And God said: Grow a pair, JZ

Pravin Gordhan and Jacob Zuma. (Rogan Ward, Reuters)

Pravin Gordhan and Jacob Zuma. (Rogan Ward, Reuters)

Gavel in hand, God walked down his driveway to deliver judgment on all of mankind. 

The drive to town was quiet, relaxed – a meditative space in which the only Lawgiver could gather his thoughts. They took a wrong turn and stopped at the wrong place. God’s people had failed him again and the Creator of man decided not to use an Uber driver named Farouk ever again.

God stepped out of the vehicle and looked upon a building with a red façade behind mighty white pillars. He sharpened his gaze. If this be the place of reckoning, God thought to himself, then so be it.

The Lord of Life and Wisdom made it past security and took his place inside among sinners and thieves. A woman with a gavel of her own called order to the House. The House erupted with hollers and screams.

God rose to his feet and slammed down his fist. “Peace on Earth!” he boomed from above.

“Who are you?” the woman with the gavel asked, surprised.

“I am God,” God said. “Creator of man and judge of all nations.”

“You will wait your turn, honourable member God,” the woman said plainly. “We are not here to judge.”

She turned to a man in an overall and a hat: “Honourable Malema, you have something to say?“

“Madam Speaker, yes, I have a question for God: Where was he when we questioned the president?”

“I was in the high court,” God replied. “I can’t be everywhere all at once, you know.”

The House went quiet.

“I mean I can be everywhere,” God said, trying to recover. “But that day I had the kids and traffic was just crazy and I had this massive headache and, anyway, why am I the one on trial?” he asked, pointing to the president. “Was it not he who dumped this country into chaos when he fired Nhlanhla Nene?

“Explain thyself!” he boomed.

“Technically, it wasn’t me who fired Nene,” the president said. “I mean, God, I had the Guptas breathing down my neck.

“This job is helluva hard. I’m not sure I have the backbone for it, to tell you the truth. All I want to do, at this point, is go home to Nkandla, tend to my chickens and swim in my fire pool.”

God looked at the president with an odd mix of sympathy, pity and disgust.

“Very well,” he said. “I will spare you the humiliation of a recall right now, but you can’t go to Nkandla just yet. You will grow a presidential pair and lead this nation, stop seeing the Guptas and leave Gordhan alone!

“Now will someone get me an Uber before I run through my rap sheet and make fools of you all.”

Hansie Smit is a freelance writer.

 
JS Smit

JS Smit

JS Smit is a Cape Town-based freelance writer. Formally trained as a copywriter, he took a break from ads in 2010 to write a blog for the Mail & Guardian's Thought Leader and since 2015 has written for the Mail & Guardian. Read more from JS Smit

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