Behold, Thabob Mugabeki once again came to that place where he strapped his personal Boeing 737-800 to his bottom and was hurled into welcoming global skies.
Soon after the Boeing reached low Earth orbit, Thabob Mugabeki strolled carefully back to his satin-lined boudoir, just aft of the right wing. Here he got into bed and gently poured his nightcap over his head. He’d only been asleep half-an-hour when a worried seventh personal assistant fought his way through the bodyguards and started shaking the slumbering Thabob Mugabeki rudely by the shoulder.
Thabob Mugabeki was not at all charmed by this. He’d been well into an exhilarating dream where he’d just been appointed Secretary General of the United Nations. He was about to deliver a profound acceptance speech to the assembled political titans of the world when the worried seventh personal assistant woke him.
Thabob Mugabeki sat up in bed, casting aside his Iranian gosling-down quilt. He gave a frustrated grunt.
‘Excuse me interrupting your dream, O Great Continental Healer,” babbled the worried seventh personal assistant. ‘But the High-Security-Satellite-Siemens just spat out an SMS from your minister of lost causes. The Honourable Ronnie.”
‘What does that sagging old commie want now?” croaked a still-snoozy Thabob Mugabeki.
‘The Honourable Ronnie says the media has once again got far too close for democratic comfort and are demanding to know why you’ve been bugging telephones, intercepting faxes, checking Checkers-Shoprite knock-and-drops for secret capitalistic messages and sending Sheila Camerer fake e-mails about Jacob’s pork dagger.”
‘It wasn’t me,” grumbled Thabob Mugabeki thickly, reaching for his Woolworths bamboo-fibre dressing gown. ‘It was some quasi-Zulu dickhead I personally appointed as director-wallah of security and intelligence. I think he was trained by Elize Botha-May-She-Rest-In-Eternal-Peace.”
Hearing the hallowed name, the worried seventh personal assistant stiffened with respect. ‘There was other disturbing news, O Exalted Progenitor of Nepad. A second SMS came from Quimtessential Essop. He says he needs some guidelines on how to mislead the public over the latest PR balls-up by the Honourable Minister of Therapeutic Tubers.”
‘What’s the ravishing temptress done now?” muttered Thabob Mugabeki from inside the head.
‘She’s put the kibosh on Zackie Achmat’s disrespectful endeavours to tell the world about the mind-blowing cock-up which has been our government’s mediaeval response to the HIV/Aids pandemic. She has strictly forbidden both Zackie Achmat and Mark Heywood of the Aids Law Project to go to a UN Aids conference, saying that they’d just use the occasion to dump all over us again.”
‘You woke me up to tell me all this,” sighed Thabob Mugabeki. ‘Just send back an SMS telling Quimtessential Essop to congratulate Beetroot Bessie on behalf of myself and Matthias Rath.”
At the mention of the UN, Thabob Mugabeki wondered whether he’d be able to get back into the entirely pleasant dream about becoming its Secretary General. Moammar Gadaffi had once told Thabob Mugabeki that he’d worked out a way to get back into ruptured dreams, but Thabob Mugabeki could never get the Arabic mantras quite right.
‘I’ve already sent the SMS,” smirked the worried seventh personal assistant. ‘And I’ve saved the best two SMSs till last. The Honourable Principal Officer in Charge of Judicial Ethics has also sent an SMS. She wants to know whether you have any comments on some malicious noseweek reports about some Judge President or other being backhanded ten grand each month by an insurance company he’s been known to give judgements in favour of.”
‘Haven’t those lizard-brains heard about separation of powers?” snapped Thabob Mugabeki. ‘Send an SMS to Pius Langa and tell him to shovel this one under the carpet as well.”
‘And the last SMS was from the Deputy Minister in Charge of Hasty Dissimulation,” said the worried seventh personal assistant. She says you ought to know that it’s being said that Comrade Brett ripped off nearly two billion from RandGold, much of which has been trousered by venerable strugglers in our liberation movement. The rest went to pay for the ANC Youth League demonstrations outside the Johannesburg High Court.”
‘Utter bollocks,” snapped Thabob Mugabeki, who by now was fully awake. ‘The ANC has always recognised Brett Moneybags as a great South African and anyway, if some spare billions ever do come our way, the first thing they buy is a decent upgrade of this cramped little pisscat we’re flying in. Phumzile is insisting I pass on this aircraft to her for use on her shopping trips. I’ve got my eye on a new giant Airbus. I could have my own driving range on the upper deck.”
‘By the way, where are we going tonight?” asked Thabob Mugabeki as he slid back under his quilt.
‘Not sure yet,” said the worried seventh personal assistant. The pilot says the aircraft’s red-carpet detector is playing up again.”
Well, if he gets it working, come and call me. Otherwise, try to find some merciless internecine conflict I can resolve with a flick of my statesmanship. If all that fails tell the pilot to set course for Charles Taylor. It looks like I might have to step in on his behalf once again.