It was with a feeling of pride and fair play that I read in the paper about the 7% rise in salaries that, subject to Thabo Mbeki’s approval, is to be awarded to MPs. Notwithstanding that this was nearly a whole percentage point more than Geraldine Fraser-Moleketi was prepared to pay the ordinary run of public servants — all those tiresome nurses, social workers, police, teachers, firepersons — this insignificant increment demonstrated an admirable restraint in an exalted profession renowned for its asceticism.
I went to see the spokesperson for the Department of Parliamentary Remuneration, Ms Shonalanga Mashesha-Gumede. I began by asking her why the MPs hadn’t set a fine national example by not taking any rise in salaries at all.
“The answer is fairly obvious,” she said. “Think of a horrible little creepy-crawly with a poisonous dart on the end of its tail, and you will have answered a good deal of your own question.”
“A scorpion?” I breathed hesitantly.
“The Scorpions, to be more precise,” she snapped. “A whole nest of these repulsive goggas, scurrying around in their little black Volkswagens, stabbing their venom into anyone who dares to get in their way.”
“You mean that by investigating things like the parliamentary travel scam and bribery and corruption in high political places, the Scorpions are actually interfering with the smooth parliamentary administration of a democratic rainbow?” I asked innocently.
“Exactly,” she growled. “How do you expect any high political body to operate when its traditional sources of reward and recompense are systematically being throttled by a selection of power-maddened advocates and their vile cohorts in asset forfeiture units?”
“So you believe the 7% rise is appropriate?” I asked innocently.
“I can’t speak for the other parties,” sighed Mashesha-Gumede. “But try to put yourself in the R2 500 imported Italian shoes of an average ANC parliamentarian. Every day you have to drag yourself out of bed at some unearthly hour, hastily slurp up your eggs Benedict, bark at your personal masseur, give a fleeting kiss to your catamite or joy-boy and hurry like hell so you can get to Parliament in time for the lunch break. If it wasn’t for the BMW 7-Series and the motorcycle outriders, you’d never make it. After lunch there’s no time for a post-prandial nap. Instead, it’s a whole two hours in the National Assembly hissing at Tony Leon. Sometimes those sittings go on past four o’clock.”
I felt a sudden tear gush under one eyelid. “I never realised it was so tough,” I said. “Do you think …”
But Mashesha-Gumede was on a roll. “Next thing some vile bodies from the media start a racist campaign and unfairly accuse you of using your travel vouchers to pay for luxury weekends for 20 of your previously disadvantaged relatives in some five-star Maputo hotel.”
Mashesha-Gumede paused, regaining control of herself. “The next thing you know, ThisDay has added your name to a list of fellow parliamentarians being accused by the Scorpions of fiddling and verneukery.”
“A 7% pay-rise certainly seems inadequate when you consider the level of self-sacrifice,” I murmured.
“Of course it is. These people have not only got difficult jobs, they have to maintain a lifestyle commensurate with their position in life. The voters of this nation look up to their parliamentarians not only as icons in the fashion world but as intellectual and moral exemplars. The travel voucher scandal has had a most unfortunate effect on the parliamentarians’ natural dignity. When it comes to restoring that dignity, a miserable 7% rise is more of an insult than anything else.”
“Why don’t the parliamentarians show solidarity, undertake some crippling nationwide industrial action so that the authorities are made aware of the crisis?”
“Don’t think it hasn’t been considered. During the last parliamentary session the National Association of Back-Benchers and Political Parasites (Nabbapp) called a token 14-day strike by parliamentarians, during which they refused point blank to reply to urgent faxes, didn’t call back on phone messages, failed to turn up at select committee meetings, went on humungous binges and generally behaved as though the taxpayers’ money had been harvested for their personal use.”
“All of which went totally unnoticed by the racist media,” I quipped saucily.
“Better still,” smiled Mashesha-Gumede, “the party whips got awarded achievement medals. The conspiracy goes very deep, you know.”
“While you’ve been rattling on I’ve done a little sum,” I said. “If a teacher earning R7 000 a month gets a salary increase of 6,2%, this will put an extra R434 in his or her pocket every month. If a parliamentarian, earning R30 000 a month, gets a salary increase of 7%, this will put an extra R2 100 in his or her pocket. That’s nearly five times more in hard cash than the teacher — or a third of the teacher’s entire salary. Do you think that’s fair?”
“I am afraid that until Mr Mbeki has made up his mind on the matter it would not be worth my job to comment,” said Mashesha-Gumede.