They say a fault confessed is half redressed. With that said, our deputy president confessed, actually half confessed if not 1/8th, and because of that, yours truly half forgave him and will await that cache of beer to confirm that half.
While on the sins of Ramaposer, word has it his people don’t care about his non-political antics but mind those of the incumbent number one, to make clear the double standards.
While I wait for Ramaposer’s stash of goodwill (and I am told it might arrive around the same time as the son of Moses and Mary), I convened my Asphuzeni Stokvel and raised a matter that has been delaying the economic progress of our entity.
First of all I introduced our newest member, Skhindi sase Ngwelezane. As per tradition, he was responsible for introducing to us, and particularly me, the might of his pocket with a smallanyana session of a round or four of the finest brown bottles SAB has to offer.
It was at the peak of the session that I let it slip that I wanted to approach our presidential handlers at the Saxonwold Shebeen and request that they also capture us with a small fortune, a truck or two of SAB’s finest, maybe, before they flee to Dubai.
Following that brilliant idea by yours truly Skhindi, as the last one, was also responsible for the rest of the session during which the Willow of Sofaya and that curtain-linen wearing son of Nkwanyana, Pencil, said apparently the former number one of Number One of the Union Buildings was sworn into Parliament after son of Mabe, the Pule from the northern province, quit parliamentary napping sessions and decided to go sulk, apparently after he was overlooked by Number One, again.
Yours truly doesn’t blame Number One. Mabe’s unquestionable loyalty is known very well by the red-bereted Malema, after all the two come a very long way.
Speaking of that overcalled rogue, son of Malema made the entire country very proud and graduated for the second time in just as many years. The son of Seshego is now truly academically honourable, unlike the other president of the other party. One word … Abet.
After that hectic session, with the night getting younger, we headed to the aftertears of that pervert son of Konkodi, a teacher in Kuruman who met his timely death at the hands of taxi drivers when he was caught soliciting sex from a learner there.
Apparently he was beaten to death at the rank. As usual, there were no witness and even the police were glad that the petty thief would not be making regular rounds at their holding cells any more.
Needless to say the funeral was almost empty but the aftertears flooded with joyous patrons like us.
While celebrating that pathetic life, Sister Bettinah let it be known in the glory of her intoxication that she and Konkodi, who were business rivals as far as we all knew, were Komkokotlong buddies.
To divert attention from the awkward revelation (not that we were amazed because Konkodi, as a veteran bachelor, has never had a decent eye for the fairer sex), she told us that apparently the meter taxi fellows and their Uber counterparts had declared war on each other in the capital of capitalism, Sandton, in Gauteng and her cousin witnessed cars burning there.
Of course we knew it was a lie but as the rule goes, if she’s buying then she must be right.
The following morning, like a capitalist opportunist, I headed to Sister Bettinah’s shebeen to cash in my exaggerated moral credits. I lied to her that she was so drunk she confessed her deepest secrets to me the night before but I needed lots of beer to forget my ears ever heard of her deep, dark secrets.
She heeded to my master negotiating skills and obliged with brown bottled beverages of the most soothing of tastes.
While enjoying the fruit of my tongue’s labour and basking in the glory of my shrewd business skills, that councillor of ours, who seem to have the strange talent of souring good beer with merely his presence, walked in with that handbag of his he called Jakalas, son of Burweni, who followed him everywhere – he probably even goes to those filthy public toilets he refuses to renovate at the community hall.
Now our councillor – whose name I care not mention other than saying that he is a thieving, disgusting, irritating moronic sluggard – seems to think he has a brand new brain and no one disagrees because, seemingly, it has never been used. Jakalas, on the other hand, is a graduate of the University of the Free State in Bloemfontein. He suffers from a chronic inferior complex.
Jakalas, like a learned young man, pleaded with me to join Asphuzeni so I let him fund a round while I got my head around that improbable possibility – which he did, much to the annoyance of his illiterate slave master of a councillor.
As soon as they evaporated into the dusty streets of my wonderful Skomplaas, hopefully never to return, Bettinah let me know that she heard via the wireless that the NPA of Abrahams was still on the fence on whether to charger Number One on the alleged 777 charges that apparently hang over his head.
Methinks Abrahams is is being clever with this Zuma charging issue – he figures the charges might still be piling up and when it’s reached the magic number of maybe 7777 then he will charge, and by that time his own term of office will be done and his predecessor will do the dirty work of prosecuting that record number of charges. Slick Shaun, I see you cde!
Talking about big numbers, son of Mokone, the Silas from Lebowa, whispered into my ear the other day that apparently the former sushi king had a 21-gun salute episode recently and he rushed to the nearest media shop to report it before heading to the cop shop, or the other way round.
Anyway son of Kunene is said to have had a close shave with injury.
I bet the police were behind it – after all, who else has a record of wasting so many bullets.
Reminds me of the time they shot a flood of bullets to Khuli Chana and only got the middle finger.
It also makes sense that people head to the media shop first, since even Mbalula, who also needed protection recently, cannot protect them.
Done with the tales and bottles and off to what turned out to be the wedding of the year in the whole of Mashining and Thaba Chweu.
Son of Dabula, sibling of that rogue called Teaspoon Madabulashugela, was getting hitched to some young eye-candy from Pankop in Hammanskraal.
Now those in the know know that that place is not the most organised of places and neither are its inhabitants.
In fact, word has it that after Mhlabawalingana in KwaZulu-Natal, Tlhakgameng in North West, Spanapudi in Limpopo and that place with cannibalistic obese rats in Gauteng called Tembisa, Hammanskraal is the most disorderly, neglected society with a rapid downward mobility development pattern in the country.
Anyway that wedding was not the best because of the beauty from that slum but because her well-off family kept the beer flowing from dusk till dawn.
To my amazement, they allowed yours truly to have a few cases of takeaway to quell the morning-after demons of the hangover. Salute to the people of Hammies, I say, hope you find a home province, because I hear you fall under more than one.
So it was befitting that the morning after the night before, yours truly convened my cowardly neighbour Skontiri and his loafer of a son-in-law Sakhisene for a morning glory session. True to reputation the latter ended up slapping the former, a spectacle I thoroughly enjoyed while keeping my throat wet.
After enduring a panelbeating from his live-in son-in-law, and with Sakhisene out of sight, Skontiri susurrated that apparently some big mining company wanted to retrench and close shop and apparently said the mine is worth nothing so they got offers of R1 for the mine.
Makes one wonder why Majakathata was not alerted of the R1 mine sale which is better than the non-Venda Venda-finance (or was it vendor) deal Mzwanele Manyi got himself into.
• Majakathata the Rogue is a comrade, director of Nahab (National Association of Husbands and Boyfriends) and chairperson of Asphuzeni Stokvel in Skomplaas, Mashishini. He pens in his personal capacity as a veteran patron of SAB.