Such fears are likely to grow if the financial dividends of South Africa’s political compromise evaporate. In recent months, as the South African economy has faltered, Zuma has promised to introduce a panoply of new government benefits to cushion the blow, including universal health care, subsidized housing, and wage supports. Still, many critics question whether he’ll be able to pay for the new programs and contest the notion that he is an authentic champion of the poor.

The nation’s business media has been outspoken. The Financial Mail put Zuma’s face on its cover with the headline BE AFRAID. It followed up with a series of scathing editorials (sample headline: THE LUNACY OF A ZUMA PRESIDENCY). Barney Mthombothi, the magazine’s editor, says the essays have captured the sentiments of many who were happy to let him, a black journalist, speak for them because they fear “being accused of being racist or unpatriotic.” Steven Friedman, director of the Centre for the Study of Democracy in Johannesburg, has been giving talks about the ANC succession struggle to groups of investment bankers, most of whom are white. In these closed-door meetings, he says, his audiences have expressed sometimes hysterical fears about South Africa’s future stability. “It’s a mixture of legitimate concern and—I’m trying to find a nice word for it—cultural ‘uncomfortability,’ ” he says. “A guy who dresses in leopard skins, has several wives, and sings about machine guns is not going to put those fears to rest, to put it mildly.”

In person, Zuma—who is 66 years old, surprisingly short, and built like a bowling pin—possesses a warm physicality and a resounding, earthy laugh. He can charm even those who are cynical about his motivations and goals. When I meet him during a visit he made to Washington, D.C., last fall to reassure American government officials and investors, he is dressed like a head of state, not a warrior, wearing a conservative gray suit, small spectacles, and a ring and cuff links inlaid with onyx. He shakes my hand and flashes a friendly smile. “Naturally, the change brings uncertainty,” he tells me. “But people should not have anxiety. We will be continuing with the financial regime that we have, the fiscal discipline that we have. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

We sit at a table in an empty ballroom at the Willard InterContinental hotel, a few blocks from the White House. Shortly before, Zuma had stood beneath crystal chandeliers and told 170 executives dining on filet mignon: “Don’t worry—no panic.” The occasion was a luncheon hosted by the Corporate Council on Africa, a trade group. Despite the constant turmoil around Zuma, many American companies remain interested in South Africa as a port of entry into the resource-rich continent. The sponsors of the event included Motorola, Johnson & Johnson, and Westinghouse, and the ballroom was filled with corporate lobbyists and defense contractors.

“I have been part of the ANC leadership for many, many years,” Zuma tells me, seeking to assuage people’s fears by drawing a line of continuity between himself and the revered Mandela. “I have been a part of everything, so if people don’t know me, it’s just that people don’t want to inform themselves.”

When Nelson Mandela came to power, he made a tacit bargain with leaders of the white community: If they handed over control of the government peacefully, the ANC would allow them to keep doing business as before. “If there is anything I am conscious about, it is not to frighten the minorities, especially the white minority,” he told a gathering of financiers. “We can never get the support of business if we are going to have radical policies.”

Today, Zuma likes to say, “We have two economies in South Africa: the first-world economy and the second-world economy.” According to a recent study, the average white household’s income in South Africa is more than seven times that of the average black household. Every major city contains vast crime-ridden black townships—the slums originally created by segregation laws—where living conditions are abysmal, jobs are scarce, and dissatisfaction with the entrenched leaders of the ANC, who promised so much when they came to power, runs high.

But perhaps for the first time in South Africa’s history, the lines of division aren’t simply between black and white. While bypassing the poorest sectors of society, the postapartheid boom propelled a lucky segment of the black population—estimates range from a few hundred thousand to as many as 2.6 million people—into the ranks of the middle class and beyond. A handful, meanwhile, have amassed oligarchical fortunes. These men and women, many of them veterans of ANC politics, lunch at exclusive private clubs, golf on once-segregated courses, and mix easily with the remnants of the white elite they usurped. And though many, like their white counterparts, have lost a considerable portion of their wealth during the past year’s economic downturn, most can still be considered very rich.

“Most of us don’t give a damn about the poor,” Peter Vundla, one of the founders of the country’s first black-owned advertising agency, tells me disapprovingly. We are sitting at the café at the Hyatt Regency in the Johannesburg suburb Rosebank, a favorite gathering place for the new demographic known as the BEE millionaires, businesspeople who made their fortunes with the help of the government’s black-economic-empowerment policies. Since selling his business to McCann Erickson in 1997, Vundla has become involved in investment banking, capitalizing on government initiatives to promote black ownership of shares in large corporations. He lives in a white suburb named Morningside, drives an Aston Martin sports car, and sits on numerous boards alongside white businesspeople. Although he has benefited, he believes that prior ANC governments—in which he served in an advisory capacity—did far too little to redistribute economic power.

But he doesn’t support Zuma. All around us, in fact, the café is filled with people taking uneasy stock of their standing in the new regime. Vundla points out a pair of porcine white men in dark suits: “Mining types,” he says. The members of this upper echelon, both white and black, became rich under the ANC of Mandela and his successor, Mbeki, and now they can no longer be so certain of a profitable relationship with the government. Publicly, they take pains not to criticize Zuma harshly, but privately, after a few drinks, their true feelings spill out. “I think he’s a half-wit,” a thirtyish white businessman confided to a friend a few nights before at a wood-paneled bar next to the Hyatt. “I’m afraid we could have another Kenya situation on our hands.”

The comparison to Kenya—a formerly stable African country that sank into machete-wielding violence in late 2007 during a disputed election—still seems far-fetched. In reality, the greatest potential for upheaval under Zuma may be within the new black elite, which remains markedly divided between the old guard and those who support him. “There’s been a very well-orchestrated and well-managed process to denigrate and destroy the public standing of Jacob Zuma,” says Sandile Zungu, a dapper and supremely confident 42-year-old private equity player and a major Zuma fundraiser. He adds that he backs him “notwithstanding the fact that I can proudly say that I have made millions” from the old mechanisms of black economic empowerment. Some suggest that Zungu’s support happens to align with his financial interests; Zuma recently appointed him to an important ANC committee.