Dear Walter,
Sorry I have been out of touch for so long, but I have been frantically busy resolving man-kind’s problems. As you know, the miracles we performed in bringing peace to South Africa have given us a reputation as the world’s foremost political mediators. As a result, whenever a tiff breaks out between ruler and ruler in some far-flung corner of the globe, they come running to beg me to wave my magic wand.
Unfortunately the “Mandela magic”, as my fans so generously characterise this knack I seem to enjoy, has come up against certain communication difficulties in recent times. As a result I am having to use all my powers trying to deal with complaints to the Consumer Association by various disgruntled heads of state and rebel leaders protesting that they are not getting their money’s worth.
The peace process began to go awry when I attempted to deal with the wrangle between Indonesia and East Timor, dispatching a letter to President Suharto advising him to release the dissident leader, Xanana Gusmao. Unfortunately the Department of Foreign Affairs, labouring under the misapprehension that East Timor was the name of a fado singer, delivered the missive to the Portuguese embassy.
At roughly this time I sent a round-robin to various former Zairean generals masquerading as ice-cream vendors on Clifton’s beaches, advising them that the jig was up and they were expelled from South Africa with immediate effect. As a result of a further misunderstanding which arose from Foreign Affairs’s confusion between Clifton and the Algarve this, too, was forwarded to the Portuguese embassy, with the result that their ambassador made a hurried departure from Jo’burg International, protesting he did not even like ice-cream.
Then, as part of top-secret negotiations which I have been engaged in with the Nigerian authorities, Sani Abacha sent me a communication which was so sensitive – relating to the possible reincarnation of Ken Saro Wiwa and his colleagues as army generals – that he forwarded it with two envoys who, kept ignorant of each other’s existence, were entrusted with alternate words in the message.
Unfortunately immigration officials, unimpressed by the gibberish produced by these two gentlemen when questioned as to their business, handed them over to their colleagues in customs. By the time they staggered into Tuynhuys, they had been so traumatised that their message made no sense even when it had been pieced together.
But this week, at least, I have high hopes of pulling off at least one peacekeeping triumph, by bringing an end to the conflict in the Sudan. The President, Omar al Bashir, flew into Cape Town yesterday to appeal to me to broker a settlement with the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. Yesterday I sent a letter to the Alaska Hotel, where he is staying on the Waterfront, setting out my proposals.
Ah, a knock at the door; this will be the reply. It says: “Happy to meet John Garang if you think it will help. Will lend him my wife to keep warm.” It is signed: “Chief Eskimo.”