Lady Macbeth

Dear Dudu

I think it's wrong that some people call you Lady Macbeth. Cruel flattery, I call it.

Lady Macbeth had some class. She also had real power and influence.  I do see you doing the 'eye of newt and toe of frog' thing. Dark, sinister tweets flying like bats out of the pot you stir so diligently. I'm baffled as to where the comparison comes from. It couldn't be the overweening ambition and ruthlessness, could it? It's the right play but a somewhat smaller role. Still, an interesting and significant part. Perhaps you could also warn your  Macbeth of things to come.

Lady Macbeth had an attack of conscience.  Do you see yourself wandering distractedly around the fire pool, wringing your delicate hands? 'Not all the perfumes of Dubai will sweeten this little hand.'  Shall we wait?

You will be delighted to know that some lines from Macbeth do seem quite appropriate (apologies for hacking them out of context):

A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And  then is heard no more...

..full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing.

You cannot expect much more when all you sow are seeds of hatred and schadenfreude. It's a poor, pathetic crop.

There's more to life.

Yours in the struggle to distinguish clearly between light and darkness, truth and the Big Lie.

Richard 

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More South African Nursery Rhymes

 More relevant, revolutionary nursery rhymes:

Mary Had A Little Lamb

Mary had a little lamb

She thought it tasted swell

She did a dozen cows as well

From friends she had in town

And a hundred cans of soda

To wash the whole lot down

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sits on the wall

With taxes and tenders having a ball

Humpty you're overdue for a fall

And all the horse dung and all the bull

Will never put you together again

Hey Diddle, Diddle

Hey diddle diddle

Someone did a fiddle

At a bank of ill repute

A whole bunch of folks joined in the fun

And some cats ran away with the loot

Little Jack Cadre 

Little Jack Cadre

Said "Aikhona,

I need some tender pie"

He put out his thumb

Lifted a plum

And said "How clever am I"

Jingle Bells 

Dashing to and fro

Bodyguards in tow

O'er the land we go

Gabbling all the way

Jingle bells, jingle bells, bulldust all the way

Oh, what fun it is

To run a country to the ground

Hickory Dickory Dock

Hickory, dickory, dock

We're running out of time

When the clock strikes one

My friends we're done

Hickory, dickory dock

Hickory, dickory, dock

The mice run down the clock

The rest of us watch

And all we do

Is shout 'Ag, nee, f..k'.

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Parliament Is Burning Down, Old MacBison And Other Favourites

Sick of politics? Some nice, relevant nursery rhymes to lull you to sleep.

Old MacBison Had A Farm

Old MacBison had a farm

Yoh, yoh, yoh, yoh, yoh

And on that farm he had some buck

Yoh, yoh, yoh, yoh, yoh

With a ten note here and a C note there

Here a buck there a buck

Everywhere a buck

Old MacBison had a farm

Parliament Is Burning Down 

Parliament is burning down 

Burning down, burning down

Parliament is burning down 

My Good Lady

Put the sprinklers on again 

On again, on again

Put the sprinklers on again 

My Good Lady 

Baba, Baba, Have You Any Bull?

Baba, Baba, have you any bull?

Yebo, yebo a whole kraal full,

Some for my family,

Some for my friends

And lots for the gullible

Who live in the land

Twinkle, Twinkle Lights So Blue

Twinkle, twinkle lights so blue

Wonder where you're racing to

Relax, you've effed up all the best 

Time enough to do the rest

Twinkle, twinkle lights so blue 

Petrol prices don't faze you

Up above the rest so high

Who says dodos cannot fly?

I'm A Big Minister

I'm a big minister 

See my hat

Criminals quake when they see me pout

When I get steamed up

Hear me shout

"Shut up, shut up

Throw him out!"

Here We Go Round The Same Old Bush

Here we go round the same old bush

Crooks and clowns

Fat in the tush

Here we go round the same old bush 

Every Mzansi morning

This is the way we ruin our land

Crooks and clowns

A merry, fat band

This is the way we lost our land

Sleeping every morning 

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Sorry, Mr Zuma

 Dear Mr Zuma

Your supporters tweeted recently: "Sorry, Mr Zuma". It was a clutch of tweets, all on the same day, many on the same thread.  Spontaneous, obviously. 

It was as if a revival had swept through the cul...,I mean, the congregation, like a purifying fire. Such an  outpouring of sorrow, remorse and grief . All of South Africa was moved. I was. I threw up three times. I could picture the penitents, all in sackloth, weeping among the ashes and rending their garments. And a great sound of mourning arose in the land (apologies to writers of old).

 

I too, Mr Zuma, am sorry. I am sorry that your deeply desired day in court has been  delayed by mysterious illnesses, unsuitable prosecutors and perhaps the movements of planets. I am sorry that friendship got in way of commission appearances. Your first was a classic, complete with tales of spies and treachery in high places. Perhaps a foretaste of the beans you hinted at spilling? A spicy bean hors d' oeuvre. If so, we are In for a thrilling ride.

I am sorry, too, that you didn't get to prove that prison holds no fears for a martyr of the revolution. Ill health struck again. The good news is that you may yet have another opportunity. Did I see some clips of you dancing after your release? You and Mr Shaik inspire me - golfing and dancing in the valley of the shadow of death.

On that note, I am sorry that your dexterous dancing, sonorous singing and lusty laugh no longer brighten our days and lighten our hearts. A loss to the great South African tradition of political bullsh...I mean busking.

I am sorry too,  that the interesting and innovative appointments in Treasury and the Security Cluster did not stand. It was a fascinating experiment that could have turned staffing and HR principles on their head. For too long, we have paid obesiance to eurocentrc notions about qualifications, track record and experience.

I am deeply sorry about the reams of evidence and hours of testimony about your interesting endeavours. All concocted, we are told, by spies, WMC minions and other thoroughly disreputable, treacherous, villainous types. Sounds reasonable. Sir, this persecution of a great leader and faithful servant of the people is...not nice. It has parallels  with the relentless persecution of that other great leader in the US. Obviously WMC waxes fat in its wickedness there too. Is there no rest for the righteous? 

Nevertheless sir be of good cheer. The truth will out.

Yours in the struggle for truth, respect and genuine repentance.

Richard 

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By Any Other Name

 Dear Fellow South Africans 

I strolled down one of our newly renamed streets. Waves of pride and a renewed sense of self-worth drowned out the rumbling of my stomach.

"Why aren't you guys focusing on jobs, housing, education and so on?" a friend asked recently.

"You don't understand how much it hurt to walk down West Street and be reminded of the indignities and humiliation associated with the word 'West'. We are restoring our pride and dignity", I replied.

"But don't those things come from having work, opportunity, hope etc?"

I glared at him as scornfully as they do in the classics.

"You," I retorted, "Really need to get your priorities right". 

I have often felt like dancing for joy at the sight of new street and city names. Indeed, were it not for fear of people seeing the hole in my left shoe,  I'd show my Step Aside dance moves.

My dumb friend continued:

"The house is burning down. You guys are more concerned with hanging out a new name sign instead of putting out the fire."

Then, with a sarcastic grin:

"At leat the ashes will have a revolutionary, new name."

Bloody foreigners with their white tendencies and neo-colonialist attitudes. They really don't understand our unique struggle here on the southern tip of this great continent.

I had had enough. Drawing myself up to my full five feet and seven inches, I solemnly intoned the inspirational  words of one of our great leaders:

"Go out, bastard. Bloody agent".

He went out.

Yours in the struggle to rename the rose.

Richard 

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Sofas, Cash and Mysteries

 Dear Mr Fraser

Your steely gaze from the pages of various newspapers seems to reflect the determination of a bulldog with a liberal dash of bloodhound. One that will not relent until its fangs are firmly lodged in the fleshy depths of the intended target's backside.

I am sure that you also pat little children on the head and feed stray cats. Your concern for justice, righteousness and truth must be evident to anyone who visits the correct news outlets.

Your time in London was clearly not wasted. No treasures buried in the depths of sofas or mattresses can evade your X- ray-like scrutiny. Did you sit at the feet of MI5, MI6 or some other alphaneumerically named organization?

Sir, those skills must not be wasted. South Africa needs you.  The wheels of justice are grinding excruciatingly slowly. There are mysteries galore to be solved. Scores of dark deeds to be dragged into the bright Mzansi sunlight. Let me mention but a few.

Truckloads of cash are alleged to have been moved by our security cluster to destinations as yet unknown. There are stories of ministers romping around the globe like Peter Pan on speed. The financing of said romps is of interest. So much unfinished business.

I am particularly interested in three intriguing stories. The first is that a gentleman did one of those sell-your-soul deals with a bunch of devils. Spicy details involve delicious curries, bags of cash and friends with benefits. Then there's the alleged rape of the treasury and the security clusters. You might already know something about the latter. The third story involves the allegedly premature, slightly dodgy, ill-considered release from custody of the gentleman mentioned earlier. I bet you can't wait to get your teeth into that one.

Just imagine them all as metaphorical sofas, fat and bulging with cash in a variety of denominations. South Africa expects you to do your duty.

Yours in the struggle to track down all who have, in the words of Horatio (Hamlet)  uphoarded in their lives extorted treasure in the womb of earth.

Richard

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A Fistful Of Dollars

Dear Mr Malema 

I had a jam jar full of cash buried near a lemon tree in the garden. It was stolen recently by a casual gardener.

Why did I keep such a large sum of cash? I do not trust banks. Remember VBS?  I have to pay a fee for depositing money. It's like paying a cover charge for entering Pick ' 'n Pay. Bank charges far exceed any interest I make. It's possible that Mr Ramaphosa faced similar challenges.

I did not report the theft to the police for several reasons. I doubt that even our superb, bloodhound-like detectives can crack this case. The only clue is a jam jar sized hole in the garden. In addition, the police station was being robbed by armed men at the time that I went to report. I thought it best to return later. Then I realized that I really don't care about the money, though I could use the jam jar. My bank and SARS also took money from me. Their methods, rates and the use of my hard-earned money may border on the dubious (or perhaps even crawl under that border fence). I did not report them either.

Mr Malema, let me point out a few salient facts. 

1. There was nothing underhand in my method or intentions (underground, yes). It wasn't something grubby like hiding cash in a mattress.

2. My approach was comparable to the fine traditions of banks such as VBS. I choose them at random.

3. The money was honestly earned from the sale of wild plants. A neighbour with a keen interest in botany spotted them in my garden. The slender leaves and distinctive scent caught his interest and he and his botanist friends made many purchases. I think they had herbal remedies in mind.

You have demanded that the president step down with immediate effect or suffer the same fate as Mr Zuma. I would hate to suffer the same fate as Mr Zuma: having tea with you, selling books from a car boot, dancing... The man looks a shadow of his former, jovial self. You did a number on him.

I am, therefore resigning, with immediate effect, from the following organisations:

The Wentworth Gardening Association 

The Bluff Bingo Club

The Beer And Literature Society, Durban South

I hope, hereby, to avert and avoid your fearsome wrath. A friend from Brackenfell warned me.

Yours in the struggle to dig up the buried truth.

Richard

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O Tichmann 

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