Fleas

 Dear Mr Gigaba 

A news report quoted you as follows:

“I knew Mr Ajay and there are many people that we all know, and many get involved in wrongdoing and knowing a person doesn’t make you complicit in their wrongdoing if they are involved in wrongdoing.”

This strikes a powerful chord with me. An innocent friendship I had was twisted into something ugly. May I share.

I drove some friends to a bank in a powerful, supercharged vehicle. I was delighted to see them comply with health regulations as they pulled on balaclavas and masks. If they had weapons I didn't see them. It was a dangerous neighbourhood anyway.

They returned with bags stuffed with cash. Surely this is normal practice for business people making a withdrawal. I heard of a similar method of carrying cash, used by some powerful people in South Africa. Just can't recall the details.

I did see some of the staff lying on the floor while my friends were inside. I assumed that this was one of those new-fangled business things - power naps or Being Present

As we departed, the police came rushing by, sirens blaring. It was near closing time, but I think the siren thing may be abuse of state equipment.

Ludicrous stories about my involvement in a bank robbery circulated later. Hurtful and bewildering. So easy to be caught in a web of suspicion and speculation. Sir, I empathise.

It is not necessarily true that if one lies down with dogs, one wakes with fleas. Sometimes one wakes with ticks, er,  sorry, that's not where I was going. I'm sure you catch my drift anyway.

Yours in the struggle against cynicism.

Richard 

Tips for the blogger gratefully accepted 

Capitec Bank, South Africa  

1378565477

O Tichmann 

+27 833970723

48 Weeks

 In a TV series called 48 Hours, American detectives set about trying to solve murders, or at least get leads, within a 48 hour window.

It's hard, patient slog. Interviewing potential 

witnesses, using science and technology, piecing the evidence together, following leads. I admire their persistence, dogged determination and work ethic. No nuclear physics or magic there.

Imagine a similar series in South Africa. 48 Weeks would be a good working title.

Week1

We meet detectives Tom, Dick and Harry hard at work. Picking their way through the pieces, they finally lay bare the bones of the KFC meal. 

'My ten years of experience tell me that there's a strong possibility of foul play."

 

Sergeant Dick lays out the 200 semi-automatic shells on the table.

"Clearly the shooter or shooters were SANDF - trained."

Detectives Tom and Harry raise quizzical eyebrows.

"200 Shots. Not one hits the target. The man died of a heart attack."

Week 13

We find the detectives working methodically at a Nandos meal. 

"Any progress, guys?"

"Yes. Our stolen vehicle's been found. Just the docket missing."

Week 26

"What have we got, guys?"

"A mutton bunny from Gora's."

"No, on the case "

" No-one's come forward to confess yet. Our only witness has moved to Zimbabwe. Harry's out on the decuplet case."

Week 36

Still working doggedly, our detectives have unravelled the mystery of what's at the bottom of the tightly stuffed kotas.

"Good news. We got the ballistics report. It was a semi-automatic. Only a few thousand in the country. The docket turned up in a bin. Just needs some cleaning up. Any luck with the decuplets, Harry?"

Shake of the head. 

Week 48

"Don't give up lads. Something will come up. The good news is that I'm off on leave tomorrow. Hang in there. Pass the chips."

Pushing Garbage

 Are advertisers dumb? Or do they, like many politicians, assume that we are dumb? The garbage from both parties seems to come from the same kitchen.

Still, fun to ponder on if you need an escape from the ANC / EFF / Whats Their Name reality show (the one that makes the Kardashians look like intellectual giants).

If we go by the ads, most of South Africa's problems can be solved by certain brands of bread, booze and over - the - counter pharmaceuticals. Still, I'm willing to give it a shot. I'll bring some loaves to the next EFF or MKMVA march. And some KFC.

 

'Do you own your skin?', asks one ad. I thought I did, until the question came up. At least on a three score and ten year lease. Is this also covered by Expropriation Without Compensation? Apparently my skin determines how courageous and loving I am. And here I was thinking I might be lacking in moral fibre. It's just a skin problem. Slap on some lotion and bingo! Please send crates to all South African politicians and civil servants.

 "Have you ever been turned down for a funeral?" read one on Facebook. 

Well, that's a bit difficult to answer. I haven't had need of one - yet. It's going to be harder to answer when I do need one. I don't think it will be my problem anyway.

How about some gritty, relevant ads that reflect our reality.

Here's an example:

Camera lingers on Fred, enjoying a sundowner on his porch, lovingly stroking the shiny, metallic surface of his new acquisition. Voice over:

'Are you afraid that your ten foot electrified fence and pack of Dobermans won't keep you safe? Fear no more. The Gatling 20M will shred everything within a hundred square metres."

 

"I used to fear the Gauteng sunsets." Fred smiles. "No more."

Fires a practice burst.

 "Cheers."

Now that's a realistic advertisement.

Whatever Happened To Baby Jane...and Baby Joe and...

 I am with Piet Rampedi.

The simple truth is that, in South Africa, things disappear. Millions, billions and trillions disappear. Police dockets disappear. An air - walking pastor disappears. A friend's first pension payout disappeared. Grown criminals disappear. At the Zondo Commission memory disappears. What is so unusual about ten babies disappearing?

Once more, the deceitful WMC press tries to distract us. Instead of focusing on the real issue, they denigrate Mr Rampedi. The real issue, of course, is: what is causing the mysterious disappearences? The possibilities are many. I would cast an eye in the general direction of Stellenbosch. A veritable viper's nest of strange and unnatural activities, according to my sources in the RET (no, not that RET; the Relevant Events Trackers) WhatsApp group. Pravin Gordhan, that shadowy manipulator, would be a person of interest too.

Mr Rampedi has been accused of lowering journalistic standards. Not possible. That was done long ago. Just watch certain TV stations and peruse back issues of some newspapers. At any rate, this was as good a story as any I've read in my favourite zombie and tokoloshe hunting publication. A story pregnant with possibilities.

Cynics may ask why the journalist didn't see the babies first. Here's the perfectly reasonable answer, quoted from a news report.

' “In our cultural beliefs, babies and pregnancies are very fragile things. We usually don’t like focusing [on] and disclosing such things, especially now that these babies are premature and still in incubators,” Mathapelo told local broadcaster Enca at the time, when the news anchor asked her when the world would get to see the babies.'

And now, see what's happened. They were right to be cautious.

Bushiri

 Dear Shepherd Bushiri 

With today being Sunday, my mind gravitated to matters spiritual. 

I'm trying to choose between you and Brother Alph Lukau. Tough choice. Bro Alph has brought at least one person back from the other side. He shattered the myth that you only live once.

You apparently claimed that you can walk on air. Is that how you evaded the South African authorities? South African Airways could have benefited from your expertise. Some cynics maintain that evading the South African police falls far short of the miraculous. I believe you. if I owned four private planes and other expensive goodies, I'd also be walking on air. Just curious as to how you deal with turbulence.

Some say that you are a wolf in shepherd's clothes. Still, there's clear evidence of the miraculous at work. Charges of rape, fraud and other less than sheperdly doings follow you. Yet thousands of followers pour their hard-earned cash into your miraculous enterprises. And hang on to your every syllable. I struggle to gain a hundred followers on Twitter. 

In an interview, you blamed racism for negative comments and perceptions. That's a new one.

ECG is an interesting acronym for your church. What would an ecg test reveal about its spiritual heart? No doubt the finances are healthy. You should consider just calling your cul..., sorry, brand of faith 'Bushiri'. It's all about you. Echoes of the Japanese bushido code. You are, after all, a sort of mystic ninja.

Yours in the spiritual struggle. 

Richard 

Tips for the blogger gratefully accepted 

Capitec Bank, South Africa  

1378565477

O Tichmann 

+27 833970723

Pap

I understand how the Pan African Parliament got the name 'pap'.

I listened to a radio broadcast of the proceedings. A cacophony; swearing, yells in several languages - sounds of the average shebeen in full Friday night swing.

'Let me explain how we got here', said the reporter. No need, madam. It is the familiar 'tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying', in the elegant phrasing of our own parliamentarians, 'fokol'.

The same happens at the AU, we were told. That's alright then. Comforting. I learnt that the pap is an organ of the AU. If the AU were a person, it would probably be an organ situated somewhere to the rear. Judging by the sounds.

The previous chairman, according to our reporter, wanted to continue his influence through his chosen one. 'He wants to rule from the grave.' Mr Malema could probably help him with that.

The uproar seemed to centre on getting a clerk to read a letter. What horrendous challenges the politicians face on this continent. They need our prayers.

Also influencing from the grave were those omnipresent colonialists. We were told that language and colonialism influenced voting. The French speaking bloc sticks together. As does the English speaking bloc. You just can't keep a dead colonialist down.

Throughout the bedlam, a lone voice called out repeatedly: "Call the police."

Hugo, bel die polisie.

If - The Looters' Version

 Free translation from Rudyard Kipling's 'If'

If you can keep your loot when all about you   

 

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust the Cause when all men doubt it,

 But do some spinning for their doubting too;   

If you can take and not be tired by taking,

 Or being criticized, don’t give a toss,

Or being hated, don’t give way to doubt,

And keep on looking  good, and talking wise:

If you can dream—and turn your dreams to moolah ;   

 If you can think—and not let that distract you;   

If you can meet commissions and investigations

And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the stuff you've  spoken

Twisted by lawyers to make a trap for you,

Or watch the things you gave your life to get attached,

And stoop and build ’em up with tenders new:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

 And risk it on some nifty German cars,

And lose, and start again on a new tender

 And never breathe a word about your boss;

If you can charm your cronies and constituents 

To serve your turn long after they are done,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in them

Except the Lie which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and know your slogans,   

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the sticky touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

Simply because you know too much,

If all men count with you, but mostly those with bucks;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of looting done,   

Yours is this land and everything that’s in it,   

And—which is more—you’ll be a party Man, my son!

Tips for the blogger gratefully accepted 

Capitec Bank, South Africa  

1378565477

O Tichmann 

+27 833970723