Unpresidented

by Paige Nick

  ‘I don’t need a job. I have a job already, I am the ex-President and future leader of this country, as I already told you the last time we met. And like it says in my official hashtag.’

  ‘Mr Muza, I’m sorry but we have to face reality. Being an “ex-President” isn’t a real job. And I have to be frank with you, this notion that you could run for president again in the future is also misguided. You yourself know all too well that the Constitution prohibits you from executing any further terms in office, not to mention that your criminal record would also stand in your way here.’

  ‘You worry too much, Miss Ngcobo. I have my lawyers working on a plan to overcome these small hurdles as we speak.”

  ‘Mr Muza, you’re not plotting to change the Constitution again, are you? We had this conversation last week. It’s simply not going to happen. And I’ve told you before, it’s “Mrs Ngcobo”.’

  ‘So you say, Mrs Ngcobo, so you say,’ he says, this time drawing out the word ‘Mrs’.

  Vuyokazi sighs. ‘But back to more pressing matters, Mr Muza, the state is well aware of the financial strains resulting from your trial and time in prison, and as a result, we see the need for you to have some form of gainful employment right now, or for you to perform community service, at the very least. We can’t have you continuing to live on the country’s account. Look, there’s no guarantee you would even get this job, it’s only in the kitchen of a local restaurant, but you do have to go for the interview. ’

  ‘I’m already working in my kitchen at home, I’m not going to do it in a restaurant too,’ Muza says.

  ‘Of course, I understand that it’s not an ideal position for a man of your age or stature, but it’s my responsibility as your corrections officer to ensure that you’re gainfully employed, and to help you integrate back into the community. And to help you change your attitudes and behaviour in order to reduce the chances of further offending.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that since I didn’t offend in the first place, that part of your job is unnecessary, Vuyokazi.’

  She gives him the most withering glare she has in her arsenal.

  ‘Mrs Ncgobo,’ he corrects himself quickly.

  ‘As I’m sure you understand, it’s not easy to find work for a convicted felon, particularly one with your reputation. You should seriously consider taking advantage of this opportunity I have created for you, Mr Muza. If you plan on reintegrating into the community, and becoming a contributing member of society again, this will be a big help. In short, we need a plan for you.’

  ‘But I have a plan; as soon as I find an investor, I’ll be set up again, and shortly after that, I will mount my campaign to become this country’s leader once more. That is my plan,’ Muza says, shifting in his seat.

  There’s a discreet knock on the door, and a nurse steps into the room holding a plastic cup with a red lid.

  ‘This is Nurse Kekana, Mr Muza. You’ll go with him now, and he’ll ensure your urine sample is collected according to our protocols. I’m afraid you’ll definitely have to wait in reception for that, Mr Stone.’

  ‘What are you writing there now?’ Muza says, leaning over to read what the journalist is scribbling on his pad.

  ‘I’m just taking notes,’ Stone says.

  ‘Nobody wants to read about me urinating, writer. Rather put there that the parole officer asked for my autograph and we took a selfie together for her Facebook page, because I’m such a great man.’

  ‘Mr Muza!’ Vuyokazi starts to object.

  ‘But she did no such thing. She asked you to pee in a cup,’ the writer interjects.

  ‘Gentlemen, please, if you don’t mind, I have a long list of parolees I need to attend to today, and you were rather late. Mr Muza, please go with Nurse Kekana immediately.’

  ‘Perhaps Miss Ngcobo is right, and you should rather wait outside until we’re finished, writer,’ Muza says.

  ‘Could I ask you a few very quick questions, Mrs Ngcobo?’ Mr Stone says as soon as Muza has left with the nurse. She gives him a long, cool stare and he subsides.

  ‘Thank you for coming and good luck,’ the parole officer says, pointing at the door. When she glances back at her desk as the door closes, she notices that her glass paperweight in the shape of an owl, another gift from Nelson, is missing.

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘Writer, you must put there in my book that after a successful visit with my delightful parole officer, who likes me a lot, we went for a very expensive meal at the finest restaurant in the city. And then we drank champagne and ate crayfish and caviar. And after that, we ordered a whole bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, the limited edition one, to celebrate such a great day. And you must also put there that many, many of the ordinary people of South Africa came to our table throughout the meal, to ask me for my autograph, as they always do.’

  ‘We’re at Steers,’ Stone says, dangling a soggy chip in the air. ‘And on the way here, a man in a passing car threw a cigarette butt at you.’

  ‘So? What does that have to do with my book of memories?’ Muza says.

  25 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE WRITER

  I sit at the desk in my rondavel and ponder the first line of this book that is supposedly going to solve all my problems. The opening line needs to be something really good. Something fantastic. It needs to draw the reader in immediately and alert them to the fact that this isn’t some bullshit schlock, and that I’m not a fraud. Let them know that this is the real deal, proper writing, the kind that deserves admiration and attention. Maybe even awards.

  My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type, ‘There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it.’

  Something like that, I think. Then I backspace. Not those words of course, but something sort of like that. Maybe I can follow the same structure?

  I start typing again. ‘There is a beautiful street that runs from Soweto to Illovo. The streets are tar-covered and careening, and they are more beautiful than any poetry.’ Except that’s crap and derivative. So, something better than that.

  I backspace to delete, then undo the delete and cut the sentence, create a new Word document called ‘Extras’ and paste it in there. Best not to delete everything. You never know when you may want to refer back to an old draft. And one day when this book is famous, surely academics will pay good money to see my working notes? See, I am a real writer, because I know tricks like that. Everything can be used at some point for something. Even the bits you throw away.

  I’m back to nothing again, and that damn blinking cursor. It’s okay, I console myself, starting is always the hardest part, whether it’s the first, second or hundredth time you do it. And nothing that was good ever came easy, everyone on Instagram says that. I know that once I’ve got this first line right, I’ll be off and away for sure. Anyway, the first line is what sets the tone for the whole thing, it’s supposed to be hard.

  I spend the next half hour considering which voice to write in. It’s a memoir, so probably first person. Or I could write it in the third person, I’ve heard Muza refer to himself in the third person on occasion. But that’s kind of an in-joke. So it’s a bit like winking in the dark. I scud that idea, but make a note of it over in ‘Extras’, in case I need to come back to it.

  Maybe I shouldn’t worry about this yet. I can figure out the voice later, once I’ve hit the ground running. I just need to get that first sentence down.

  So next decision, where in time to start the story?

  I could start in real time, round about now, throw in a bit of foreshadowing, and then look back to the past.

  I type, ‘It rained solidly all day on the day ex-President Muza was released from prison for the second time in his life.’

  I reread it a few times. It’s probably a bit too wordy. Inelegant. Is inelegant even a word? I get up, take a slash, and switch on the kettle. I don’t really want anoth
er cup of anything, but it gives me a reason to walk away from the screen. Maybe the opening line will look better when I come back to it, or elves will come bash at my keyboard while I’m not looking. Or if I’m really lucky, something better will come to me while I’m away from the screen.

  I come back to my desk. My opening sentence doesn’t look any better, those elves are bastards, and nothing else has come to mind.

  I drum my pen on the desk. I wonder if this is what writer’s block feels like? Sex normally helps when I can’t write. Sex keeps your mind busy, so your subconscious can do its best work undistracted by your brain, which is naturally an over-thinker.

  But there’s nobody to fuck out here. I could wank, but even I don’t want to have sex with myself right now. The situation is that dire.

  24 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘You’ve reached Kimesh Guppie, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’ Beeeeep.

  ‘Kimesh, it’s Muza, I’ve been struggling to get hold of you. I have some very urgent business matters we need to discuss. Please return my call as soon as possible. The signal in Dubai must be very, very bad because you and your brothers aren’t answering any of my calls. Angazi nje. But okay, talk soon.’

  ***

  Dear Oscar,

  I hope you are managing well and that your time there is going quickly. Maybe you would like to meet with my lawyer, comrade Zwelani. Your lawyers don’t seem to have managed very well, and with enough financial persuasion my comrade might be able help you out of that mess a little sooner. Perhaps you are just not speaking the right words in the ears of the right people.

  You would think with your medical issues that you would be a shoe-in for medical parole. Ha, I said ‘shoe-in’, sorry, forgive me. But surely you have a leg to stand on when it comes to medical parole. Okay, okay, enough with the jokes.

  The reason I am writing is not to be a stand-up comedian, but to tell you about a fantastic business opportunity that I think you will be interested in. For just a small initial investment, you could be making a lot of money very soon. Which might help unlock your circumstances.

  This is a matter of great urgency. It’s also highly confidential, so I don’t want to talk about it over email. You never know who is looking. Let me know if you’re interested and maybe we can Skype next time you have internet privileges, to discuss the details and so I can share my banking numbers with you.

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Your friend, Muza.

  ***

  Hello Robert, it’s your old pal, Muza.

  ...

  Yes, from South Africa. The ex-President.

  ...

  Yes, that’s right.

  ...

  No, I got out early. Medical parole. I can’t believe you still have the same number. I’m sure this is the same number you’ve had for the last fifty-three years. So how are things going there in Zimbabwe?

  ...

  Another term? Congratulations. That must be some kind of record, surely? What is that now, seventeen? I heard that your wife says you’re going to run for president as a corpse? Really? Well I’m not sure how that would work, but I like the sound of it. We should do lunch so I can pick your brains.

  ...

  Robert, I actually called because I want to chat to you about something important. I’m offering you the chance to invest in a real estate project I’m busy with right now. It’s a fantastic opportunity.

  ...

  I thought you might like to get in on this on the ground floor, being the great business mind that you are. Maybe it’s time, you know, for you to start thinking about slowing down and planning for the future, what with your hundredth birthday approaching. And with what I’m proposing you could make some extra cash for one day when you retire.

  ...

  Retire. You know, that thing when people step down, take it easy, take up a hobby like fishing or something.

  ...

  Robert, we can’t have a conversation if you’re going to spend the whole time laughing. I wasn’t even joking.

  ...

  Ahhh, Zimbabwe dollars, that’s kind of you to offer, but no thanks. It was nice chatting. Stay in touch, my old friend.

  ***

  ‘Hlaudi, comrade! Thank you for calling me back.’

  ‘No problem, Muza. I’m glad you called, I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you anyway, because I have a business proposal for you.’

  ‘No wait, that’s why I called you, comrade Hlaudi. I have a business proposal for you. I’m asking you to invest in my start-up. It’s a building company and a very great opportunity, with many new tenders lined up.’

  ‘No Muza, my friend, that’s why I’m calling you. I want YOU to invest in MY start-up, which is also a very great opportunity. Mine is a BEE NGO, also with many great new tenders lined up.’

  ‘So we are both looking for an investor?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘But what happened to all the millions you made during your time in broadcasting? All those performance bonuses? You really turned that place around, Hlaudi.’

  ‘You know how it goes, comrade. Swings and roundabouts. I’ve had some expenses – travel, divorces, legal fees, security, champagne.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Alright. I should go. I have other calls to make.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘See you around, comrade.’

  ‘Sure. Good luck with your business ventures.’

  ‘You too.’

  ***

  Pls call me

  Who dis?

  Its me Muza

  What u want?

  Julius, you know you've always been like a son to me. Even when you put on the red beret and went against me, I was so proud of you. I don't have a lot of airtime. Plz call me.

  ***

  ‘Julius, my old friend, thank you for answering my message and my prayers and calling me back.’

  ‘What do you want, Muza?’

  ‘I’ve got a business proposal for you, Julius, you could make a lot of money. All completely above board, of course.’

  ‘Muza, Muza, Muza, when days are dark, friends are few, hey?’

  ‘For a minimal investment up front, you could make all your money back and more, plus interest, in no time at all, Julius.’

  ‘Is it a pyramid scheme, Muza? It sounds like a pyramid scheme.’

  ‘No it’s not a pyramid scheme. You would be my partner, like in the old days.’

  ‘What kind of partner?’

  ‘I was thinking eighty–twenty.’

  ‘Hmmm, that doesn’t sound like a good business deal to me at all. I am an experienced entrepreneur now, Muza. It would have to be twenty–eighty. That seems only fair since it sounds like I’ll be providing the capital.’

  ‘In your favour? No, that’s not right, it’s my business idea after all.’

  ‘How much are we talking here, Muza?’

  ‘Fifty kay gets you in first, my good comrade.’

  ‘Fifty kay, and an eighty–twenty split in my favour?’

  ‘Can’t we even negotiate? What about seventy–twenty, or even since we go so far back, maybe I could even stretch to sixty–thirty? What do you say? I think sixty–thirty has a nice ring to it, don’t you?’

  ‘You know what else has a nice ring to it, Muza?’

  ‘No, what else has a nice ring to it, my old friend and future business partner?’

  Beeeeeeep.

  23 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE WRITER

  ‘So writer, where do you want to start our work on the bestseller today?’ Muza asks, spreading his arms along the back of the leather couch.

  I snort out a laugh. Any start would be useful at this point. ‘Maybe we could talk a bit about your time in prison, sir,’ I say.

  ‘Oh that’s easy. You must say that I was a great leader in prison. All the inmates looked up to me, and so did the gu
ards. You still haven’t found your recording machine?’ Muza asks, noticing that I’m taking notes by hand.

  ‘I’ll pick up a new one next time I’m in town,’ I say.

  ‘You should be more careful with your things. Okay, back to me,’ Muza says.

  ‘Alright, so what about the food, maybe we can talk about that? I know the food in prison isn’t great, but I’m sure it was a relief to be able to eat everything without worrying about being poisoned by one of your wives?’

  ‘Hayi, comrade, you of all people should know that you can’t believe everything you read in the press. None of my wives have ever tried to poison me, that is just the usual capitalist propaganda I always have to deal with. You know, instead of talking about that sort of nonsense, you should rather be asking about the positive impact I had on the other inmates and guards while I was in prison, and the workshops and courses and studies I did on the inside. Here, take this down, I’ll go slowly for you,’ Muza says as he begins pacing.

  ‘CHAPTER TWO,’ he says slowly, and then pauses. ‘Did you get that down, writer? I said, “Chapter Two”.’

  I scowl. He rubs his backside and scratches his chin, apparently deep in thought.

  ‘While I was in prison I read a great many books and studied many hard subjects. There were also a lot of important workshops I was able to attend to further my knowledge. I even did a creative writing course. And since I’ve always been so good at accountancy, I tried to combine my skills and suggested to the warden that I give a creative accountancy course for the other inmates. He was very excited about the idea, but sadly, the correctional facility’s budget didn’t stretch that far.’ Muza sighs and adjusts his spectacles with his middle finger.