In The Name Of Freedom

Dear Fellow South Africans 

 I thank the ANC and Mr Mnangagwa of Zimbabwe. I have been wrestling with problems of horrific debt and everything else that makes South Africa no country for old men - or anyone else who is not an ANC cadre or politicopreneur.

 I have adopted their novel, courageous approach to facing down the elephants in the room. I have renamed myself and my dogs. My street comes next. 'Fir Avenue' reeks of all things colonial. White Christmases, large, red jacketed men on reindeer - drawn sleighs and other hateful reminders of our colonial past. I removed the garden gnome  - another bearded white person. I was about to throw out the refrigerator when I spotted a half-dozen Castles and a wedge of cheese in it. I renamed it instead. 

 I have written to all my creditors, pointing out that usury is quintessentially a foreign, colonial invention. I have asked them to join me in breaking the chains so that we both may be free at last. 

 This is not solely about me and my struggles. I have drawn up a list of helpful renaming suggestions for our leaders. One example: William Nicol to William Nick All. In line with our culture. Easy and less confusing to adapt to.

 Complementing that patriotic initiative, I am careful about appropriate education for the kids. No Ali Baba And The Forty Thieves for them. Baba And The Forty Thousand Thieves is far more culturally correct for our part of the world.

 I do my part. 

 Yours in the struggle to rename our way to peace and prosperity.

 Richard

Trump, Zille, All Atwitter

Dear Mr Trump 

I voted for you in the last election. My vote was discounted on the flimsy justification that I am South African. Damned Democrats. I wear American clothes, eat KFC, use American Express and drink Starbucks coffee (in great quantities). I am going to try an online vote this time and we hope to carry you into the house as the comrades carried Tony Yengeni into the other house.

 Be that as it may. I read some years ago that you and Ms Zille may be addicted to / enslaved by Twitter ('verslaaf' was the Afrikaans word used). As one who keeps himself pure and aloof from the fleshly temptations of the cyberworld, I offer this. I have long suspected that Twitter and other social media are the infernal tools of the enemy of mankind. One hears of such sinister things as trolls, bots and 'Twitter gaol'. What next? Twitter executions?

 Sir, I have noticed that your ran...sorry....tweets have become increasingly numerous and, er, weighty. I fear that World War Three may be triggered by Twitter activity. Perhaps even fought on Twitter. You seem to be making strides in that direction. Ms Zille, in contrast, has been relatively restrained of late, I think. It may be that she has been taking the cure I am about to offer you.

 If you can see your way clear to a sponsored visit, I can offer you a case of quality mampoer. It's been known to awake people from a deep coma. Some rooibos, videos of famous Springbok rugby victories (the Bafana video went missing) and a five minute video entitled 'Wise Words Of South African Politicians' complete the cure. A pleasant, painless rehabilitation programme.

 A White House tour and a brief chat on foreign policy (walling techniques etc.) will be adequate compensation. 

Yours in the struggle against human trafficking. 

Richard

Confidence

One of my strengths is being confidently wrong. 

 I almost blew an examination paper once. I'd prepared infinitely better than most of our politicians prepare for their deadly dull speeches. A couple of beers seemed a good idea. For nutritional value. And brain food (ever seen a dumb German?). Looking over a fellow-student's shoulder, I noticed that he was cramming for the next paper. Two students later, I had the sinking feeling that they'd switched the schedule. Well, not really. I'd goofed. A minute of blind panic can stretch to an eternity of contemplating a blank answer sheet. I got Einstein right there. 

 A frustrated schoolmate once answered all the history questions in unique fashion. Who discovered America? Peter Green - his own name. First governor at the Cape? Peter Green. So it went. I can identify with the deep well of frustration there. There was probably an outside chance of one answer being correct.

 Padded up, watching my team mates fall at a social cricket match, I thought: 'Aha, this is simple. Just slog the ball into the great blue yonder'. I proceeded to do just that. But a sudden gust of wind swung my first ball onto the stumps. At least that's what I explained to the pigheaded umpire. He showed me the finger.

 I made the following statements with supreme confidence: 

 Zuma will never be president. 

Trump will never be president. 

Malema will never........ 

I'll make my fortune from writing.

 Nothing wrong with a bit of confidence. Is there?

A Worthy South African Cause

Dear Readers (South Africa, Outer Mongolia etc.) 

 'Struggling Author Auctions Liver' This is my last resort.

 But before that, if you buy my Kindle books,  (Dear Mr Zuma, Dear Mr Malema, Dear Fellow South Africans and South Africa: Stranger Than Fiction) , I faithfully promise to do the following:

 Rescue South African Airways.

 Donate to Charity, my neighbour.

 Open a savings account with VBS Bank, to encourage loot..sorry,,,,long-term survival of BBBEE banking (whatever that may be).

 Start a line of non-discriminatory hair products. 

 Sponsor commercial flights to enable ANC teams to confirm that there is no crisis in Zimbabwe (just your common or garden chaos). 

 Pay the IMF and BRICS debts. 

 Buy drinks at the Saxonworld Shebeen for all purchasers (proof of purchase, residence and existence required). 

 Sponsor Elon Musk's next space project, on condition that he takes out a one page advert in all major newspapers, announcing that he is South African.

 Replace redeployed PRASA infrastructure.

 For the peace of mind of Mr Cele (Minister of Police) and Dr NDZ (Minister of Something), promote the following: 

Authentic tasting alcohol-free booze and sanitizer 

 Authentic tasting marijuana-free zol cigarettes.

 And, wait for it, a grand prize for the 999999th buyer. Yes, cooking lessons with Tito Mboweni (smell the garlic). 

 A worthy cause. 

 Yours in the scuffle. 

 Richard

Far Trek: Captain's Log

Captain's Log 

 We are fully conscious of the significance of our mission for stability, peace and goodwill in the region.

 Our carefully selected team was made up of persons of integrity, wisdom and experience. I commissioned a military aircraft to fly us post-haste to Azanier. Cognizant of the need for speed and, simultaneously, thrift, we saved on precious fuel by using the hot air generated during our deep, philosophical discussions. You could say we were aces high. 

 Contrary to what the WMC media would have us believe, all was light, sunshine, wine and roses in Azanier. There is definitely no crisis here. Nothing to make one's hair stand on end. Joy abounds. People, gaily attired in scarlet, danced in the streets, singing, no doubt, a local version of Kumbaya. 

There were peaceful protests against some product, marred only by a few third force elements. A few accidental fires were started. Local law and order forces showed remarkable restraint. 

Typically, a very few wild-eyed fanatics accused them of not doing their duty. Their sterling performance during the savage battles against tobacco and alcohol smugglers gives this the lie. The disagreement over shaving cream, or something, was settled in admirable, civilized fashion. An exchange of views, vows and gifts. A few citizens were still in a lather. There's no pleasing everyone. 

 As for police brutality, corruption, repression, we saw none of this in our 24 hours on the soil of Azanier. The hotel was excellent, the hospitality outstanding. We recommend the local steak. 

 Our sacred duty done, we returned to Zutopia. 

 James Cuck

 Commander

Try A Little Tendering

To the tune of Try A Little Tenderness 

 You may be weary 

People do get weary 

 Doing the same old dreary thing 

So when you're weary 

 Try a little tendering

 You may be waiting 

 Just anticipating Lotto or some such lucky thing 

And while you're waiting 

 Try a little tendering 

 You may be jealous 

 A little overzealous 

 Waiting for dreams to take wing While you're without them

 Try a little tendering 

 You may be lacking Know - how, skills or moolah 

 In SA that don't mean a thing

 So without blinking

 Try a little tendering 

 Sell sanitizer

 At ten times Appletizer 

Or be a PPE king 

 No wishful thinking 

 Try a little tendering

Heart Of Darkness - SA Advertising

Dear Fellow South Africans

 My 'prophetic soul' long foresaw the shadow that advertisements would cast over the beloved land. This was written in the sunny days of the rule of Msholozi. 

 Heart Of Darkness 

 Call me Deep Throat. I am an advertising man. The courage and dogged determination of our former public protector inspired me to come out of the closet (which was darned uncomfortable anyway) and to move into a flat in hillbrow. I intend to do my part in ripping the veil off the pitted face of our Nation's history. A wise man, the mention of whose name modesty forbids (to quote another wise man) once said: 'those who do not learn the lessons of History are doomed to repeat matric'. 

 Our story unfolds during the dark days of total response to the total onslaught. If you are too young to know the history of such much-loved institutions as the Tricameral Parliament, please Google. It was in the very midnight of that dark and desperate time that I was visited by a pinstriped executive from a well-known manufacturer of washing powder, accompanied by two similarly attired gentlemen. Anxiety was etched upon their well-fed faces. I need to digress here. There was a time when black people appeared in advertisements only as smiling doormen or cleaners. You may think the change was evolutionary. This is how it really happened. In his best Oxford accent, the pinstriped gentleman addressed me. 'Jong', he said.'This whiter-than-white thing is not working. 'Simple', I replied. 'instead of your lady saying: look at these gravy stains, have her saying: look at these kota stains / quantum imprints / stab wound stains. This will speak to your emerging market'. 'Jolly super', he exclaimed, slapping his thigh and one of the flunkies. They left with tears of gratitude coursing down their plump cheeks. A New Era in South African advertising was born.

 Similarly, I advised an executive from a building society (now defunct, I think). 'Keep your jingle', I said. 'But instead of a house in the suburbs, show a portly, toe-tapping shebeen king outside his brand-new four roomed shebeen, singing: 

 Ain't it nice

 I got it with my slice. 

 In the background smiling delivery men do a soft shoe shuffle while neighbours applaud'. 

 VW produced a memorable advert in those days and that too plays a part about in this tale. The jingle, sung by cheerful employees went along these lines: 

 VW and me

 We all believe in quality

 We're your kind of people in the Volkswagen family. 

 Here's how that came to be. VW will of course deny this. Pik Botha, then foreign minister (and looking very foreign too, in a large overcoat and fur hat), visited me in the very witching hour. In the portentous sounding voice he normally reserved for UN debates, he said without preamble: 'The winds Of Change are blowing'. 'Indeed they are', I replied, pulling my coat tighter around me and closing a window. 'We need something to unite our people', he said. 'Nationalist voters?' 'No, all South Africans'. 'How about universal franchise?' 'Yes, yes', he said. 'Eventually. But right now we need an inspirational song - one we can all relate to. 

 'Picture this', I said. 'The camera on you, Pik, in the midst of heated debate. Suddenly you pause and in a deep baritone launch into song.

 PW and me 

 We all believe in equality

 Cut to Alan Hendrickse frolicking in the whites - only ocean, inKosi Buthelezi fulminating against sabre-rattling, PW raising a warning forefinger. All join in with: 

 We are the manne 

 Then cut to all three Houses, where MPs with shining, upturned faces take on the rousing tune. 

 PW and me

 We all believe in equality 

 We're your kind of people in the Volk 

 MP's, cabinet ministers, staff and visitors spill out onto the ample lawns Doves and balloons are released. Cheers and top hats fill the air. A plane flies low overhead, with a giant banner proclaiming South Africa / Suid Afrika. Fade to Black.

 There was a stunned silence. 'Jislaaik', said Pik, his eyes glowing with excitement, or it might have been the strong coffee he had had earlier.

 Alas, this is a tale of opportunity lost, of impotence at the very foot of Fortune's luxurious double bed. Craven cowardice won the day and an insipid song call Louis' Liedjie was used instead. It sank faster than the Titanic and with fewer traces. Disgusted, I offered the jingle to a car company. I am still awaiting the promised people's car that was to have been my reward. (I would have turned it down anyway as too extravagant a gift). I am not bitter but prefer to drive Tata to this day.

 Anyway let bygones be bygones. At least we still have Msholozi. 

 That's the truth folks.

 Yours in the quest for a transparent history. 

 Richard