‘Stop whining and go get his knob’

2014-06-17 13:05

Saturday. I’m properly fed up. The Croc and I are lurking outside the Commander in Chief’s hacienda at Nxamalala.

Nxamalala’s the village about 50km from Nkandla where the CiC lives. The CiC’s not home. He’s off sick in Pretoria. However, somebody’s brother’s cousin’s uncle’s sister-in-law’s friend knows somebody who met somebody who said the CiC was going home because he was ill.

One thing leads to another and the Friday night World Cup fixtures take two in the chest and one in the head. Needless to say, the CiC’s a no-show.

The truth is, our wild-goose chase has been a logical conclusion to a week that should never have happened. I should have just carried on with my weekend bender and called in sick like the CiC.

Things started going horribly wrong last Tuesday morning. A jolt to the left and the dodgy disc at the base of my spine – courtesy of a sober dive in the rain down the Ghenginator’s stairs a couple of years back – paralyses me. I head straight to see my chiro mate Angela. Three days of electric shocks, 12-inch needles and being pretzeled on a bench ensue. Nice.

By Friday I’m mobile and hopeful that I can salvage a bit of dignity from the week. Then I get the call to go stalk the big man. Not cool, but what can you do. If it turns out our geese are domesticated and I stay at home, I’m dead.

Then things get even worse. My mobile goes. It’s the boss. Somebody’s been tweeting pictures of what is apparently Sandile Zungu’s knob all over the cyberworld. For some unknown reason I have to write about it. I can hear the other bosses giggling in the background as she puts the knife in. Bastards.

I’m flattened. This is wrong, for so many reasons.

First up, I know Sandile. Not so well that I could identify his penis, but I’ve met the cat repeatedly. We’re from the same town after all. I’m also a keen follower of his Facebook posts, which are pretty funny, unlike his cheesy-as-hell shag tweets.

Second, I’m an award-winning investigative motherf****r. I leap tall buildings with a single bound. I probe corruption, not other men’s parts. This ain’t a gig for Harper – this is Page 3 muppet or intern fare.

Third, the only knob I have an interest in is my own. I’m like that. It is what it is.

The boss is having none of it. She cuts my protests short. Brutally. Tells me to man up. Stop whining and go get Sandile’s knob.

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