by Paige Nick
BONANG: Fine, but you have very judgemental taste in men.
REFILWE: Yes. And you like men in cycling shorts.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Guys, where have you been? I’ve been alone all morning and I have many great problems,’ Muza says as two of his entourage step into the kitchen.
‘Sorry Nxamalala, we were…’
‘It’s good you’re finally here,’ Muza cuts the man off. ‘First I want to go to the writer and dictate the next chapter of my bestselling memories, and then after we are finished, I need you to go to the shops. And is there even anyone out at the gate?’
‘We can’t go with you, Msholozi,’ one of the men says, glancing at his companion, who encourages him with a nod.
‘Why not? I’ll buy you both a Sprite when we’re in town.’
‘Nxamalala, we need to talk. Andries and I have been very inspired by your entrepreneurial spirit, and we have decided to start a business.’
‘We even have a flyer,’ the other man says, handing Muza a slightly crumpled photostat.
The ex-President pushes his spectacles up his nose, then examines the flyer carefully. There’s a grainy photograph of women lying on the ground writhing and howling. One is pulling at her hair, another is tearing at her clothes. Below the image is text in capital letters. Muza reads it out loud:
‘DO YOU WANT TO BOOST YOUR FUNERAL?
WE HIRE OUT PROFESSIONAL MOURNERS TO COME AND CRY AT THE FUNERAL.
BELOW ARE THE PRICES:
NORMAL CRYING: R200 PER MOURNER
CRYING AND HOWLING: R300 PER MOURNER
CRYING AND ROLLING ON THE GROUND: R400 PER MOURNER
CRYING AND THREATENING TO JUMP INTO THE GRAVE: R500 PER MOURNER.’
‘You want to hire out mourners for funerals?’ Muza asks.
‘Yes, Msholozi, it’s our new business, Mourners-R-Us.’
‘But why?’
‘You know how the number of people at a man’s funeral and how much they mourn is a great indication of how important and rich and loved the man was in his lifetime?’
Muza nods.
‘So we are going to hire out professional mourners to go to funerals to honour the man who is late. So that he will be very honoured and well remembered by everyone.
‘And you made these flyers yourselves?’
‘Yes,’ Andries says proudly. ‘Well your wives helped us a bit. They were very generous and let us use their printer, scanner, and faxing machine.’
Muza bristles. ‘And you think you’re just going to put them up around town and get business just like that? Bafana bam, I can tell you now, this foolish plan will never work.’
‘We already put the posters up, Nxamalala, and our company is in great demand. We have four funerals in the Eastern Cape to attend this month. We’re even thinking of branching out and creating Blessers-R-Us too.’
‘Really chaps, you should have come to me sooner. I didn’t know you were such entrepreneurs. But don’t worry, it’s still not too late, this is your lucky day. It’s good that I am so forgiving, because I am still willing to be your partner and help you achieve great success with this business.’
The two men glance at each other.
‘Oh, we couldn’t accept such a generous offer, Nxamalala. Thank you. You are too great a man for this kind of job, it is too far below your stature. And anyway, we mostly hire women, because they are very good criers,’ Moe says. Andries nods in agreement.
‘I can cry very well too. Did you not see me at my trial?’ Muza boasts.
‘Sorry but we have to go now, Msholozi,’ Andries says, tugging at Moe’s sleeve. ‘We have a meeting at an after-tears to attend.’
They shake hands with Muza and scuttle out. Muza hears the front door close and the dog barking outside, punctuated by goat bleats. It’s suddenly very quiet in the kitchen.
Muza reaches for his dictaphone: ‘What a disaster. How can I be the future supreme leader without an entourage? And I wanted them to go buy me some Niknaks and amasi. Who will go for me now? Where do you even buy such things?’
Muza presses stop, then examines the flyer, made on his printer, paid for out of his own pocket! He crumples it up in his fist, then freezes as an idea strikes him. He smooths the flyer out and examines it again closely.
This unfortunate thing has given him a very fortunate idea.
27 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WRITER
There’s a knock and the top half of the rondavel door swings open. It’s Muza, wearing the same tracksuit pants and vest as yesterday.
‘Writer, are you in here?’
‘No, I’m back in Jozi,’ I say.
‘Comrade, the thing is, I have to pay these rates and back taxes I owe on the Homestead from when I was in prison.’
‘Brilliant, I’m happy for you.’
‘Good, because I need your help.’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘I need you to write something for me.’
‘Believe it or not, that’s why I’m here,’ I say.
‘No, not the memories, those are easy. I need your help writing something much more important.’
‘Of course, what was I thinking? Why on earth would we write your memoir that I’m being paid for and that’s due in twenty-seven days, when we could work on something else altogether? How foolish of me.’
‘Writer, you must focus, I need you to write a flyer for my new business. It needs to be bold and make a statement. Really catch the eye.’
‘You have a new business? What do you want the flyer to say?’
‘Something along the lines of, “Come see Dr Muza, MD Dr PhD. He can heal all your problems. Death, disease, lost lover, tumour, sexual problems, indigestion, lack of faith. I even have some experience with ingrown toenails…”’
‘You’re not a doctor.’
‘Yes I am. I have four different honorary doctorates from four different universities around the world. I have an Honorary Doctorate in Administration from the University of Zululand. I have an honorary Doctorate in Philosophy from the Medical University of Southern Africa. I also have an Honorary Professorship in International Relations from the Peking University of Business, and I have an Honorary Doctorate in Literature from the University of Fort Hare in Harare.
‘Um, I think the University of Fort Hare is in the Eastern Cape,’ I say.
‘Don’t distract me, writer. Here I’ve been wracking my brains all day and all night since this letter came for me from the municipality, wondering how I can make this money that I need to pay, and the whole time the solution has been right smack bang behind my name all along. I am going to save lives with these doctorates and make a lot of money at the same time.’
‘Have you put them to practical use before?’
‘No, but they say that being a doctor is like riding a bicycle.’
‘I’m not sure anyone really says that.’
‘Well, they should.’
‘So let me get this straight. Your plan is to make flyers, put them up everywhere, get a bunch of clients, and earn enough to pay this money you owe the municipality, by being a healer?’ I ask.
‘Exactly.’
‘And you think you’re going to make enough money in twenty-seven days to pay them back? How much do you owe, anyway?’
‘I am very famous, you know. As soon as people hear about this, they will come to me for help from all four corners of the continent.’
‘You’re right. That’s a brilliant plan. I can’t imagine what could go wrong.’
‘I knew you’d come around.’
‘I was being facetious. But sir, maybe you can help me? I could be your first client. I have a really big problem. You see, I have only twenty-seven days to write a whole memoir for an ex-President, and so far I’ve got exactly two thousand four hundred and twenty-seven words, and they are all truly terrible words. And the problem is that the person I have to ghostwrite this memoir for doesn’t want to meet with me or give me any tru
thful information. Can you help me with that, do you think?’
‘I can fix that problem for you easily,’ he says.
‘You can?’
‘Yes, sure, absolutely. I even have a money-back guarantee. If you aren’t one hundred per cent happy with the results, I will refund your money in full. By the way, that is also something we need to put on our flyer,’ he says, waving a finger in the air.
‘Okay, great. Let’s hear your solution then, Doctor.’
‘That will be ten thousand randelas, money up front, please, cash only, no cheques, credit cards, debit cards or snapscans,’ says Muza, holding his hand out palm-up.
‘I’m not paying you! And anyway, you already owe me money.’
‘Aha, somebody owes you money? You have come to the right place, my friend. That is another problem that Dr Muza MD Dr PhD can help you with; we must put that on the flyer too. But having me help you with that will cost you another ten thousand. Money up front, cash only, no cheques, credit cards, debit cards or snapscans.’
‘Surely you know this is never going to work?’ I say.
‘Do you have four hundred thousand and half a twenty you can lend me? Because if you don’t, this plan is going to have to work.’
‘You really think that if I had that kind of money, I’d still be in this dump?’
‘This is not a dump, this is my family legacy, but if I don’t come up with the cash, it will literally become a rubbish dump. Do you know they’re threatening to kick me out and turn this place into a landfill site? Can you believe it? This majestical palace, this ancestral home of greatness for decades. It’s a disgrace of our modern times. Our children will look back on this as a dark time in history. What did I ever do to them?’
‘I’ve got to be honest, you kind of had it coming,’ I say.
‘What do you mean? I never did anything wrong,’ Muza shouts.
‘How can you say that? Do you really believe that you weren’t responsible for spiralling this country into junk status?’
‘It wasn’t me, I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘You’re right, you didn’t do anything. You just sat and giggled while the country went down the tubes. Oh, I beg your pardon. You were busy. Busy looting and plundering.’
‘Nobody understands. I was too far in. The people around me became too powerful, in the end all I could do was hang on and try to keep my feet dry as long as possible, even though my island was shrinking and the sharks were circling.’
‘You still failed the poor and the most vulnerable. You failed us all.’
‘Listen comrade writer, you haven’t been so morally sound yourself.’
‘No, but all I did was lie about a man with cancer and disgust a whole bunch of media-reading coffee-drinking manbuns and wokes, and then I broke Twitter. You robbed a nation blind, and then sold it to the highest bidder. That’s far more destructive.’
‘Call it what you want, writer, but you and I, we’re not so different.’
There is a pause.
‘So what do we do next?’ I say eventually.
‘I say we make my posters,’ he offers.
‘Honestly sir, I mean it, it’s a terrible idea. And it will never work. Can’t we work on the book instead?’
‘But if we don’t make my flyers, how am I going to pay back the money in twenty-seven days?’
‘I don’t know, I guess the same way I’m going to write a book in twenty-seven days. Our luck has to turn at some point.’
‘Oh luck, good idea. Maybe I will win the lottery. That would solve all my problems.’
‘Have you bought a ticket?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Sir, what about a compromise?’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Well, how about we do a chapter for your memoir now quickly, and then after that we can discuss your flyer?’
‘Okay, but I don’t want to talk about the day I was released from prison anymore,’ Muza grumbles.
‘Well, since we were just talking about your, er, involvement in things before you went away, how about we talk about the trial?’
‘Okay, you want to talk about the trial, let’s talk about the trial. Take this down, writer,’ Muza says, then begins pacing the room, scratching his chin.
‘The thing about my trial is that I was innocent. Absolutely, totally, completely and one hundred per cent innocent. And now I will tell you why. Are you getting this all down?’
I groan as I reach for my pen. I can’t even find my bloody dictaphone. So much for luck.
26 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE PAROLE OFFICER
The Timex was a gift from her husband, Nelson, when she graduated law cum laude, and Vuyokazi thinks of him every time she looks at it. This afternoon, as she looks at it, she also thinks about daggers and bullets. Her next client is already forty-seven minutes late, which isn’t surprising.
She straightens the papers on her desk, then opens his file and scans it. More to keep her hands busy than anything else; she doesn’t need to reread it, she memorised it weeks ago. There’s a rap on the door, and Jeremiah Muza saunters into her spartan but neat office.
‘It is me, sisi, I am arrived,’ he says.
Of all the Community Corrections Offices in all of the towns, in all of the countries, in all of the world, he has to walk into mine, she thinks.
‘Nice of you to join us at last, Mr Muza,’ Vuyokazi says, adjusting her spectacles and trying not to let her annoyance show. It’s not her job to judge the offenders, she reminds herself. But if it was, she thinks, she would have judged him a lot more harshly than his trial judge did.
A tall man with a scrubby beard and hair that flops over his forehead follows Muza into her office. Last week, he also brought a crowd along. Eight men, bathed in eight different colognes, who all tried to cram into her little space until she put her foot down and sent them out to wait in the reception area. Who knew corrections could be a spectator sport? But at least today it’s just this grumpy-looking guy, hovering behind Muza, clutching a pen and notepad.
‘It’s truly wonderful to see your beautiful face again, sisi,’ Muza says, taking her hand in his, then covering it with his other hand before shaking it. She has to wriggle her hand out of his grasp. ‘Did you miss me, Vuyokazi? I missed you terribly, I had an ache the whole week, and it wasn’t just in my toe,’ Muza says, easing himself into the seat across from her desk and wincing.
Vuyokazi scribbles a note about his limp. She jots down ‘toe – left or right?’
‘As we discussed last week, Mr Muza, it’s probably more appropriate if you call me Mrs Ngcobo. And once again, if your companion could wait for you in the reception area, that would be ideal. We won’t be long here.’
‘Relax, sisi, you worry too much. My whole entourage is already waiting for me out there. This man is actually my professional writer, his name is Mr Stone. He’s documenting my life and writing my memories. It’s going to be a very important book in history, and you are lucky to be part of it. Writer, this is Miss Ngcobo, the most beautiful parole officer in the world.’
Vuyokazi pointedly adjusts the picture-stand holding a photo of Nelson and her on their wedding day, turning it slightly more towards Muza.
The writer extends his hand across the desk to shake hers, but she leaves him hanging. She recognises him now; isn’t he that journalist who was recently embroiled in a media scandal? Some cancer article he’d written that was full of fraudulent ‘alternative facts’, as people seem to be calling them these days. What in her day simply used to be known as ‘lies’.
‘Mr Stone, it’s nothing personal, but I’m afraid we don’t allow anyone to sit in on these meetings.’ She wants to add, particularly journalists with questionable ethics, but decides to leave that bit out. ‘I did discuss this with Mr Muza at his last appointment.’
Stone drops his hand.
‘It’s fine, he has my executive permission to stay. Sit, sit, Mr Stone,’ says Muza, reaching u
p and pulling down on Stone’s sleeve, forcing him to take his seat.
‘Mr Muza, this is very unusual, and I’m really not comfortable having anyone join us, especially a journalist.’
‘I won’t utter a peep, I swear, you won’t even know I’m here,’ the writer says.
Vuyokazi closes her eyes and counts to three, her lips a dissatisfied line.
‘Let me say, sisi, it is clear to me that you are ten times more beautiful today than you were last time I was here,’ Muza says.
‘That’s inappropriate, Mr Muza, and as we discussed last week, I’d rather keep this meeting about you, if you don’t mind. Now why don’t we get started, given that we’re already running late. How are you managing settling back into life at the Homestead after your time in prison?’
‘Things have been excellent, sisi. Truly excellent. South Africans are so grateful to have me back. They have been throwing massive rallies in my honour all over the show. There was one the other day at Orlando Stadium in Soweto. There wasn’t one empty seat, and not a dry eye in the whole place on that day.’
‘Is that so, Mr Muza?’ Vuyokazi asks, scribbling notes on her pad.
‘You should probably also get that down,’ Muza says to Stone. ‘Where is your fancy recording machine?’
‘I can’t find it. You haven’t seen it anywhere, have you?’
‘The last time I saw it you had it,’ Muza says.
‘Please, gentlemen. Mr Muza, you do realise that you are under house arrest, and if you broke your curfew or travelled to another province for some kind of rally, you would be violating the terms of your parole, and that would be a criminal offence?’
Muza looks shifty. ‘Of course, of course, you will be pleased to hear that I was able to attend these rallies via that technological marvel, Skype. So I was able to make my many, many fans happy, and keep you parole people happy too. Technology these days, hey? Isn’t it really remarkable? I’m on Twitter too now, you should follow me. I’m @JMuza, #exfutureprez.’
‘Perhaps we can continue. Mr Muza, today I was hoping to discuss a job interview I’ve managed to secure on your behalf, and after that I need you to provide a urine sample. I will call my male nurse, and he will go with you to ensure it’s carried out according to procedure.’
