Dear Walter,
The great debate is upon us. Or at least it is upon me. It descended with great abruptness early in the morning a couple of days ago, when I tottered out of bed and, as is my habit, made my way to the bathroom and the adjoining place to reassure myself as to my identity, the continued presence of my hair, the whereabouts of my dentures, the efficient functioning of the plumbing and the various other routine checks against the wear and tear to which mortal flesh is heir.
Imagine my surprise, at this intensely private time in one’s day, to discover what appeared to be a corporate board meeting taking place in my toilet, attended by a group of grave-looking men in pin-striped, three-piece suits. Hastily snatching the rather garish nightcap knitted by Mrs Kriel off my head, and tucking my toes in their similarly-knitted bed-socks under the Persian rug in the passage-way, I tried to make my presence known with a discreet cough.
They seemed to be preoccupied with some event taking place inside the toilet bowl and I had to let forth a series of less discreet coughs before I gained their attention. I asked if I could help. “Waste-Easy (Pty) Ltd,” grunted a fat man sporting a large gold fob watch whom I took to be the chairman. “How many times?” demanded another sharply, gesturing towards the bowl before I could ask for further elucidation from the fat man. Slightly dazed, I confessed to “about twice”, adding hurriedly at the sight of his disapproving face that it was “sometimes more, depending on the number of state banquets”. “Not good enough,” snapped a third with the hatchet face of a financial director.
Somewhat taken aback by this mysterious infestation by the capitalist classes, I abandoned all further thoughts of inspecting the presidential person and hastened back to my bedroom, to dress. Making my way down to the ground floor, I shouted for Parks. He came running out of a back room pursued by a little man equipped with a clipboard, a measuring-tape and a stop-watch, who appeared to be involved in some complex calculation relating to the length and frequency of Parks’ stride.
“What’s going on!?” I shouted. Parks shrugged helplessly: “Privatisation, Mr President.”
“The Deputy President (First Class),” he nodded. Thabo, it transpired, had discovered The Way.
You may or may not believe it, Walter, but Thabo used to be a leading member of the secret, underground and very hush-hush South African Communist Party. Unfortunately, some years ago Comrade Joe Slovo, concerned that it was so hush-hush that there was some doubt as to its existence, decided it was time the Party emerge from the proverbial cupboard and called upon its members to stand and be counted. Thabo, whose height usually necessitates his standing in company anyway, displayed a sudden aversion to being counted and hurriedly sat down. Ever since, he has been trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the said gathering, throwing himself into the arms of those whose first commandment is to count only oneself.
Anyway, with the passion of the newly converted, Thabo had decided that collective ownership is a mortal sin, Parks explained. He had therefore announced that in future nothing belonged to everybody. In order to give a lead by example the government would immediately flog all the family silver from Mahlamba Ndlopfu at hugely discounted prices to those in the know and contract out such as the presidential catering to the highest bidder.
As Parks concluded this sorry tale, Mrs Kriel passed by, kicking and screaming, on the shoulder of a burly bailiff. “She insisted on using the coffee grounds only once,” shrugged Parks.
Aghast at this sudden turnaround in my life, I staggered into the dining room for breakfast, only to be accosted by a burly waiter who snarled: “Money first!” Resignedly borrowing some from Parks, I morosely settled down at the dining table. Moodily sawing with plastic knife and fork at the sawdust sausage and cardboard toast, I reflected on the famous line of the Immortal Poet (or someone like that): The markets know the price of everything, but the value of nothing.
Yours in wealthy penury