by Paige Nick
‘In my spare time, because I am a learned man, I also counselled my fellow prisoners on their cases.’
‘Of course you did,’ I say, rolling my eyes. I make a quick note that his limp, favouring his right-hand side, seems to have gotten worse. I believe that it’s these small, private observations that will make this memoir stand apart from anything else written about this man so far. Nobody else has gotten up this close and personal with him. If I can just get him to stick to the facts, there might be redemption in this book for both of us.
‘But it is important to note,’ Muza continues, ‘now that I am out of prison and resuming my life at my Homestead as a great leader, my mind is not at peace. I will outline my thoughts for you, so that you, the reader, can come on this journey of truth and redemption with me. Exclamation mark.’
Relief washes over me. Perhaps in amongst all the bullshit and exclamation marks, there will be something that I can use, if I’m patient and wait him out. And if I handle it with the right tone, this book could even win prizes. Imagine if I unearthed the real man behind the story? Is he the puppet or the puppeteer? What actually happened when he was in power? Who really pulled the strings? Imagine if he was willing to name names? I could win a Pulitzer. Then I’ll be back on everyone’s Christmas card list for sure. Nobody ever badmouths a Pulitzer Prize winner, at least not to their face.
Muza stops pacing for a moment and licks his lips. He’s building up to his next big thought, so I turn to a fresh page in my Moleskine.
‘Today I was photographed here at the Homestead for Time magazine. They are proposing me for Man of the Year again. It will be a great honour to be remembered in this way. I wonder if anyone has ever been given this privilege twice? I don’t think even my Russian friend, Mr Trump, was favoured this way.’
‘What the hell?’ I blurt.
‘What?’ Muza says.
‘I’ve been following you around all day. I did the same yesterday and the day before that. You haven’t had any calls or visitors, let alone a team from Time magazine. We went to your parole meeting the other day, and you had to piss in a cup, but that was it. Today you tweeted a bit, then you spent an hour trying to figure out how to use Snapchat and taking new profile selfies, and then you sent your only remaining heavy out to fetch Chinese takeaways, and when he got back, you sent him all the way back because he forgot the prawn chips. You must be deluded if you think that anyone is going to believe this drivel, or that I would even write it. Do you think I have no integrity at all, sir?’ I spit out the word ‘sir’.
‘Do you really want me to answer that, writer?’ Muza says, cackling as he challenges me.
My blood boils over and I explode: ‘You know what? You were a terrible president. You stole money and jobs and lives. You single-handedly took a great country and turned it into a dump. You pissed all over democracy. At what point will you take the South African people seriously, instead of seeing them as disposable pawns with deep pockets and an astonishingly large tolerance for your lies?’
‘At last, the white writer shows me who he really is. A privileged, racist, has-been mommy’s boy, who is perfectly willing to lie on his own time, but suddenly grows a pair of morals as soon as it comes to anyone else. Let me remind you that it was YOUR white apartheid government that did the plundering first. Black lives didn’t matter to you then, but now that it suits you, you’re willing to blame me for all the poverty resulting from the socio-economic imbalances of the past. I will not be your easy scapegoat, writer. How am I supposed to focus on my memories when faced with such baseless accusations? I leave you to ponder the error of your ways.’
Muza tries to storm out and slam the door behind him, but the handle falls off, and the door swings back open again. What’s left of his entourage, now down to a guy in a Rastafarian beanie, hurries out after him.
‘That went well,’ I say to the empty room.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
To any of the Guppies, if you are reading this, please check your voice mail #exfutureprez #votemuza
8 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
xiting & groundbraking photo shoot happening at the Homestead 2day - watch press for details #exfutureprez #voteformuza
8 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
you cn now fllow me on Snapchat too - I’m @JMuza. Will be talking about my plans for this country’s great future. #exfutureprez #vote4muza
7 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
nyone know how 2 work snapchat? #exfutureprez #vote4muza
5 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
Snapchat quite complicated #exfutureprez #vote4muza
5 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
prawn chips r underrated #exfutureprez #vote4muza
4 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
Sum writers are anoying. #exfutureprez #vote4muza
3 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
White monopoly capital must fal. #exfutureprez #vote4muza
3 hours ago
Jeremiah G Muza @JMuza
4get snapchat its stupid and full of propaganda. I’m on Instagram: @JMuza #futurepresident fllow me for gr8 ideas #exfutureprez #vote4muza
1 hour ago
Jeremiah G Muza @exfutureprez
This past day has been 100% extremly productive and successful #futurepresident #vote4muza
30 mins ago
22 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WIVES
‘How was it, how was it? Tell me everything! Did he like your dress? Where did you go? I’ve been waiting hours for you to come home.’
‘Bonang, you are so clever, the dress was great. I couldn’t tell if he really liked it, or if he hated it a lot, because he kept trying to get me to take it off.’
‘You didn’t…?’
‘NO, Bonang, of course not! What do you take me for?’
‘I don’t know, we’re adults, we have needs.’
‘Yes, and my needs include a man who doesn’t take me to a shisa nyama at a shebeen for a first date. And doesn’t try split the bill at the end.’
‘Oh no, he didn’t.’
‘Oh yes, he did.’
‘Eish, I’m sorry. Now I’m glad I didn’t insist you take me with to meet his brother.’
‘And his breath, oh sister, for heaven, his breath.’
‘You’re so brave. I don’t think I could face dating in the modern age.’
Refilwe’s iPhone pings and she reaches for it.
‘Is that him? Maybe he wants to take you out again, this time to a KFC drive-through?’
‘No, this is another one. He seems much better than that last one. I have a really good feeling about this, skwiza, he’s a pastor.’
21 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WRITER
The thatch roof is crawling with bugs. To be fair, I’ve only seen two, but in my mind it’s infested with them.
What if one burrows through my ear into my brain while I’m asleep? I once read about these bugs that crawl in through your cock and lodge inside you, then eat their way out. Although those may only exist in rivers in the jungles of South America. Then again, this is the sticks, so I wouldn’t put it past there being some mutant version of the same thing here. That’s the problem being a writer: imagination.
I’m dying here. No TV, no internet, not even any porn. No mall, no restaurants, no friends, no chicks, no material for my new book. I’ve finally figured out what circumstances need to exist to make an adult male want to phone his mother.
I reach for my Nokia and fumble with the buttons until I locate the contacts. Android phones must have been invented by a psychopath.
‘Hi, Mom.’
‘Oh Matty, are you okay?’
‘Ummm … as well as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose.’
‘I don’t understand any of this, Matty.
The phone keeps ringing and people shout at us when we answer it, and someone wrote a bad word on my car when I was parked at the hairdresser. Maybe if you explained it to me one more time, I would understand why this is happening to us.’
‘The whole thing was an accident, Mom, I told you. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘But how can you accidentally make up a bunch of fake quotes and claim that a cancer patient said them, love? Especially since you knew they were going to print it in that magazine, and the man would read what you wrote. And he would be very angry and tell everyone that none of it was true. Why would you write things like that, Matty? I’m your mother, I love you no matter what. I just want to understand what happened.’
‘It’s hard for me to explain right now, Mom. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into the whole thing. But I’m busy with this really important new project I told you about, and hopefully when the book comes out, all of this trouble will pass.’
‘Oh Matty, I meant to tell you, a black man came here looking for you the other day.’
‘Mom, you know you don’t have to whisper the word “black”. And you could just say that a man came to look for me.’
‘But he was black,’ she says, whispering the word again.
‘Was he a journalist? You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?’
‘No, of course not. I just told him you were on an assignment on location, writing a book for the ex-President.’
‘Why would you tell a stranger that, Mom? I told you it was top secret.’
‘He wasn’t a stranger. He said he was an old school friend of yours.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I told you, Matty, he was a black. You know, a … native.’
‘Again with the whispering, Mom. Do you know what he wanted?’
‘He’s from the old boys committee from your high school. They’re putting together a reunion. It sounds like they’re planning a lovely evening. Although, to be frank, Matty, your father and I think it would be best if you don’t go after everything that’s happened. They may not be so happy to see you this year. Maybe you could wait and go when they have it again next year. John, that’s his name! John said they’ll be planning one every year from now on. Or maybe you could donate some money. They always like it when alumni do that.’
‘Mom, there is no high-school reunion.’
‘Oh, did they get in touch with you to say they’d cancelled it?’
‘No, there never was one, Mom.’
‘I know, that’s what the black man, sorry, what John said the other day. That’s why he’s organising the first one.’
‘Mom, I went to a model C school. There were no black kids in our schools back then, remember?’
‘Oh. That’s odd. He was definitely a black. But he was terribly polite.’
Someone beats a tattoo on my door. Saved by the bell.
‘Mom, there’s someone at the door, I’ll call you right back, okay?’ I cut her off.
‘Who is it?’ I call out. There are three more urgent knocks.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I say as I heave myself off the bed. Maybe it’s Muza, ready to stop bullshitting and finally give me some decent words. I’m a foot away from the stable door when there are two loud bangs. One as the top half splinters off one of its hinges and swings into the room, and another as I get hit in the face. And then everything goes black.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
The ex-President and the last remaining member of his entourage sit on the leather couches in the lounge eating large bowls of Coco Puffs. The Rastafarian eats his with an ice-cream scoop, because Muza got the last clean spoon.
‘Why can’t we get Steers, Nxamalala?’ the Rasta asks.
‘Have you got imali for Steers, mfana wam’?’ Muza asks.
The man shakes his head.
‘Is Sizwe watching the gate? Maybe he’s got some cash.’ Muza says.
‘Sizwe said I must tell you he had to go, he got a job as a security guard at a gated complex.’
‘So there’s nobody on the gate anymore?’
The man shakes his head. Muza scratches his belly, then pushes his spectacles up his nose.
‘That’s not good, comrade. Let’s pick someone up to come stand at the gate when we go to town later.’
‘We’re going to town? Can we go get Steers?’
‘No, I need you to take me to the bank, I have a very important meeting. I am going to ask them for a loan.’
‘Then can we go to Steers afterwards?’
‘Maybe, if I get the loan.’
‘Oh.’ The comrade slumps back, disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I can take you,’ he says.
‘Why not?’
‘I have to drive my mother to church, Nxamalala.’
‘But I thought you wanted to go to Steers?’ Muza says.
‘Yes, but I don’t think you’re going to get that loan.’
‘Of course I will, ntwana, don’t you know who I am?’
‘Yes, I know that you’re the ex-President and future leader of South Africa, but I’m not so sure that the men at the bank will know that. I think I’d better drive my mother to church instead, those ladies sometimes have biscuits. Thanks for the cereal,’ he says, putting the empty bowl down.
Muza waves him away as he leaves, then finishes the last of the chocolate milk in the bowl. It’s his favourite part, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day, even at two in the afternoon. He then takes out the dictaphone, presses record and speaks into it as he walks to his office in the kitchen.
‘And so my entourage is shrinking. When I first got out of prison, there were many, many people here all day. Mostly old friends and relations. It’s funny how many cousins you have when the bottle is full. But as my resources have dwindled, and my problems have grown, friends, family and comrades and even paid friends, family and comrades have been quick to move on. Even the Rastafarian doesn’t want to be here anymore, and he’s a pretty relaxed guy.
‘I know that my Homestead isn’t the plush, opulent place of comfort that it used to be. We tried to cover up the rudest of the graffiti, but there are still some bad words painted on the walls. Fortunately my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are overseas now, because mothers don’t like their children to see that kind of thing.
‘Also, I can’t blame my comrades and business connections for not being here. It’s not so easy to get past the press and paparazzi who have been camped outside the Homestead ever since I got out of prison, photographing and reporting on every single coming and going. Nobody of any kind of importance, no matter how small, wants to be in the news. If it wasn’t for this, I know all of them would be here, queuing up to support me.
‘Meanwhile my wives are too busy to be nice to me, and I suspect they are still secretly trying to poison me.
‘But don’t feel sorry for me, I’ve suffered worse. I have been alone many times before. Good riddance to them all, I’m better off without them. They eat too much anyway, and they forget the prawn chips.
‘So here I am, just me and you and this thing around my ankle. This metal cuff, with a small digital box and a red light to show that it’s activated. We tried to get it off the other day with a breadknife, but Sizwe stabbed Theo, and then the snake’s-tongue end of the knife snapped off. We also tried to break one of the hinges with a pair of nail clippers, but it’s tougher than it looks. We even tried to melt it off with a Bic lighter, but now I don’t have any hairs left on my ankle, and Theo got a burnt thumb to add to his stabbed hand, and he had to go to the day clinic and then he didn’t come back. This thing isn’t going anywhere. It and I: we are together in this through thick and thin and fire and breadknives.
‘Imagine if they had installed one of those Fitbit things inside the cuff too, that’s the least they could have done. I could be recording all my steps every day, which would be a big help in getting enough points so I could have an iWatch free from Discovery.
‘
There are many things I will do when I am the Great Leader once again, and fitting all parole ankle bracelets with Fitbits is one of them. It will be my first great act as the new boss of South Africa. Or maybe my second great act: my first will probably be taking back my very own office here at the Homestead.’
Muza glances at his Rolex. He presses stop on the dictaphone and slips it into a kitchen drawer, then waddles into his wives’ office.
‘I need someone to drive me to the bank.’
‘And I need to finish fifteen skirts by the end of the day, but you don’t see me making my problems your problems, do you?’ Bonang says.
‘It’s of utmost importance that I go now, Bonang. Soon the bank will close and then it will be too late,’ Muza whines.
‘Baba, I’m sorry, you know I would if I could, but I really can’t. I’m on deadline. If you’d helped me sew some of these hems the other day, maybe I wouldn’t be so far behind, and then maybe I’d be able to take you. See, one day you will learn that there are consequences for ones actions.’
‘What about you, Refilwe?’ Muza grumbles. She’s busy tapping away at her phone as usual, and she glances up guiltily at the sound of her name.
‘You know I can’t drive, Muzzy. What about all your comrades, where are they?’
‘They had to leave,’ Muza says, ‘they all had very important business to attend to on my behalf.’
‘Why don’t you ask your secretary?’ Refilwe suggests.
‘He’s not my secretary, he is my writer. He’s here to write my memories. It’s going to be a very big, important, bestselling book, I told you. We are making more and more headway together every day.’
