Excrement

 Dear Fellow South Africans 

It is written in Cry The Beloved Country that "there is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills". 

Not far from that lovely road, an ugly drama played out. A heavily armed gang locked the local police inside their own station yard. They went on to rob a business. A security company intervened but they were completely outgunned. 

When this tale was told, we were, unlike the president, not shocked. The resigned shrugs told more eloquently than words the story of the State of the Nation.

Students burned a classroom because the matric ball was cancelled. Shrug. At least they did not burn down the entire school. Yet. Perhaps the books survived. They could use them in the blackened classroom.

The only relevance that the ANC has from here on, is historical. They supplied, year upon year, the ingredients for this vile stew that we now gag on. The EFF obligingly stir the pot with inconsequential marches, absurd, contradictory yelps and the breathing of fire and slaughter.

Here's what's really concerning and disappointing:

While we crumble, opposition parties play playground games. 

"He pushed me first."  

"He stuck his tongue out at me."

Some media, notably TV news, seem to live on a different planet. A small planet, cocooned from the universe, wrapped in a fog, as it revolves around Party trivia, football and bric-a-brac. You were supposed to be our truth-tellers. Oh, how cheaply you sold out.

Some voters squat on their own doorsteps. Flies buzzing around their heads, they complain plaintively about the noisome mess at their feet.

And as we whizz down the "excrement-coated slide to ruin", we dance like demented dervishes, yell meaningless slogans and spew out nonsensical, racist tripe.

We are in excrement. 

We must get out.

Richard

Tips for the blogger gratefully accepted 

Capitec Bank, South Africa  

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O Tichmann 

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