Saturday morning. Launch of biography last night downstairs in the Albert Luthuli Memorial Log-Bar and still as giddy as a schoolgirl. Slept in my tux, just didn’t want it to end. Mistake, though: forgot I had smuggled out crème brûlée in breast pocket for celebratory nosh-up in bed after lights out and presidential duvet now covered with ants. See how they scuttle about so industriously. Is there a metaphor in this? Now that face is in bookshops must start being more literary. Do the ants represent hard-working Africa, slowly redistributing the crème brûlée of Western hegemony as they begin to bestride the crocheted quilt of globalisation? Gosh, this author stuff is hard. Will brush teeth and think about my legacy and possible lit awards.
Lunch update: Got toothpaste on bathroom copy of Fit to Govern, and while fetching replacement copy from safe, struck once again by extreme hotness of cover portrait. V. glad went with the front-on look, eyebrow slightly raised. Ronald says it’s tres Denzel, and Bheki says ideological positioning on lapel of Aids ribbon is perfect: front and centre, but small enough not to upset Mathias and Manto. Still worried about hands, though. Never know what to do with hands. Thank God for podiums and clenched fist salutes. Maybe for second edition could be holding a dove and an Uzi. Too much? Maybe just some share certificates then. Will ponder over lunch, and consider legacy some more.
Sunday. Horrible smell in bedroom traced to pork chop in tux trousers. NB — get Bheki to frisk me for snacks before putting me to bed next time. Totally priceless, that Bheki. And right, too. Read his comments from launch again: ”The president is not seeking to shut down his attackers. They must speak. But they must not shut him down when he takes the right to reply.” Amen. Just last week was writing 2 000-word pre-emptive right to reply for the website, and they shut me down. Lights out, computer dead, everything. The reactionaries are everywhere.
Bheki says the media is ”old and white with new native assistants”. I find this sort of statement very disturbing. What sort of wriggle room does it leave my successor when the media is all young and black but remains critical of his administration? (Note: be careful of gender assumptions. His/her administration? Oh, for God’s sake, who am I kidding: his administration.)
Perhaps Bheki or his appointed heir can fashion some sort of conspiracy around old whites paying off young blacks who are victims of the slave mentality, which means that … which means that … must ask Ronald what it means, he is dead clever with words. Or perhaps … Hot DAMN, have just caught glimpse of cover again. Hello sailor. Yes you. Yes, you. I don’t see anyone else, do you? Right back atcha. No you are. No, you.
Monday. Raptures. Papers report that CNA has sold 42% of its stock of my book! The legacy lives! Albeit next to Paulo Coelho and the Princess Diana bio. But still. Aside: re Diana bio — call Essop P to pitch new image concept — The Prince of Hearts. The bastards will love me even if it means branding every last one a racist or a Zuma-ite.
Later: am wracked with doubt about integrity of media spelling. Was it CNA or ANC? If ANC, am livid that only 42% sold. Note: get Bheki or Smuts to write pre-emptive denial of schism in case I decide to imply a schism. Have also decided it is better to be respected than liked. Don’t care if CNA only sells 4%. I have my native intelligence, and Ronald says that’s what counts.
Hope they sell 42% though.
No, I don’t. Yes I do. No I don’t. Oh God, why is it all so complicated? Wish ants were still here so could lose self in metaphors. Will lose self in a Kit-Kat instead.
Tuesday. Trouble. Robert called from Harare, has got wind of launch and wants Ronald to do one for him too, a sort of sequel. Faxed through cover mock-up of 2 Fit 2 Govern: The Ultra-Native Mega-Intelligence of Robert Mugabe. Holding a dove and an Uzi. Bastard. Share certificates it is.
Midnight. Can’t sleep. Have tried to lure back ants with open can of Sparletta on nightstand but they are having none of it. Bheki confirmed it was the CNA, but this doesn’t help. What if they’re all mistaking Fit to Govern for a diet and fitness guide? What if the cadres ask me to do a push-up at a rally? Is it treason if someone tries to pinch my tummy to establish my Body Mass Index? NB: get Bheki to buy terrarium tomorrow.
Wednesday, 3.13am. Cold sweat and racing heart. Horrible, horrible nightmare. Dreamt I went to the loo, but instead of bog-roll there was only a sheaf of pages torn out of my book, each with the word ”Legacy” scrawled across it. Found the cover, and for first time saw tiny print, almost invisible: Fit to (be mentioned in the same breath as) Govan?
Will they respect me in the morning?