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Irukandji
 
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Zuma at the DHA chapter 2

18 July 2014, 09:37

This, the second chapter, recounts the trials and tribulations which beset me on my quest to obtain a new ID Book from the Department of Home Affairs.

For those of you who didn’t get to read the previous chapter, here’s a short recap:

Short recap.

Right, let’s move along then, shall we?

Yesterday I received the shock of my life. It came by SMS. From the DHA. Nearly caused me to be arrested for cardiopulmonary ICU and SCD and CPR and STD and sheet. (Don’t worry if you don’t understand all these fancy medical terms; it took me many years of dedicated and devoted study before I became au fait with them.)

The SMS read: “ID Book for Irukandji (not my real name) is ready for collection at office of application.” In this case – at the Department of Home Affairs’ office in Cullinan.

I lay awake all night – scared sheetless – knowing that I would once again have to enter the dreaded Labyrinth of the Government’s Office of the Shadow of Death. But in the end, I took a handful of Viagra, swallowed them down manfully with some strong coffee, and ventured forth – ready for anything that might come up.

Even before I even entered the DHA office in Cullinan, I ran into trouble: An obese, corpulent, rotund, black female, in a tight-fitting blue security uniform, was sitting on a garden bench at the door. She spotted me and said just one word: “Boek!”

She pointed with her overweight thumb in the direction of a small table next to her, just outside of the entrance to the office, on which a filthy Boek was placed.

I quickly complied with her friendly request. (One klap from her and I would be history, with no need of a new ID.)

At the shrine of the Boek, I was second in a queue of one. The young, smartly dressed black lady in front of me was trying to squeeze the last of the lifeblood out of the guvva-mint issue BIC ballpoint pen. To no avail.

“Can you borrow me your pen?” she asked, turning to me.

I was going to do the “lend, borrow” sermon, but then I thought: “What the hell, she’s probably just as scared as I am.” I handed her my 18-year-old gold plated Parker with my name engraved on it.

She answered the questions in the columns; smiled, handed back my 18-year-old gold plated Parker with my name still engraved on it, and walked off the pitch. I stepped up to the crease. Or the badly creased Boek, in this case.

And then I had an epiphany! Something, a voice, told me not to give them the correct information – and a miracle would happen! So I wrote:

Name: Jacob Zuma.

Address: Nkandla

Reason for Visit: Surprise inspection.

Tel number: 000 000 0001.

Time: 05:31 (Actually the time was 09:55)

Signature: X

The fat security female slowly extracted her plump finger from her right nostril and scrutinised it in minute detail. Finally, seemingly delighted with life forms she discovered clinging to her digitus secundus, she looked at the entry I made in the Boek – and uttered just four words: “You can go in.”

Ta-Daaaaaa!

I was in! At last! I made it to the next level! Will wonders never cease?

I climbed up the steps and entered the next level.

Inside The Temple of Everlasting Doom, there were several pee pool standing around in a dazed, haphazard fashion. They looked as if they had been zombyfied by the creepy atmosphere in the Temple. There were no chairs. The grey, dimly-lit room was roughly 3x4 meters. Very eerie!

It seemed as if the pee pool working for the DHA were behind bars to prevent them from biting the zombyfied pee pool standing in the grey, dimly-lit room of roughly 3x4 meters. And vice versa. I was petrified! My Viagra high was wearing off!

Suddenly, a neatly dressed young man appeared from nowhere, and said in immaculate English: “Good morning, Sir. My name is Sylvester. How may I be of assistance to you?”

Well, I never! I thought I had died and gone to Orania!

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I’ve come to collect my ID,” I replied in a whining, piss stories type of voice. “Sniff, sniff. Snot-gurgle. Vomit, vomit. That is correct, My Lady.”

The rest, as they say, is history.

Fifteen minutes later, I was driving back home with my brand new ID locked in the boot of my car, smiling all the way. (Not the ID, Sakkie. ID photos never smile. It was me, smiling all the way home.)

I am forever indebted to *Jacob Zuma for visiting these offices, signing the Boek, and organising my new ID.

Thank you, Jacob, for sending the archangel, Sylvester, to help me!

*(How else would you explain the fact that it took just ONE MONTH for me to get my new ID Boek?)

THE END

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