threat. On Sunday, Baas Kruger answered the minister’s legal action with a defiant and personal social media post, dismissing Kubayi as a “stupid minister” and insisting that he never claimed she said she would “squeeze people like cranberry juice.” In the same post, he challenged her to produce evidence in court, asserting that he is extremely careful about what he posts and that he has faced “countless legal action threats” before. He even suggested that he is experienced in solving very complex cases, and mocked the minister for paying lawyers out of her own pocket, invoking the old saying that “a fool and their money soon part ways.” There is something revealing in that response. Rather than apologizing or clarifying, the account doubled down, insulting the minister personally and presenting itself as the wronged party. It is a familiar pattern in the age of online outrage: the person who spreads the falsehood becomes the victim, and the person who seeks legal protection becomes the villain. By framing the minister’s lawsuit as a rich official trying to silence a small voice, Baas Kruger attempts to shift the story. But the minister’s office is not backing down. Rammitlwa’s response to the controversy was firm: “The Minister will not allow this to go unchallenged.”
This is not just a fight between one minister and one social media account. It is a snapshot of a much larger crisis in public life, where disinformation spreads faster than the truth and where a single malicious post can upend years of careful work. Politicians, journalists, and ordinary citizens alike find themselves at the mercy of algorithms that reward outrage over accuracy. For public officials, the stakes are especially high: their reputations are their currency, and once destroyed, they are nearly impossible to restore. Kubayi’s legal action is therefore being watched closely, not only by her supporters but by anyone who has ever felt helpless in the face of online defamation. Her decision sends a signal that public figures will no longer quietly absorb abuse, that there are limits, and that those who hide behind anonymous accounts to attack others may finally have to answer for their actions. Of course, this raises questions about free speech and the boundary between legitimate criticism and defamation. South Africa’s Constitution protects the right to express oneself, including the right to criticize those in power. But that right is not unlimited. When speech crosses into deliberate falsehood and personal attack, it begins to infringe on the rights of others—and, in this case, the minister is asking the courts to draw the line.
The human cost of such campaigns is often overlooked. Public figures are not faceless symbols; they are people with families, friends, and inner lives. They read the comments. They hear the jokes. They feel the sting of being misrepresented in front of millions. For Kubayi, the decision to go to court was not easy. It is expensive, time-consuming, and emotionally draining. It means opening herself up to more scrutiny, more online commentary, and more stress. But as her spokesperson explained, there was no alternative. The person behind the account ignored repeated calls to stop, continued to push the false narrative, and left the minister with no choice but to seek legal remedy. In a way, this lawsuit is not just about one incident or one phrase. It is about the cumulative effect of persistent cyberbullying, the slow wearing-down of a person’s reputation through a stream of half-truths, distortions, and outright lies. The account also claimed that the minister is facing other legal actions and that she is learning a lesson she will take to her grave, framed as a warning to any other “arrogant government official” who thinks they can dictate to the public. But the minister’s office is presenting it differently: as a stand for dignity, truth, and accountability in an online world that has too little of all three.
In the end, this story is about more than cranberries or viral clips. It is about what happens when the internet becomes a courtroom of public opinion, where verdicts are delivered by anonymous juries and sentences are carried out in the form of endless harassment. It is about a minister who refuses to be defined by a quote she never said and a social media account that refuses to take responsibility for the pain it has caused. It is also about the rest of us, the spectators who watch these dramas unfold, sometimes amused, sometimes outraged, but rarely stopping to think about the real human beings caught in the crossfire. When the case goes to court, the judge will have to decide not only what was said and who said it, but whether there is any room left for decency and honesty in public discourse. For Kubayi, this is not a publicity stunt or an abuse of power. It is a last resort, taken only when every other avenue was exhausted. She has made it clear that she remains accountable for her actual words and actions, but she will not accept responsibility for words that were placed in her mouth by others. Whether she ultimately wins or loses in court, the message she is sending is already clear: the truth matters, reputation matters, and no one—no matter how many followers or likes they have—has the right to destroy another person with lies. And that is a story worth telling, not just about a minister, but about all of us.