The Zuma Odyssey: 2018

Dear Mr President 

 Our friendly correspondence draws to a close. The long day wanes. The slow moon climbs and all that. 

You will recognize that fragment from Tennyson's Ulysses, whose epic voyage rather resembles yours. Except that yours seems to have been written by Homer Simpson, rather than the Greek poet whose name he bears. It may not be the deep that moans round with many voices but certainly the whole country has been moaning for a long, long time. Mourning too. Perhaps the sirens' song had deafened you. 

 The line from Tennyson's poem that is most apt for you: Push off and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows.... Just the first two words. You were getting so close to the truly greats: Uncle Bob, Mbasogo of Equatorial Guinea, Al-Bashir and the rest. A few more years and you could have totally gutt....I mean...transformed the country. 

 According to the 'novels' that you recently referred to, you could have taught Ulysses a thing or two about Trojan horses. SARS, the NPA, Treasury, the security cluster, fell faster than Troy, we are told, as your men poured out of their wooden horses like a cockr...sorry... commando invasion. You got by Scylla and Charybdis. Or was it Zille and Charybdis? Your cyclops could have been those steely-eyed judges. Just as Ulysses did, you tried to get by them, shielded by a sheep. It almost worked until they declared that The Sheep Stops Here.

 It would be remiss of us not to mention the men and women who rowed so lustily at your command. Oblivious to the ever-present peril of imminent shipwreck. 'I number them too in the song'. 

 Now you have returned from your wanderings to find the house full of suitors. Sadly, there is no great bow to bend. You broke it and this one ends differently. It has been a long wearisome voyage. Still, as Tennyson put it: 

 Though much is taken much abides and tho We are not now that strength which in old days

 Moved Earth and heaven,

 that which we are we are; 

 One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate,

 but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 Yours in the quest for a safe harbour.

 Richard

(Slow) Death And Taxes 2017

Dear SARS People

 I used to partner with a network marketing business that offered brilliant travel deals. 

 The state programme has them licked, though. Travel in comfort, enjoy the finest accommodation and receive a daily allowance greater than the monthly salary of many South Africans. That's travelling in style. 

 I wish to sign up without delay. I meet the requirements. I am related to several Cabinet ministers through the Adam and Eve connection. I support and promote South African business, as vendors of magwinyas and other fine local cuisine will attest. 

 Recent riveting reports of one such state (read taxpayer) sponsored shop...sorry... diplomatic excursion reminded me of our hate - hate relationship dear SARS people. With respect. Nothing personal, as my mentor, the Don used to say - just business. After all, you do hoover up a significant portion of my desperately hard earned remuneration. I labour for a substantial portion of the year just for you (must add that to my CV).

 When I reluctantly signed up for your programme, I was ever so slightly mollified by the notion that my tax money would go to some worthy causes. I count among them housing, relief for the poor and elderly, hospitals etc. I was glad to see that some progress was indeed made on housing, notably that quaint dwelling place among the green hills of my own home province. The one with a ritzy swimming pool and provision for domestic animals.

 I already do a great deal of travelling and would like to discuss a suitable daily allowance. Those daily trips from Germiston to Fourways and back do take a toll on the well-worn wallet. I look forward to similar relief. 

My own needs are quite modest. Aforementioned magwinyas, chips the odd JMPD special (streetwise two). My daily allowance would amount to a fraction of that allocated to some shopp...sorry... business emissaries. 

 Some of my fellow South Africans are less patient and one occasionally hears talk of a tax revolt. I am dead against the notion. Staves, pikestaffs and the guillotine have no place in our gentler, kinder democracy. Even if one of you volunteers for the 'it is a far far better thing that I do' role. We are reasonable, civilized people, to quote Don Vito, and I, for one, would welcome a discussion over a cup of rooibos. I am keen to see what you can put on (and I can take off) the proverbial table. Should you not respond in good faith, I shall demand that you point me to the unsubscribe link on your website. I shall withdraw from the programme with dignity. No hard feelings (or hard cash). 

 I look forward to a prompt, business-like response. 

 Yours in the no - taxation - without - meaningful - representation movement. 

 Richard

Lord Of The Dance 2018

Dear Mr Malema 

 Despite my relief at the changing of the guard in high places, I was somewhat concerned that we would be starved of our accustomed servings of entertainment. 

 Our singing, dancing former president, like that other great entertainer, has left the building. The Force is no longer with our tweeting former minister of police. Ms Muthambi, silver-tongued presenter of budget speeches, is perhaps even now talking to the trees. The time of the entertainers, like that of the elves, seemed to have passed.

 Thank goodness for you. You have the moves like Jagger. Who can forget your professed readiness to kill and then later to die for the Dancing One? Later, you expressed regret for your role in seating him on the throne. Now, with a deft tango - like swivel, you have moved on again. If reports are true, you have magnanimously stowed away the Marikana stick with which you loved to beat Mr Ramaphosa. It appears from the same report that you are ready to dump your occasional dance partner, the DA. Perhaps to move into the embrace of the ANC? Those of a cynical disposition may see this as opportunistic maneuvering for a plum position. I am simply reminded of the old song, Mister Bojangles:  

He jumped so high, jumped so high. And then he lightly touched down Mr Bojangles, Lord that man could dance... 

 So can you sir; so can you.

 Yours in the love of the dance.

 Richard

The Impossible Dream

Dear Mr Malema

 I slept the untroubled sleep of the just last night, knowing that you are on your way to Senekal. 

What a noble mission: to protect property, democracy, the constitution and anything else that needs protection Your sterling record speaks for itself. Who can forget your crusade against the purveyors of racist hair products? Who can forget Mr Shivambu, like a kindly uncle, lecturing that journalist on (I assume) democracy and dialectical materialism. I am still moved by the image of his hand gently resting on the man's neck. "You feel me?" were probably his concluding words. 

 The words from that Man Of La Mancha theme song come to mind. 'To fight for the right, without question or pause'. Except that you are fighting for the left, I think. Certainly, without question or pause. Or thought, said a friend. Sir, unlike the philosophers like Hamlet and Dr Ace, you are first and foremost a man of action. Rambo, Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin - they shoot from the hip - or the lip. So, I think, do you. Guadalcanal, Gallipoli and other names will forever echo in the spacious halls of history. Likewise, Clicks, Parliament, Senekal..... 

 I am at this moment so inspired that I must borrow from Blake's Jerusalem, lightly cannibalized (not the other one everyone is dancing to): 

 Bring me my bow of burning gold Bring me my arrows of desire

 Bring me my spear, o clouds unfold! 

Bring me my chariot of fire. 

I will not cease from mental fight, nor physical 

 Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In Mzansi's green and pleasant land. 

 Sir, I am overcome with nau...sorry...emotion. 

 Yours in the quest for the impossible dream. 

 Richard

Don't Call Us - Ever

Dear South African Editors 

 Granted, Jayzed, Dr Ace and friends keep you very busy. We freelancers would really appreciate the odd response to our submissions though. A courteous 'b***** off' would suffice. I know it's even harder for the thinking man or thinking woman's newspaper, The Daily Sun. Tracking down zombies, short boys and witches must be devilishly hard work. My only gripe is that vampires are not getting fair coverage. 

 I propose a simple procedure for dealing with those irksome submissions from freelancing peasants. Below is a list of standard responses which could be delegated to a secretary, who could then do a 'my mother said I should pick this one' selection. She could then mail the responses and Bob's your ex - president. Feel free to use these in combination. 

 Why didn't you take your mother's advice and become a teacher?

 Voertsek. 

 Does your mother know you write this stuff?  

Do you have a mother? 

 What harm have we ever done you? (Apologies to Peanuts) 

 Have you considered an alternative career - mass murderer or something? 

 We suggest you hurry back to the mother ship. 

 Whoever told you you could write will burn for eternity.

 Don't call us ever. 

 How did you get our address in your jungle dwelling? 

 May we recommend a good psychiatrist? 

 Burn your matric certificate and, if it were legal, your English teacher.

 In the words of our former president: 'heh, heh, heh'. 

 We have never used the word 'execrable' as a compliment, until now. 

 I trust this will help and I am sure freelancers will be glad of a response. You may remember the siege of an editor's house some time ago. I am not saying that I was behind it.

 I look forward to one of these encouraging, nurturing responses in the future. 

 Yours in the struggle for (some) communication.

 Richard

The Book Of Taxi

Dear SANTACO and other taxi associations

 I have tumbled onto your secret. My informants, who are as numerous as EFF ground forces, have revealed the following. 

 In a catacomb - like vault, in a remote location, lies The Book Of Taxi. Upon this book are sworn blood oaths, while the Laws Of Taxi are recited. Some of the principal laws are: 

 You shall yield to no man or woman upon road or highway. 

When pedestrians scurry across the road, you shall bear down upon them to within an inch. The purpose is twofold:

 1. To confirm who the kings of the road are. 

2. To hone your skills to the razor sharpness demanded of the brotherhood of Taxi. 

 Passengers are the scum of the earth. You shall tolerate them but never accommodate them. You shall respond to questions with grunts and monosyllabic utterances. Any driver transgressing this sacred law shall be banished to Uber and forever shunned by The Brotherhood Of Taxi. 

 You shall, however, communicate freely with other drivers on the roads. The traditional greetings 'fuseki' and 'msu...we...a' may be liberally used. This is in alignment with our brand as 'the courteous ones'. 

 You shall never reveal the location of the secret bank where all change is deposited at midnight. Rebellious passengers must be taught to tender the exact fare. 

 All Taxis are 4 by 4 vehicles and may boldly go where none has been before. That includes Captain Kirk.

 Hooters are a means of communication and are to be vigorously used at every conceivable opportunity. Traffic gridlock qualifies as a prime opportunity. 

 Despite anything that Toyota may say to the contrary, the purpose of brakes is to squeeze the last ounce of resistance (and other substances) out of stubborn passengers. These shall be used at every opportunity. Should no opportunity present itself, you shall create one. 

 I trust that my reliable informants will unearth more nuggets in due course. 

 Yours in the struggle for mastery of the highways.

 Richard

Betrayed

People in the Tsantsabane municipality in Postmasburg, Northern Cape, sit in misery and darkness for the third day this week. 

 They buy prepaid electricity but the municipality seems to have overlooked the small matter of passing payment on to Eskom. Eskom punishes the municipality. The municipality punishes paying residents. No power means no water. Parents struggle to feed their babies. Grant recipients cannot have their grants processed. Businesses operate in darkness or shut down. This comes on the heels of the recent loadshedding. Misery upon misery. 

 In a crisis, leaders communicate. Ah, but this is South Africa. The land that empathy and compassion forgot. This sorry mess begs many questions. No doubt the servants of the people have many interesting answers. But the rest is silence. We have become used to abuse and betrayal. Unhealthy. 

In the same town, a friend went through fingerprinting and all the security precautions required to get his SASSA card. Before he could draw his first payment, the card was stopped and a new one issued to a thief. He is still waiting for the investigation to be concluded. It boggles the mind. Elaborate security precautions, paper and electronic trails - what the hell happened? 

Something we have become strangely used to. Corrupt officials colluded with the vilest of the vile. 

Where are you ANC, EFF, and the rest? Oh, you have roads to rename and insults to avenge. 

 We are betrayed. 

 I and the public know, wrote Auden, 

What all school children learn: Those to whom evil is done, Do evil in return.

 But to do evil to the people who placed their trust in you. Who pay the taxes that pay your unmerited salaries: that is wickedness beyond comprehension.