Ngiyabonga, Comrade Jesus
Tuesday. My mind should be focused on moving copy faster than normal.
Durban is glorious. There’s no easterly. The water is calling my name. Loudly.
Deadlines come a day early this week, courtesy of the Easter holiday. Nobody reads newspapers on Good Friday, so we hit the streets a day early. It means one day less to climb the weekly mountain of deadlines, but I’m cool. Thursday becomes a day off. One less day in harness as a modern-day serf. One less day being exploited as a wage slave. An extra day’s leisure to deaden the pain of a life of servitude.
Thank you, Comrade Jesus.
The imperialists and their lackeys murdered you in Palestine more than 2 000 years ago but the working class in a fair-sized chunk of the planet is still benefiting from your sacrifice today.
Not bad for the son of a carpenter.
I’m not just happy to be spared the overlord’s lash for an extra few days. This time last year I was getting ready to spend Good Friday following Daddy around for a Sunday newspaper. Preparing to watch in disgust as some church leader or another got cosy with uBaba kaStateCapture. Getting ready to choke back the bile at the sight of the name of a good comrade like Jesus Christ being abused to promote Daddy. Girding my loins to hold it together long enough to file. Stagger home, emotionally flagellated. Sickened.
What a way to spend Easter. It’s no surprise that I drank so much.
One wonders how the church lahnees feel now about anointing Daddy while he was head of state?
All those bishops who placed their hands on Daddy’s double head. The prophets who prayed for Daddy — publicly — while knowing he was robbing us blind. Selling us to the Guptas. To child-molesting perlemoen smugglers.
How are the cardinals feeling this Easter, knowing that the cat they endorsed, whose hand they asked their God to make strong, got fired for having his fingers in the till? Perhaps they’re praying for forgiveness. Perhaps not.
I wonder how Daddy’s gonna spend this Easter? All the church lahnees will be wanting CR17 to be sitting in their front row, not Daddy, so I doubt any of the big ones will want him around. The postbox at Nxamalala must be empty this year. Invites? Dololo. Maybe he’ll stay at his pozi. Go for a swim in the fire pool. Watch a movie in the bunker.
I wonder how many invites Cyril Ramaphosa got to attend services on Good Friday? And for Easter Sunday. There must be a room full of them at the Union Buildings.
I wonder how those who hosted Daddy in the past will act when they meet up with CR17? Will they play dumb or will they whisper a quick apology in his ear? Will they promise The Buffalo a couple of bar for the ANC’s 2019 election campaign? Or will they offer to undo the prayers they prayed for Daddy? Promise not to pray for Juju. Or Mmusi. One wonders.
Daddy might find a few churches in KwaZulu-Natal that will let him in. They’re like that down here.
The deacons will have to watch Daddy with the collection plate though. Daddy’s the kind of cat who’ll put in a R10 note. Distract the deacon. Scoop out a handful of notes in the wink of an eye. Faster than you can say Gupta.
Then again, Daddy may start his own church.
Cut out the middleman, as it were. Anoint himself as Bishop Butternut. Get Edward and Duduzani into their deacon suits, working the aisles with those money bags chained to their wrists. Like Benny Hinn’s crew.
I can picture Daddy’s church moving from town to town around KwaZulu-Natal. Weekend prayer sessions ahead of major court appearances. Pay and pray for pappa.
There’s money to be made.
Get the wives into a choir. Record a gospel version of Awleth’ Umshini Wami. Daddy up front. MaKhumalo and company on backing vocals. Khulubuse twerking in the music video. Bangin’.
I’d cough up R100 for that. Any day.
The fact is, there’s enough believers in KwaZulu-Natal still for Daddy to pull a decent following. There’s enough cats here who don’t give a toss about the impending corruption trial about the payments from Schabir Shaik, or state capture for that matter. Enough cats who believe it’s still their time to “eat’’ and don’t want to accept the reality that Daddy’s gone.
Thankfully the slave master who put me on my personal cross every Easter for almost a decade viewed me as surplus to requirement. Cast me aside like a used condom. Gave me a Don’t Come Monday. Retrenched my ass.
As a result we’re heading down the South Coast with my man Jikijela and his clan on Thursday. Five days of fishing. Bodysurfing. Big spliffs on the beach. No Daddy. No CR17. No deadlines.
Thanks again, Comrade Jesus.