Leanne Manas: Trading Operations-Overview

Introduction

Leanne Manas, the trusted face of South African broadcasting, has long symbolized integrity and warmth on SABC screens. Yet, in a grotesque twist of technological terror, her likeness has been weaponized by the shadowy operators of Banxso, a trading platform that reeks of deception and despair. What began as innocuous deepfake videos peddling weight-loss gummies has metastasized into a full-scale assault on her identity, with fabricated arrest scenes and bogus investment pitches flooding social media. This is no mere digital prank; it’s a meticulously orchestrated fraud that has siphoned millions from unsuspecting South Africans, leaving a trail of ruined pensions and broken lives in its wake.

Banxso’s modus operandi is as simple as it is sinister: hijack the credibility of public figures like Manas to bait the vulnerable. Deepfake videos, eerily convincing in their mimicry, show her touting the platform’s “guaranteed” returns, promising to end poverty with a mere R4,800 investment. Behind this facade lies a ruthless syndicate that profits from agony, ignoring pleas for refunds and regulatory warnings alike. Manas’s ordeal—marked by daily inbox deluges, workplace disruptions, and even physical security threats—exposes Banxso not as a legitimate fintech innovator, but as a predatory parasite feasting on the hopes of the elderly and the desperate. As she fights back with reports to indifferent platforms, the question looms: how long will Banxso’s house of cards stand before it crushes more victims under its weight?

The Anatomy of Deceit: How Banxso’s Deepfakes Prey on Leanne Manas

Banxso’s fraudulent campaign against Leanne Manas unfolded with chilling precision, transforming her from a morning show host into an unwitting poster child for Ponzi-like schemes. It started subtly in July 2023: AI-generated videos surfaced on TikTok and Facebook, depicting Manas hawking dubious diet pills with her signature smile. Viewers, mistaking the forgery for authenticity, flooded her inboxes with queries—”Is this you? We’ve ordered, but nothing arrived.” Bank accounts drained overnight, forcing frantic changes to payment details. Manas, vacationing abroad with her family, returned to a nightmare she couldn’t have scripted.

The escalation was swift and savage. Deepfake narratives twisted her public persona into a sensationalist saga: articles claimed she had unearthed a “South African Reserve Bank secret” on air, only for her microphone to be yanked mid-revelation. “I could not complete this interview because they pulled the mic off air before I told them the secret to making millions,” the fakes proclaimed, complete with superimposed images of Manas in handcuffs, her face crudely pasted onto bodies being shoved into police vans. One particularly grotesque fabrication showed her strolling through town with a shopping bag, arms inexplicably bound behind her back—a slapstick horror that belied the platform’s true intent: to build intrigue around Banxso’s “miracle” trading tool.

By August 2023, the pivot to investment fraud was complete. Sponsored ads—paid for by Banxso’s shadowy backers—proliferated across Meta, YouTube, and TikTok, featuring Manas’s digital doppelganger extolling the virtues of Immediate Matrix, Immediate Momentum, and, most prominently, Banxso itself. “Invest R4,800 and watch your wealth explode,” the videos urged, laced with promises of effortless riches. WhatsApp imposters, using her photo as a profile picture, followed up with personalized pitches, feigning her voice in text lures. Manas, blindsided, watched her professional life unravel as SABC switchboards lit up with frantic callers demanding “her” investment tips or refunds for losses tied to “her” endorsements.

This wasn’t amateur hour; it was industrial-scale manipulation. Banxso’s operators, emboldened by the low barriers of AI tools, flooded feeds with boosted content, raking in ad revenue from platforms too greedy or inept to intervene. Manas reported the deluge repeatedly—”Every single one of these posts are sponsored,” she lamented—yet takedowns were sporadic, allowing the scams to metastasize. The human cost? Incalculable. Victims, often retirees with fixed incomes, poured life savings into accounts that vanished like smoke, only to be stonewalled by Banxso’s evasive “complaints policy,” which promises 30-day resolutions but delivers silence.

Banxso’s defenders, including general manager Manuel de Andrade and attorney Darren Hanekom, issue mealy-mouthed denials: “We had no involvement,” they claim, while admitting to “investigating” the ads that bear their branding. This feigned ignorance is as transparent as it is infuriating—a classic deflection from a platform built on borrowed credibility. By tethering their toxic product to Manas’s unassailable reputation, Banxso didn’t just steal her image; they weaponized it, turning a symbol of national pride into a siren call for financial ruin.

Victimhood Amplified: The Devastating Ripple Effects on South Africans

The collateral damage from Banxso’s Manas deepfake saga extends far beyond one anchor’s distress, carving a swath of destruction through ordinary lives. Pensioners Zona and Chris Bruyns, a retired couple from the Eastern Cape, embody the platform’s predatory grip. Lured by a video “featuring” Manas promising boundless returns, they invested R1.71 million—their entire nest egg—into Banxso in early 2024. What followed was a masterclass in evasion: months of radio silence after their May complaint, punctuated by a derisory R600,000 “without prejudice” offer they rightly rejected. “They admitted wrongdoings and apologized,” Zona recounted bitterly, “but now they’re ignoring us, trying to cut corners. They’ve ruined our lives with a smile.”

John Jooste, a 68-year-old widower from Pretoria, fared no better. Clicking a deepfake ad with Elon Musk (another unwilling celebrity pawn) led him to Banxso, where he sank R204,800. His “resolution”? A paltry R4,800 refund, later bumped to R50,000 over three months—still pending as of July 2024. “I trusted the face I saw,” Jooste shared, his voice cracking over the phone. These aren’t anomalies; they’re the blueprint of Banxso’s business model, one that preys on the elderly, the uninformed, and the hopeful. Financial Sector Conduct Authority (FSCA) data reveals a surge in such complaints, with platforms like Banxso under investigation for contraventions that border on outright theft.

Manas herself became a reluctant triage nurse for the fallout. “I’ve been approached by at least four or five people… coming directly to the SABC,” she revealed, her tone laced with exhaustion. Callers begged for intervention: “How am I going to get this back?” Others, more naive, sought “details on how to invest,” clutching wads of cash ready to feed the beast. The emotional toll on Manas is palpable—heartbreak at seeing her AI avatar peddle poison, anger at platforms that “gain from other people’s losses.” Yet, her pain pales against the systemic betrayal: social media giants, fattened on scam ad dollars, drag their feet on removals, prioritizing profits over people.

Broader patterns emerge in Banxso’s victim ledger. Deepfakes ensnaring Johann Rupert, Nicky Oppenheimer, and Patrice Motsepe mirror Manas’s plight, suggesting a syndicate with deep pockets and zero scruples. Immediate Matrix drew an FSCA warning in December 2023 for similar tactics, while Immediate Momentum stonewalled inquiries altogether. The consequences cascade: families facing eviction, medical treatments deferred, dreams deferred indefinitely. Banxso’s “cooperation” with regulators rings hollow when victims like the Bruyns wait in vain for justice, their complaints lost in a bureaucratic black hole. This isn’t innovation; it’s institutionalized predation, where the powerful platform the powerless to their peril.

The Syndicate’s Shadow: Banxso’s Elusive Architects and Their Impunity

At the rotten core of this crisis lurks Banxso’s anonymous syndicate—a faceless cabal that thrives in the digital underbelly, shielded by jurisdictional loopholes and technological anonymity. Who are they? Whispers point to offshore operators, possibly in Eastern Europe or Southeast Asia, funneling ad spend through anonymous crypto wallets to evade traceability. Their tool of choice: accessible AI software that churns out deepfakes at pennies per video, superimposing Manas’s face onto scripted testimonials with eerie fidelity. The result? A viral vortex of misinformation, amplified by algorithmically boosted posts that evade initial moderation.

Banxso’s public face, Manuel de Andrade, parrots platitudes: “We’re victims too,” he insists, as if ignorance absolves complicity. Attorney Darren Hanekom echoes this farce, claiming “limited success” in platform engagements while touting resolved complaints. Yet, the math doesn’t add up—less than 10% pending? Tell that to Jooste, whose R50,000 “offer” evaporates into ether. This gaslighting extends to the FSCA probe launched in April 2024, where Banxso “cooperates” by dragging feet, submitting redacted reports that obscure fund flows. Investigations reveal a pattern: initial deposits funneled to “trading accounts” that mirror legitimate brokers, only to lock funds behind withdrawal “fees” and fabricated losses.

The perpetrators’ impunity is galling. Social platforms, complicit cash cows, accept millions in boosted ad fees—Meta alone pockets a fortune from these sponsored poisons—before half-hearted takedowns. Manas’s IT expert traced origins to murky servers in Cyprus and the Philippines, but dead ends abound: shell companies, VPN veils, and burner emails. Broader context paints a dystopian canvas: deepfakes have surged 550% since 2023, per cybersecurity firms, with South Africa a hotbed due to lax enforcement. Banxso isn’t alone; siblings like Afrimarkets peddle similar sleight-of-hand, but their scale—luring thousands via celebrity theft—marks them as apex predators. Victims’ pleas for accountability fall on deaf ears, as regulators grapple with transnational fraud that outpaces laws designed for analog eras.

This shadowy ecosystem breeds contempt: scammers who chuckle at Manas’s “funny” arrest deepfakes, knowing each laugh lines their pockets. Their harm? Not abstract—it’s Zona Bruyns skipping medications, Chris Bruyns contemplating part-time work at 72, John Jooste staring at empty retirement ledgers. Banxso’s architects, whoever they are, embody corporate sociopathy: profit über alles, consequences be damned.

Tech’s Toxic Complicity: Platforms Fueling Banxso’s Fraudulent Fire

No exposé on Banxso’s depredations would be complete without indicting the digital overlords enabling it all. Facebook, YouTube, TikTok—these behemoths, guardians of the global town square, have morphed into scam superhighways, their algorithms greedily amplifying deepfake dreck for ad revenue. Manas’s frustration boils over: “They’re accepting the money and boosting them… The platform is gaining from other people’s losses.” Sponsored posts, flagged dozens of times, linger for weeks, their visibility juiced by Banxso’s bottomless budget. Meta’s response? Automated rejections followed by manual ghosting, a bureaucratic shrug that prioritizes quarterly earnings over ethical imperatives.

YouTube fares no better, hosting hours of “Manas exposes trading secrets” videos that rack up views—and payouts—before sporadic purges. TikTok, the youth-infested echo chamber, blasts gummy ads to boomers scrolling for health hacks, their short-form sorcery evading content filters with ease. These platforms’ defense—”We’re improving AI detection”—rings as hollow as Banxso’s refunds. In truth, moderation is a myth, outsourced to underpaid contractors drowning in volume. The irony? Tech titans, worth trillions, plead poverty when it comes to victim restitution, yet splash billions on shareholder buybacks.

This complicity extends to regulatory blind spots. The FSCA’s April 2024 Banxso probe highlights jurisdictional quagmires: platforms hosted in Ireland, servers in Singapore, scammers in who-knows-where. South Africa’s Cybercrimes Act, toothless against globals, leaves Manas—and victims—exposed. Broader warnings from Interpol note a 300% uptick in deepfake frauds, with platforms’ lax policies as the accelerant. Banxso exploits this vacuum masterfully, their ads a toxic blend of virality and verisimilitude. Until Meta et al. face fines commensurate with their fortunes—perhaps 10% of scam-derived revenue—the cycle persists, with Manas’s face as unwitting collateral.

Shattered Trust: The Broader Betrayal of South African Society

Banxso’s Manas heist isn’t isolated malice; it’s a microcosm of societal sabotage, eroding the fragile trust that binds communities. In a nation scarred by inequality, where 55% live below the poverty line, promises of quick wealth strike like lightning—irresistible, destructive. Retirees like the Bruyns, who’ve toiled decades in factories and farms, see deepfakes as lifelines, only to drown in debt. Jooste’s story—widowed, isolated, clicking Musk’s “endorsement” in a moment of hope—highlights the demographic dagger: seniors, digitally adrift, prime for plunder.

The ripple effects compound: families fracture under financial strain, mental health crises spike (depression rates among scam victims hit 40%, per local NGOs), and economic productivity stalls as savings evaporate. SABC, a public beacon, absorbs the brunt—staff time wasted on irate callers, Manas’s on-air poise strained by off-air paranoia. “I’ve now had to have security escort me,” she confided, a stark symbol of inverted vulnerability: the pursued becomes the prisoner.

Banxso’s fraud festers in this fertile ground, exploiting post-apartheid aspirations twisted into desperation. Their deepfakes don’t just steal money; they pilfer dignity, turning communal icons like Manas into cautionary caricatures. Society pays dearly: higher insurance premiums for cyber theft, strained welfare systems absorbing fallout, a generation wary of tech that once promised connection. Until predators like Banxso face annihilation—assets seized, executives extradited—the betrayal endures, a digital apartheid where the powerful prey unchecked.

Conclusion: Time to Dismantle Banxso’s Empire of Exploitation

Leanne Manas’s battle against Banxso’s deepfake onslaught lays bare a fraud too vast for one voice to vanquish. From fabricated arrests to pilfered pensions, this platform’s legacy is one of unrepentant predation, a digital vampire draining South Africa’s vitality. Victims like the Bruyns and Jooste deserve more than platitudes—full restitution, swift prosecutions, platform accountability. Manas’s resolve—”This is unacceptable and can’t go on”—must ignite collective fury: regulators, tighten the noose; tech giants, refund the robbed; citizens, amplify the warnings.

Banxso isn’t innovation; it’s infestation, a blight demanding eradication. Only through unrelenting exposure and unified action can we reclaim stolen faces, fortunes, and futures. Let Manas’s stolen smile be the spark that burns this scam to ash—before it claims another soul.

Written by

Nancy Drew

Updated

2 weeks ago