Red Rioting Hood and Friends

Little Red Rioting Hood and friends lived on  the edge of a beautiful green forest.

The forest was looking rather tattered lately. Woodcutters  had wreaked havoc, cutting  and selling the majestic, old trees for firewood. With the profits they  bought all the essentials one needs for a modest life: luxury German  cars, fancy houses and expensive watches. When people  complained, they flashed valid permits and tender documents. Anyway, they said, a regular, thorough pruning with chainsaws was good for the forest,

"Where else will you get fuel for your cooking? Wind turbines?"

"And besides, we donate, out of the goodness of our cholesterol clogged hearts, wood chips and sawdust  to our poorer people to power their ice cream  businesses."

While Little Red lived in a sprawling house and dined on dainties,  friends lived in hastily erected shacks and lived on magwinyas, whose price kept rising. But the friends loved the little hood dearly.

"She speaks so nicely and promises all those good things.  One day we will drive out all the wolves and this beautiful,  green forest will be ours - even if we have to burn it down first,"

The wolves were of every description: fat wolves, not - so - fat wolves, growlers squeakers and howlers.  This really, really annoyed little Red. Some wolves she said did not belong. They should return to the northern forests or pay handsome arrears-rental. To whom, she omitted to mention.

What annoyed her most was that the wolves claimed to be the guardians of the forest. Worse still, they claimed to be grandma's best friends and protectors.

"We took care of grandma when you were still a little Red pipsqueak. 

Now you're nothing but a big talking pipsqueak."

Now Grandma lived on the other side of the forest, just about getting by on a state pension. Her once fine house had seen better days. She often had baked beans, (from a nearby spaza shop), on toast between pension paydays. The wolves, woodcutters and the Hood WhatsApp group all claimed to care dearly about her but her gaunt frame and persistent cough told a different tale. Only a few kindly neighbours ever did practical things for grandma but the wolves, the woodcutters and the hoodsters snarled at them to mind their own business.

Grandma sighed.

If only they would all leave her in peace to do her knitting and baking, have an occasional gin (the prices were pretty much beyond her pension pay grade), watch Durban Gen, Man United and the Sharks.

But it was not to be,  for all had heard the rumour that grandma actually had a substantial amount tucked away in VBS and other banks.

Little Hood arose in a foul humour one morning. Her favourite Gucci store had been closed by protests.

"Enough",  she said.

"Those damned wolves are raiding Grandma's cupboards and filling her head with capitalist, colonialist nonsense. It is the month of March, ideal for marching, and we shall march to Grandma's. She filled a basket with delicious baked goodies: Pan-African pie,  promise puffs,  dialectical delicacies and revolutionary red velvet cake.  All light, fluffy and airy. The aroma filled the forest, reaching even to Grandma's house,  though she couldn't quute tell what it was and whether she liked it or not. The friends of hood cheered,  danced and urina..., pardon, ululated.

But the wolves and woodcutters disapproved.

"How dare you feed Grandma that unhealthy, sickly sweet stuff? Do you have any idea how many grandmas are seriously ill from feeding on that junk?

And the last time you lot marched through the forest, you burned whole swathes. urinated and worse on the pathways."

"Nonsense!" retorted the hoodster.

"The forest and the future belong to us. You are irrelevant."

'Irrelevant', a word she'd learnt recently at school, was one of Little Red's favourites. Almost as good  as 'revolutionary'. (She struggled a bit with the letter 'r', being still so little).

"Irrelevant!" The wolves huffed and puffed indignantly.

"Wrong story", said the little hood. "And you can't blow my house down.  it's made of wevolutionary materials donated by friends of the wevolution." 

So the arguments raged back and forth. The forest rang and echoed with howls, yelps, high pitched, girlish shrieks, barks and what sounded suspiciously like great, booming brain farts.

Grandma sighed and returned to her knitting.

 

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EFFU

Dear Mr Malema 

I have formed a party called EFFU. 

I am writing to confirm that you have no objection to the  coincidental, passing resemblance to your own outfit's name. After all, the U makes all the difference, just as it does in service to the people. As a humble, dedicated, self-effacing servant of the nation, you know this.

 

The Elderly Fascist Fighters United party will fight for rights and recognition for senior citizens. This excludes the many in parliament, who are already fairly well catered for in terms of basic needs (A couple of cars, houses, free transportation, KFC etc.).

Senior citizens have  long endured neglectful and callous treatment from fat cat politicians, uncivil servants and uncaring businesses.  For but one example,  I refer you to queues for pensions, medical treatment and government 'services'. They are on the 

receiving end of 'the proud man's contumely, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes' (thanks Bill). You

may have heard of the VBS saga. No? I shall send you some Pauli van Wyk articles.  A caution: I am not sure that she isn't one of those Stratcom journalists under the spell of George Soros and the tobacco fellow (not Mazzotti; the Stellenbosch chap).

There is already feverish interest in the party from senior citizens and a smattering of illegal immigrants. There will be no marching for our party.  Queues at such models of service excellence as Home Affairs are hard enough on legs and knees. Tai Chi sessions in public parks, with the odd shouted slogan will nicely discharge our PR obligations. For the rest, what the hell is social media for? If not for an hour such as this.  Who knows, after 20 March your ground forces, too,  might wish to consider this approach.

 

Sir, as one whose  powerful party has danced aloft the heights of 0.7 and almost 5 percent in recent polls, your guidance in some matters would be appreciated. 

We do already know about the power of  promises that you can't keep..., sorry, renege on, made to desperate people. We've read the histories of various  politicians from the 1930s. We are more  interested in the following:

Will our MPs be able to maintain a lifestyle like yours on their  salaries or will they need side hustled such as tenders?

How do you survive those intriguing encounters with court-related matters?

Who knows when one, in the performance of duties, may need to jostle a police officer, without any malign intent? Or to fire off a toy AK47 in innocent celebration? 

Your colourful pronouncements never land you in hot water. I was once sued for calling someone a pig - the swine! Your secret, sir? You have a fine line in insults. I see that you do draw the line at the C-word. Dare I mention it - 'cockroach'. Quite right. They are revolting creatures, revelling in muck and feeding off us.

Your answers to these frequently asked questions will be invaluable to our fledgling party, as we strive to advance the cause of the disadvantaged.

Yours in the struggle for peaceful democratic discourse within the rule of law.

Richard 

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Julius and the Ides of March

Dear Mr Malema 

A friend called you a rotund, little, Gucci-wearing, quasi-communist thug. I was outraged. Too many adjectives in one sentence. I defended you of course, pointing out that you are  neither rotund nor little.

I then marched on his braai in righteous indignation, demanding an apology, which came  in the form of a medium-rare steak. Pretty much as we dealt with those counterrevolutinaries at Clicks.

Sir, I was in the full flow of preparation for Monday's historic march. My red 

ensemble was neatly  pressed,  beret ready to be worn at a jaunty angle. The very model of a modern red-breasted revolutionary (apologies to Gilbert and the other bloke). Then disaster struck. I  pulled a tendon, during one of those 

 knees-ups while practice-marching to the nearest spaza with pamphlets.

Just as you were once willing to kill and / or die for His Former Excellency, Zuma, (before the falling out, followed by reconciliation over Earl Grey and Romany Creams), so am I prepared for the ultimate sacrifice for the Cause. Despite crippling, fiery shafts of pain, I shall watch the entire thing on TV news. 

Naturally, I am prepared to forego  a whole day's pay. I am unemployed but it's the principle....

As a committed soldier of the revolution, I was mentally prepared to respond to looting and any of the ill disciplined behaviour that is anathema to our glorious movement. Alas, I must watch from a distance. Nevertheless, I am certain that racists, colonialists  (colonial clerks included) and other WMC types are quaking in fear. Did we not give a glimpse of our power and potential in recent by-election victories? From the promising 0.47 percent in the Western Cape to the soaring 4.16 percent in the  Eastern Cape. Truly, a juggernaut on the move.

My CIC, a word of advice. I still recall the image of that red beret, lying forlorn on the brackish soil of Brackenfell. Shall we give those environs a miss? I am also scrolling through Twitter.  I intend to  identify areas where right wingers with intentions not as pure and peaceful as ours are spewing out veiled and unveiled threats. Most disturbing and unsettling behaviour but then what can one

expect of those who don't have the maturity and calm wisdom that sets our Movement apart? I shall send a list of areas of concern.

Incidentally, during that conciliatory high tea with Mr Zuma, I imagine that you fell upon each other's necks as Jacob and Esau did, with protestations of undying love and loyalty. The only thing that I love more than such moments of drama and tenderness, is your exemplary display of consistency. 

Despite excruciating agony I shall be watching with interest and enthusiasm, revolutionary songs on my lips, revolutionary beverage in hand.

I rest secure in the knowledge that Ramaphosa will be herding Ankoles in short order. Loadshedding will be at level zero. South Africans will stream into Zimbabwe, Malawi, Lesotho and other sister countries in Mater Africa and vice- versa (with some vice included). 'And all will be well and all manner of things will be well'.

And they lived happily ever after upon the borderless continent of brotherhood and love.

Yours in the struggle for the Cause and branded stuff.

Richard 

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New Dawn

 A new dawn. 

AK47 fire announces the start of a new day. In Durban, not Ukraine. Drug wars, they say. But two innocent bystanders are among the five people killed in the last month or so.

Mr Cele did not fly in. I don't know if the killings made the mainstream news or not. Probably not. None of the victims were celebrities, just people living ordinary lives in the south of Durban. 

Perhaps these killings didn't meet the criteria for pious displays of righteous indignation at media conferences.

In other news, a nurse attacks an  ' ambulance with a panga during a health workers' strike. Strikers attempt to pull a child on life support out of the ambulance. A striker is quoted:

"We don't care if patients die."

Let us be clear that none of these people belong within a mile of healthcare. Nor in society. In a normal society, they would reap the just consequences for savagery. Here, they will surely go on and God help those who fall into their tender mercies in hospitals and clinics.

Upon the heads of union leaders and our government is the blood and the suffering. Callous, criminal behaviour did not start yesterday. When there are no consequences for thuggery, the thugs need no further encouragement. That is where it began. 

You may member the New York Police Department's approach: fix the broken windows, deal with petty misdemeanours. so that the environment does not encourage crime. A simple philosophy: keep the house clean; discourage the cockroaches. My, how we have encouraged the vermin these many years. Not least by example from the very top. There have hardly ever been consequences for criminal behaviour during strikes and protests. 'Ag, shame. It's a democratic right to piss on other people's rights." Remember that this is the twenty-first century with Big Brother video and Small Brother android everywhere.

And so, again, some animals are more equal before the law than others. Test this by smashing a shop window or burning something on your next stroll through town. Through the consenting silence down the years, the unacceptable became standard. Now, the atrocious is commonplace. As you sow....

What says our president?

 

"As I said in the State of the Nation Address, the Presidency and National Treasury will work together to rationalise government departments, entities and programmes over the next three years.

This work – which will review the role of all departments, including the Department of Public Enterprises – will inform the configuration of government going into the next administration"

Vague enough to mean anything and nothing,

I  would have liked to hear this speech: 

"We are in deep shit in every sphere -except tax revenue collection  Every one of my ministers will be moving their behinds  as if the place were on fire - which it is. We will have achieved the following by these dates...Any behinds not moving at pace and with purpose will he kicked into touch."

But I am sure that you will operationalise the strategies emanating from various think tanks, coalescing blue sky thinking with pragmatic approaches and best practice methodologies employed globally in the simmering and poaching of amphibians. Or something.

God bless South Africa 

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Baas Op Die Plaas

 Dear ANC and Friends

Some say that you are a mafia.

That's grossly insulting, grossly unfair. The mafia are amateurs compared to you, if half of what we read about you is true.

SANRAL, the state-owned roads agency, grants a very handsome bridge tender  to a company you may hesitate to contract to build a braai stand. Okay, it was only four billion. There will be cries of 'corruption'. But one can picture them applying their fine minds:

'So they have debt of some 418 million. Finances been described as being in a shambles. Said to be running a defunct company. Hmm, none of that means that they can't build a fine bridge.'

If so, I like the way you think. I myself am in debt, finances in a shambles. But I  

like building bridges. Can we talk sometime?

The bridge saga is just another of the weekly or daily reports from the front where the ANC fights a bloody battle with Corruption (winning, of course). I've seen boxers on the receiving end of a flurry of punches. That's how we feel. 

Please space your shenanigans. We are exhausted. Better still, take whatever's left and bugger off. We'll miss you but oh, the peace. 

More and more people are saying that life was better under apartheid. Of course you can't compare two abominations. 'This genocide was not as bad as that one'.

Under apartheid, people were reminded daily, by the entire fabric of their world, that they were, at best, second class people. The insults, humiliation, brutality gratuitous. Hostage in their own country to vile laws and the whims of vile people. Now, we are held hostage in our own country by the vilest thugs with weapons or smart suits. Now, we are reminded daily that we are, at best, second class denizens of this Animal Farm. And now, as then, notions of decency, compassion and fairness under the law are greeted with guffaws and belches. 

'You're good', says the mafia boss, played by Dr Niro in Analyze That, wagging a forefinger in admiration. You are good. From billion rand projects gone walkabout to state of the art R200 000 wooden mops. Tenders for half stadiums to hospital skinny jeans. 

Smart toilets to high tech taps

So inclusive: politicians, family members. employees, freelancers chancers, guilty bystanders - all feast off the vanishing fat of the land. From the top tiers of government to unknown rural councils, there is fun and frolicking to be had.

And there's your humour:

'The ANC is not corrupt'

'We have done well'

'Renewal'

'Integrity committee'

'Reshuffling'

And so many more brilliant one-liners.

In the words of Tina Turner, You're Simply The Beast, ...sorry, Best.

Yours in the flagging struggle for sanity.

Richard 

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AI: Astounding Intelligence

 Dear Fellow South Africans 

So Mr Cele may become Minister of Intelligence. 

Some compounds cannot be combined without disastrous consequences, says a scientist friend. So it is with this particular compound. I'm puzzled.

Another friend,  who falls into the  Clever Black WhatsApp group  (though I suspect that he's actually a bloody agent), asked with a feigned look of innocence:

"Doesn't intelligence work require demonstrated intelligence?"

I gave him what the classics call a 'withering look'.  He didn't wither.

As an ardent supporter of Mr Cele's innovative approach to policing I reminded him that the Hatman  developed the mp=mc squared theory (more people  = more crime  - the population growth theory). A Nobel prize  winner, if ever I saw one

Of course, SA is awash with rumours 

What with the the dearth of investigative journalism. Our national broadcaster  has found a niche in the fascinating  funeral, tiktok, soccer and ANC public announcements business. Understandably, that leaves no room for the unimportant stuff. One of the most bizarre rumours that I heard recently  is that we have a live president. 

I hope that the intelligence people do better than they did in the July unrest debacle when madam Zuzu (local psychic) and my 12 year old nephew beat them to the punch. So much to investigate, so little time (before we make Zimbabwe look like the uhuru of democracy and clean government by comparison).

There are allegations that one of the most senior ANC people has been involved in shenanigans that would make a hardened mafia boss scurry to the confessional in fear for his mortal soul. There are stories of fraud, looting, corruption and murder that would make the sparse hairs on the head of Semion Mogilevich stand on end. I'm not sure that even Hatman, The Daft Crusader, with his cutting edge approach to crime fighting, would cut it here. Did I just say 'Daft Crusader'? Sorry, damned WMC manufactured keyboards! 

I've met some very angry people recently. The growing darkness of the New Dusk is taking its toll. A clerk at an internet cafe gave me such a fierce look when I enquired about services that I felt compelled to explain that I had no dealings with Eskom crime cartels. She then fixed me with a glare and I hurriedly went on to explain that I didn't know the Guptas either. She seemed mollified.

There is no doubt that we need superb intelligence services. In the police and elsewhere. But this rumoured appointment  - Eish!

Yours in the struggle to overcome this sinking sensation.

Richard 

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The Clothes Off Our Backs

 Dear Mr Cele 

Two South African businessmen walk gingerly down a steaming, hot Durban sidewalk in their Calvin Klein undies (shorts, for our American friends).

"They got you too, Mark", says one, briefcase arm dangling uselessly.

"Took my bloody cricket tie, too", Mark mumbles disconsolately.

"At least they left you your socks. Sodding pavement burns like a stove".

Mark fishes a water bottle out of his Calvins. 

"They missed this", he says brightening a little. "Congratulated me on being so well, er, you know..."

His companion politely declines the proffered drink.

You read it here first. The next trending criminal fad. And who do you have to thank,  jingled the merry advert. After public funds, cash in transit, cellphones, pensioners' pittances and even solar panels off roofs, what will be left to steal but the clothes off people's backs? Clothes in Transit heists. But be of good cheer, we do know who is ultimately responsible  - WMC, Stratcom, apartheid and that old devil in Dutch garb, Jan Van Frigging Riebeeck. I'm sure that the EFF will be laying a charge at the nearest, unrobbed police station.

Just last night, our local library was robbed of every computer used by students and others. I don't have to tell you what the chances are of their being replaced anytime soon. Or of the thieves being collared. Rocket Boy will stop playing with his toys first. The only things left to consider were:

1 Why would they leave such great titles as Think And Grow Rich, Gangster State and Jacob Zuma Speaks?

2  Good of the librarians not to deprive us of that 'Aha' moment, as we surveyed the devastation in the computer room. A word or written notice at the entrance would have utterly ruined that delightful moment. A fascinating aspect of South African service, this variation on caveat emptor  - 'let the customer guess'. I once spent a day and a night at a bus stop, because the municipality didn't want to ruin the surprise by posting bus times. Okay, that is a slight exaggeration. Like saying that the ANC is corrupt through and through.

3 Was the municipality too cheap to install burglar bars and an alarm system?

I feel embarrassed for you, Mr Cele. Juxtapose this City of Gotham-like mayhem against the viral pictures and videos of our police officers in various states of sweet repose. You must be sitting bolt upright at midnight, huge, crazy, cartoon eyes staring into the darkness. Or when your finest confuse cyanide and sinusitis, though that confusion is somewhat understandable. I knew a chap who had severe sinusitis. Identical symptoms to cyanide poisoning: difficulty breathing, seizures, unconsciousness - all except the cardiac arrest. That happened when he was hijacked for the third time, outside a police station. Rest, sir. Leave it to some tough, experienced policeman. Sweet though your theories were about tattoos, alcohol, gqom music and population growth, they mean stuff-all with a big F in the real, cruel, savage world that is South Africa today. You are bewildered and overwhelmed. We understand. It's tough here for a philosopher-celebrity-fashionista. Let us quote to you the comforting words of the bard:

"Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages"

And bloody good wages they are too, for jetting around the country, dispensing other-worldly wisdom.

Sir, pardon me for adapting a quote from a plum-in-mouth neocolonialist:

"This is not Little-Puddling On The Marsh."

This is bloody, bloody South Africa. And it's getting worse. This for you and  many, many of your comrades, to quote another of those hated Brits:

You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. In the name of God, go.

Yours in the struggle to awake from sweet slumber.

Richard 

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O Tichmann 

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