The minister, a knife; Khulubuse the Arab ... protect me from this hangover

2017-09-27 01:00

This country is not serious about life…

A minister and her alleged professorial squeeze almost stabbed her ex-hubby with a kitchen knife, KPMG are shedding clients and cash, and Khulubuse, who is an Arabian by residence now, might not have any to shed while Thuli 0.2, Busisiwe Mkhwebane, allegedly “omitted” to tell the courts that Andile Mguptama paid her a visit.

Will all the lies in my home province of Mpumalanga and our premier telling the world he wants a no-contest conference, it was befitting that yours truly be hijacked by the willow of Sofaya to preside over two weddings and a funeral in the province of Makhura, the David of Gauteng.

Of course, that sinful province once again left a bitter taste in my mouth. And for the first time in my life, SAB’s finest was not enough to get rid of it.

So upon my return I filled the calabash with Mqombothi and, in the spirit of Heritage Day, gulped it knowing the ancestors would protect me from a hangover.

Our first stop was the wedding of a certain former paint-sniffing junkie far-left relative of Konkodi with some very proper eye-candy yellowbone who looked way out of his league (methinks he has money).

It was at that joyless gathering in the heart of Mamelodi that yours truly was convinced that pettiness and politics are bedfellows in this country.

According to the father of the bride, who had spent the entire drinking session complaining that his yellowbone daughter deserved better, the lawmakers in the KwaZulu-Natal legislature took down the pictures of Ramaposer from all their offices.

Yours truly suspects Ramaposer’s pose didn’t cut it.

Off to the second wedding of the weekend we went. Unlike those sPitori-speaking Mamelodians, the people of Alexandra, right there in Sandton, are very aware of their own situation and have no illusions of their place on the economic food chain and hierarchy.

Those natives of northern Jozi know their drinks, know how to drink and are fully briefed on the happenings of this Msanzi.

While we were just starting to wet our throats with the god-given brown bottled brew as per mandate, one Mzwakhe Myeni, an economic refugee from Duku Duku village in northern KwaZulu-Natal, whispered loudly that he had read in one progressive media that apparently one veteran minister cheered for her sideguy, a professor, to manhandle her hubby.

She even advised him that chasing the hubby around a kitchen table was unprofessorial and procuring a kitchen knife from the nearest kitchenskeem would be a much more helpful method of violently bricking the man in his own house.

Let that sink in and tell son of Majakathata if this country is serious about life.

Son of Myeni, unrelated to the Dudu of Duduzane’s Father apparently, also alleged that his big ears heard through the wireless that apparently the nephew of number one, the cousin of Duduzane, the Khulubuse of Aurora fame (yes we did not forget that too) is almost broke.

Apparently the young Zuma, who is now a resident of UAE, has failed to meet his financial obligations making the liquidators want to meet with him.

Son of Myeni also lied through his teeth that the liquidators wanted a pound or two of flesh from Khulubuse.

He also added that apparently son of Khabazela, Zweli of the Mkhize clan, wanted state capture to be probed. Methinks, the timing of his sudden wisdom is opportunistic, ask Makhosi Khoza.

With the beer drying out and the quality of the company deteriorating (Nyaope boys were already cursing us with their presence), it was time to head to the night vigil of the greatest dipsomaniac genius I have ever known in Attridgeville, former friend of yours truly until he decided to be an enemy of progress and joined the party of Msholozi.

Tlhanhlagane was a good fellow. In fact, under the influence he was brilliant, pure genius even on his worst day but the party of Gwede ruined him.

Shortly after joining the rhetoricians he started imbibing less and stealing more and it was the latter habit that led to his early grave.

Anyway, in paying my last respects to that son of Chebeng from Mashashane, I lobbied the best intellectual brewery patrons son of Majakathata knows, from Son of Soldaat, the Tebogo of Ejoj in the Southern Cape, to son of Makwela, the German from Mentz from the corner Limpopo river, I even sent an SOS to the daughter of Matloga, Kgoshigadi of Malawi to grace the ceremonial exit of my former mate and true to their greedy thirsty natures, they arrived brown bottles in hand to pay tribute in drink and in song to the son of the filthy soil of Attridgeville.

Obviously yours truly had to open drinking proceedings with an announcement that the late Tlhanhlagane had requested that those who loved him more should donate funds, administered by my beloved Asphuzeni stokvel of course, towards the celebratory memorial event to be held immediately after his body descended to be one with the soil and indeed the guilt-ridden religious folks obliged and sponsored the entire aftertears.

With the roundtable convened, son of Soldaat ululated that the ruling party’s two mistress organisations, the SACP and Cosatu were planning to march against it.

According to Soldaat, the two are fed up with number one who they catapulted to number one a few years ago.

Daughter of Matloga also said she also heard so over the wireless and said apparently Education for Social Justice Foundation, some civil group, wants the gauvament of Msholozi to install cameras in classrooms to monitor the monitors of pupils.

At the very peak of the festivities, daughter of Makgato, MaMbele who has a tendency of reading the clever pages of the newspapers, dropped a bombshell that apparently with all the distraction stemming from the presidential handlers of Saxonwold, Number One was delaying releasing the #FeesMustFall report, daring the BornFrees to usher him to his presidential exit once more. Methinks they will and they should.

With the six-feet hole covered, dust settled and speeches and lies done, yours truly was very glad to wake up once again to the warm sunshine of my beautiful squatter camp of Skomplaas, with an emptied calabash on my right hand and a good Sunday read on my left.

Truly speaking, life could not be better but this country should be serious about it.

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February 11 2018