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.

Truth, Media, Mr Malema

Dear Mr Malema 

 Good on you for banning those meddlesome, captured media people from your events. I can see them squirming in anguish as they miss out on the revolutionary pearls of wisdom.

 Just today, someone on Twitter suggested that Mr Shivambu should sue Pauli van Wyk for 'deformation' of character. Initially, I thought that was an understandable spelling error. Then the chilling truth struck me like a strategically placed shoe in a parliamentary scuffle. What demonic powers do these journalists wield? 

No wonder you took that wise decision. I have cancelled her invitations to all of my press briefings. Sir, I trust only The Daily Sun for objective reporting. A tokoloshe, after all, is a tokoloshe, is a tokoloshe. No margin for fake news and bias there. Besides, any reporter courageous enough to chase a zombie down has my full confidence. I would give them an open door to all media events. 

 You were reported as saying that Mr Gordhan actually writes their questions (the suspect media people, not The Daily Sun). My, he is a busy man. I have long suspected his possible involvement in global warming, the American election and magwinya price - fixing. 

Sir, I am willing to follow that story, if you could see your way clear to covering some daily expenses. My needs, while on the murky trail, are simple. A hired Range Rover (so as to be inconspicuous in the relevant circles). Free passes to several...er...artistic dance clubs, where my informants are not afraid to bare all. I can assure you that I will write my own, penetrating questions.

 Yours in search of the naked truth.

 Richard

In Search Of Excellence 2017

Written back in the halcyon days of the Zuma era. 

 Dear Gupta Family 

 I apologize for not being able to greet you by first names. I am sure that that will change as we become, first, firm Facebook friends, then graduate to sharing stories and fine brandies before the fireplace.

 I am moved to congratulate you on your innovative approach to the recruitment business. If reports are to be believed, you have gone big. Of course I need to check the ever - reliable Daily Sun for confirmation. While other agencies dabble in such lowly appointments as brain surgeons and nuclear physicists, you focus on the creme de la creme. Cabinet ministers and the like, no less. At the standard 15% recruitment fee, that should translate to some tasty 'splodges of wonga' (to quote a great British entrepreneur). 

 The recent cabinet cleans....sorry...reshuffle must be an additional boon. That brings me to the purpose of my letter. I, too, wish to make a pil..er...contribution. As an avid Sharks supporter, I am a shoe-in for a role in the Sports Ministry. I am willing to endure the gruelling routine of attending rugby matches and the ordeal of five-star hotel accommodation. Throw me into the deep end, I say. 

 The security cluster is another natural home, as I've devoured spy novels all my life. Discretion and high ethical standards are my trademarks. I would never disclose official secrets, such as payments of facilitation fees, not even under waterboarding. (Which I've learned to handle from said novels, anyway). I used to spy on smoking schoolmates, so that ticks the experience box. 

 Roving African ambassador would also suit. I have worked in Botswana and Sierra Leone and flown over several other countries. I am an excellent communicator, adept at translating 'show me the money' into several languages. 

 I am flexible about remuneration and no amount is too large. 

 Yours in the struggle for excellence in recruitment. 

 Richard

FLOG Salutes Ms Ndabeni-Abrahams

Dear Ms Ndabeni-Abrahams

 We, of FLOG, the Front For The Liberation Of Geneva, salute you. Your bold declaration that Geneva is not part of Switzerland is just the sort of shot in the butt that our cause needed. 

We have long languished under the yoke of occupation, our struggle ignored by the international community. You have become for us a modern Che Guevara of international diplomacy. Your own country's history of valiant struggle against tyranny commends you as a sort of Wilhelmina Tell. As you can tell, we have done our Google research.We were a little puzzled by references to the liberation and redeployment of billions in taxpayer dollars in your country. Perhaps you can explain that on your next, much anticipated, visit.

 You are the very first visitor to see beyond the facade of the contented, chocolate - munching, gluhwein - sipping citizen. You have heard the discordant note in our yodels. Please do let us know when next you plan to visit (with your esteemed spouse, of course). We wish to bestow upon you the freedom of the city-state. It goes without saying that we also intend to present you with our highest award, the Wilhelm Tell Award (a bronzed bow with arrow-pierced apple).

 Yours in the grim struggle for self - determination. 

 Klaus Kornfeld 

 Secretary General of FLOG

Fat Of The Land

Written some years ago, before my blog host pulled a vanishing food parcel act (iblog.co.za, in case you're also looking for them). 

 It does seem that, in South Africa, the more things change, the more they stay the same. One - sized trough fits all pigs.

 Dear Lepelle Nkupi Councillors

 Bravo. The citizen describes your municipality as financially crippled yet still having the chutzpah to spend more than half a million on expensive wines, whiskeys and catering at the state of the municipality address.

 Interestingly, a similar sum was mentioned in connection with those entertainment areas for some deserving MP's. (Read my lips. not braai areas). Is there a some mystique about the half-a-million Rand mark? 'Half A Million Blown' does make slightly better reading than 'Millions Wasted'. Good thinking. 

Clearly, you have also mastered the financial approach that works so well for some SOEs, various state entities and assorted municipalities. Simply stated: spend your way out of the financial toilet, or, might as well be hung for a whole flock as for a lamb. Also known as the Marie Antoinette school of Economics: let them drink whiskey.

 Your bold 'can -spend' approach raises some interesting questions and points. First, many South Africans whose finances are in a similar, parlous state would love to know how you do it. We too would love to turn our deficits into the stuff of feasting and drinking. Please do share once your digestive systems have settled. Second it's a mystery to us as to why you needed 6 hours, heaps of grub and gallons of booze to convey the simplest and most obvious of messages: our municipality is stuffed. 

Of course, we South Africans will party at the drop of a makaraba. Who am I to question culture and tradition? Budgets and corporate governance are so last decade. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow there's the taxpayer. 

 Typically, the spoilsport DA carped about your catering costs. People, they say, are wallowing in poverty. They don't have access to such basic services as water. Lighten up D A people. Who needs water when there's fine whiskey and wine? I am glad to see that you responded that the money is a drop in the ocean. Please lead us to that abundant ocean. Many of us could do with a drop of that dimension. 

 Yours in the quest for memorable state of the municipality addresses.

 Richard

Lords Of The Bling

In the shires lived the people of Middleground. 

Not always happily, for there were divisions among those who wore white, those who wore black and those whose preferences ran to multi-hued garments.

 Little did they know that misery untold was yet to come. For the lords of Moredough had discovered the Bling. A magical ring that made the wearer's deeds invisible, many in Middleground sought the Bling. Some for good, some for evil. But the Bling made many a person mad with greed and the lust for power. And so it came to pass that the thick smoke of corruption and greed rose daily from the towers of Moredough. And from its gates, the Okes, half - man, half beast, poured out to rob and to plunder. Fear and anger reigned in Middleground.

 But the Bling began to lose it's power from excessive use. The eyes of the people were opened. They saw the devastation wreaked by the brutish Okes. Smelled the stench of the thick smoke rising daily from Moredough. And they said: "Enough". Middleground rose up.

 Only the dwarves, gaily dressed in scarlet said: "We will not join in your battle. We have other fish to fry." And they danced off gaily down the streets, as was their custom.