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The brilliant political-tsunami-turned-Dineo has done did it again!
The great Nxamalala, Jacob of Nkandla, has once again dared the masses who voted for him.
He has whipped out his prerogative spear and stabbed, at point blank, Pravin of the Gordhan clan, the economy allegedly owned by the capitalist whites of yesteryear, and replaced him with the minister of Instagram, as the Economic Freedom Fighters would put it.
The real commander in chief proved once and for all that he doesn’t play marbles with kids and is not to be undermined, especially by trivial issues such as facts, common sense and advice from his own party’s top structures.
In the unholiest of hours, somewhere between Thursday and Friday, the honourable president disturbed my alcohol-imbibed sleep and I haven’t slept a second since.
Not because I care who is the new minister of mashankura but because of a Cape Town High Court judgment that opened the doors of indulgence of the holy cannabis.
Oh! I love South Africa indeed.
As if the joys of being a South African were not enough, the doors of the consumption of the holier herb in the privacy of my shack mansion have now been widely opened and the sky will not limit us anymore.
According to those in the know, the high court of the Cape of Good Dope has legalised the gods’ favourite plant and those who can’t cope with Zille and Zuma can now just puff away their stress.
I predict Luthuli House will be ordering a huge consignment.
This is exactly what Mzansi needs in this time of reshuffles, with half the country catching feelings because Msholozi did what they expected of him and the other half, us of course, not minding the firings of the son of Gordhan and company because we are puzzled by his naive expectation of honour from a man alleged to be a thief. Habashwe! I say.
Because it serves the former twice minister of finance – who was excepted and appointed not once but twice by the honourable Gedleyihlekisa – right for “boring the buyer”.
And then there’s the DA bunch, they of the blues camp. Madam Helen Zille got them all in frenzy with her recent tweets about missing colonialism and they also caught feelings – naive bunch too, those ones.
And now they want to march to the revolutionary house in Sauer Street – no happy ending in sight there, definitely.
Just when yours truly was on the verge of recovering from the much-needed hangover on Saturday, then the boys from Phefeni pulled one over the starlets of Chloorkop and it wasn’t an April Fool’s joke.
The champions of Africa, as they call themselves, were so frustrated even the stadium security guards were apparently blamed for the 2-1 drubbing by the family business from Naturena.
Luckily, I finally managed to get some shut-eye as everything about the loss by Sundowns indicated that it was definitely a joke.
On Sunday, just as I was ready to convene my stokvel at my favourite drinking hole, then MaMbete – she of the Parliamentary Order! Brigade – held a press conference to affirm to all and sundry that she and Son of Zuma are not really friends and she has only been to Nkandla City once.
The affirmation seems to be just in case she was accused by the ungovernable fourth estate of frequenting the Northern Natal rural city or even the shebeen in northern Joburg. She was just doing it for control nje, nothing else.
Like a true die-hard fanatic of this sport called politics, I shall sit back and wait as my president survives another gruelling public outcry over just another one of his “revolutionary tactics”.
• 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.
