Politics 101 the Number One way

2013-09-16 13:10

Saturday afternoon. Around 2pm. It’s boiling hot. My mouth and pores are still rotten with last night’s whiskey. At least it wasn’t rum. I’m clinging to a slither of shade from a tent. There’s this distorted screech of a Winnie Khumalo remix from overloaded speakers.

There’s this androgynous crew of mimes in white face.

I’m less than pleased. I might be at Curries Fountain stadium, but I’m a world away from the footie. No Mesut Ozil earning his R677 million fee setting up the undoing of Di Cannio at home in Sunderland. No watching the Gunners play themselves into that rare top of the table spot. Even if it is early in the season. No Aaron Ramsey banging in two second-half beauties. Zip.

The elections are upon us. Even if they are eight months away. I’d better get used to this. Again. Or get a real job. Until I do, Saturday games are gonna be scarcer than honest politicians. It is what it is.

Back to Curries. It’s the ANC Youth League’s 69th anniversary shindig. Happy happy. I’m like a journalistic insurance policy of sorts. I’m here in case anybody says something of import. Me, I doubt they will. My money’s on Harper becoming the Croc’s caption writer. At least I’m getting paid.

I’m getting as comfortable as possible. It’s tough. There’s all these muppets with berets with phuza faces. Most have mkhabas bigger than mine. And faces older than mine. They’ve got tags saying “ANCYL REC’’. Youth my ass.

Finally the Minister of Razmatazz arrives. Around five hours after the allotted kickoff time. Most sporting. Mbaks is early compared with the other ANC bigwigs. They’re all at the funeral of the Pinetown bush-crash victims.

Back to Mbaks. Mbaks used to be Number One’s biggest fan. Back in the day Mbaks was one of the loudest howlers in the Zunami. Mbaks was like Number One’s Doctor Frankenstein. Mbaks invented Mbakenstein in the Young Lions’ woodwork room. An admittedly less than pretty son of sorts. A snarling monster cobbled together from left over bits of bookends and magazine racks and stuff.

Mbakenstein was let loose on Tee Em One. On Zeelah. On the Grumpy Prince. Number One was well pleased. When Number One moved back to Pretoria, Mbaks was even made Nathi’s Number Two. Things were rosy. Even after the reshuffle. Mbaks got a budget to book Beyoncé. What more could a young man want?

Then Mbakenstein bit Number One. Mbakenstein said some nasty things. Peed on the carpet in Number One’s Nkandla bunker. Instead of dealing with his offspring, Mbaks joined The Apprentice and The Beard. Dumb move. Mbaks’ Beyoncé budget got cut. No more cash for Vivicia. Mbaks stuck around though. Job is job, and all that.

Back to Curries. Mbaks does this lap of honour around the stadium. The young ones are going wild. Mbaks moves backstage. Mbaks is mobbed by happy snapping honeys. All legs, iPads, weaves and mirror shades. Cropped top comrades. Nice.

Mbaks is way more popular that the fat white cat in AmaZulu T-shirt and skins who wanders around hugging the comrades. The only boobs getting rubbed on the lost Idols contestant’s back belong to the hefty REC members desperate for a pale face in the VIP tent for the TV cameras.

Mbaks bounces on to stage. Mbaks is firing. Howling like its 2005. Mbaks tears into Mbakenstein and his orange headed horde. Publicly disembowels the son he sired. Disowns the fruit of his political loins.

The penny drops. Number One’s got all biblical in his choice of punishment for Mbaks. All Highway 61 Revisited. The Johnny Winter version. Number One has forced Mbaks to publicly sacrifice his own son, Mbakenstein. Or face his wrath.

It’s ugly. Cruel. Merciless. But sexy. In a Machiavellian kinda way. This is payback. Politics 101 the Number One way. It’s not football, but it’s as sweet as Wenger’s revenge.

The shit just got interesting.

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