by Paige Nick
‘The Lotto is on, turn it up,’ I say.
Muza replaces the cushions and turns up the volume. We watch the numbers appearing and I move my eyes between my ticket and the screen.
‘I won, I won, oh my God, writer, I won! I’m rich, I’m rich, I’m rich!’ Muza shrieks, throwing up his arms.
‘Show me,’ I shout, grabbing the ticket out of his hand.
‘I won, I won. All my problems are solved!’ Muza yells.
‘First of all, it’s WE won. Remember, we agreed we were going to split everything fifty-fifty if one of us won?’ I scan his ticket and cross-reference it with the numbers on screen.
‘I don’t remember that,’ he says.
‘And second, you only won twenty rand,’ I say, handing him back his ticket.
‘So what?’ he says, ‘I still won.’
‘Well, your ticket cost thirty rand, so you actually lost ten.’
‘I don’t understand. Look, I got some matching numbers, so I won,’ Muza insists, shoving the ticket back under my nose.
‘Okay, sure, let’s go with that, then. You’re a real winner,’ I say.
‘Wait, so you’re saying I lost ten rand?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And we’re fifty-fifty partners?’
‘Correct,’ I say.
‘Good, then you owe me five rand,’ he says, holding out his hand, palm-up.
7 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WIVES
‘Swipe right, swipe right, swipe right … wait, hold on, let me take a closer look at that one … no, swipe right, urgh, swipe right. Wait, what about him?’ Bonang says, pointing at the new Tinder match.
‘Hayibo, Bonang, are you looking for a date for me or for you? You know I don’t like Virgos.’
‘He has nice eyes, and look, you have a mutual friend in common on Facebook,’ Bonang says.
‘I should have known. That’s Lindiwe Lozizwe, I handled her divorce. She has very many close friends on Facebook and on Tinder, if you know what I mean.’
Refilwe snatches the phone out of Bonang’s hand and slips it into her bra as Muza lumbers into the office.
‘I am here on important business,’ he announces. ‘This plan that I’m working on with Elijah is coming together nicely. We are going to film a television commercial and I am going to star in it.’
‘Ooh, can I say “and … cut”?’ Bonang asks.
‘You can’t say “and cut”, I have to say “and cut”, that’s my job,’ Muza says.
‘Doesn’t the director say “and cut”?’ Refilwe says.
‘Usually, but this is a different kind of commercial. I am the head international spokesman and CEO of Bathroom Bits (PTY) limited, H20 and copyright incorporated, so it’s up to me to say “and cut”. Anyway we already have a director: Elijah is going to do it, we just need someone to hold the clapperboard.’
‘Maybe I can sew the outfits for the commercial. Will there be dancers?’ Bonang asks.
‘And I can do the catering,’ Refilwe adds.
‘We do not need outfits – this is a commercial, not a show on Broadway. I will be wearing a very expensive suit. And we definitely don’t need your kind of catering, Refilwe.’
‘What is Bathroom Bits (PTY) limited, H20 and copyright incorporated, anyway?’ Refilwe asks.
‘It’s my new business. We will sell very expensive, gold-plated luxury showerheads, imported from Italy.’
‘Is that what you two have been up to, holed up in the kitchen for days, plotting and scheming?’ Refilwe wants to know.
‘Yes, we are going to make millions.’
‘And that’s how you plan on paying the money for the rates and what-what?’ Bonang asks. ‘My idea of selling showerheads? You know I was only joking when I came up with that, right?’
‘It’s my idea, it’s completely different to that stupid joke idea you had,’ Muza says.
‘Wouldn’t you be better off doing something else? Like, what if you recorded your “Umshini Wami” song? You could become a major international recording artist. You could be the new Notorious B.I.G.,’ Bonang says.
‘Didn’t he die?’ Refilwe asks.
‘Yes, that’s why we need a new one. I’m sure a single of “Umshini Wami”, by Rapper MC Ex-Future Prez or whatever, would shoot to number one in the charts instantly. And then there are all the merchandising opportunities. And you could even shoot a music video, like on a yacht with some girls. Doesn’t your old comrade Schabir have a yacht he could loan you for the music video?’
‘That’s another really stupid idea, Bonang. You should stick to your sewing and leave the proper business ideas to me. Plus we’re already actioning the showerheads plan. Elijah and I are going to make this TV ad, and at the same time, the book of memories will come out and be a massive hit. And all of this will launch my career back into the public eye. We are going to sell billions of books and trillions of showerheads, and I will be able to pay the money I owe with the small change from my pocket. And the best part is that all this will elevate my persona, so that when I stand for Ruler of all Nations, the people will vote for me, every single one, ninety-nine point nine nine nine hundred per cent of them, and the zero zero one point one per cent who don’t vote for me will either be accidentally spoiled votes. Or racists, of course.’
‘If you say so, Muzzy,’ Refilwe says.
‘Okay, but are you sure I can’t make you a suit for the commercial, baba? I would make you something very unique and expensive and unforgettable,’ Bonang says.
‘No, I told you. I have to wear something very expensive. Elijah doesn’t want me to look like a schmuck, because he’s a mensch.’
‘A what?’ Bonang asks.
‘A schmuck. It’s Jewish for a fool.’
She raises her eyebrows.
‘A mensch is a good guy, someone with sechel.’
She raises her eyebrows even further.
‘Sechel is like a sixth sense, which is different from chutzpah, which is … oy vey, forget about it, we’ll be here all day, and who has the time? I’m an important ex-President businessman with a showerhead commercial to make and a Constitution to alter.’
‘Why are you holding a tin in your hand, Mr International Showerhead Kingpin Ruler of the Universe Lord of the Rings Spokesman?’ Refilwe asks.
‘I was going to make some lunch, but I don’t know how to open this tin of tuna,’ Muza says.
Bonang sighs, ‘Come on, baba, that’s not tuna, it’s cat food. We’re your wives, let us make you some lunch. We’ve told you a million times, neither of us has ever tried to poison you, that was a conspiracy theory. You had a stomach bug, it had nothing to do with what you were eating.’
‘A stomach bug that lasted six months, until I hired a personal chef? No thank you very much, you can keep your botulism,’ Muza says as he heads back into the kitchen.
6 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, Gut Yontiv,’ Elijah says, walking into the kitchen and handing Muza a black tog bag. ‘This had better get our plane into Waterval without any eyes. Our silent investors are not the kind of men you want to disappoint.’
‘Everything is absolutely and completely set up for success. You worry too much, comrade. This is all going to go beautifully and without a hitch, you’ll see,’ Muza says, rifling through the cash in the bag, trying to hide his excitement.
‘Do you need help counting it? I know numbers aren’t your thing.’
‘Comrade, I may be bad with numbers, but I think you’ll find I have a way with money.’ Muza opens the bag and starts counting. ‘Is the money for the commercial here too?’
‘Patience, bubbe, patience. It’s coming,’ Elijah says as his phone trills. ‘It’s them, I’d better take it. You keep counting, I’ll be right outside,’ Elijah slips out of the kitchen.
Muza swiftly extracts the Pick n Pay packet of money from the tog bag. He shoves the bundles of cash under a stack of
grubby dishcloths and newspapers in the cupboard under the sink, holding back a single two-hundred rand note, which he puts back in the Pick n Pay packet, into which he piles copies of Sunday Times from under the sink. Then he ties the packet closed and sticks it back in the tog bag, zipping it up just as Elijah steps back into the kitchen.
‘It’s all here,’ Muza says. ‘I’ll call my comrade at Waterval, and we can go to do the drop-off right away.’ Muza scrolls through the numbers on his phone while Elijah watches.
‘Sizwe, it’s Muza,’ he says, nodding at Elijah. ‘I’ve got something for you. Meet me in the park, by the fountain, in an hour. See you then, comrade.’
‘All good?’ Elijah asks as Muza hangs up.
‘Of course, let’s go, maybe we can grab something to eat on the way home.’
‘Let me guess, my treat?’ Elijah says.
‘If you insist.’
THE WRITER
I’m busy transcribing another bullshit chapter, this one is Muza’s twenty-minute drone about white monopoly capital (of course, what else is to blame for everything?) when I hear a car pulling up. I stop the recording app and hover in the doorway of my rondavel. I watch Elijah park, then go inside carrying a black bag.
For the millionth time, I wonder what they’re up to. They’re as thick as thieves those two, literally. Plotting and scheming for weeks now. Whatever it is can’t be legal – they always go quiet the second anyone else walks into the room. And they even have a secret handshake. They’re either up to something or turning thirteen in a week. Whatever.
I return to my desk, rewind for a few seconds and press play.
‘We must fight crime and corruption. The land should be returned to the people…’
Half an hour later, I hear Elijah’s car bleeping again. I pause the app and dart back to the doorway. Muza follows Elijah out the door – now he’s carrying the black bag. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it looks heavier than when Elijah arrived with it, or maybe it’s because Muza is carrying it now, and he’s shorter.
Muza takes the bag with him all the way down to the gate, which he holds open for Elijah to drive through. I grab my car keys, phone, jacket and notebook, and then go back for a pair of sunglasses and a cap. I step out the door and the dog makes a beeline for me. So I run back into the rondavel, pull the fridge open and grab the first thing I lay my eyes on, a packet of polony. I toss half of it on the ground to distract the dog. He sniffs at it, then laps it up, which gives me the gap I need to dash out to my car and hit the road, a minute behind Muza and Elijah, leaving the gate swinging open behind me.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Sizwe, comrade, thank you for coming to meet me at such short notice,’ Muza says, giving him a hug and patting him on the back. As he leans in, he whispers, ‘There’s two hundred rand for you in this bag, and all you have to do is take it, shake my hand and then walk away.’
‘That’s all I have to do to get two hundred, Nxamalala?’ Sizwe asks.
‘Yes comrade. And you see that man with the beard, sitting on the bench behind me, in a white shirt?’
‘Yes, Nxamalala,’ Sizwe says.
‘Look at him closely, because if you ever see him again, and he asks you anything, you must tell him you work at Waterval Airport, okay?’
‘Waterval Airport,’ Sizwe parrots.
‘That’s right. Ayrie told me you got a job as night security at a gated complex, how’s it going?’
‘It’s alright. I’m sorry I had to leave you, Nxamalala, but my mother has high blood pressure, and I needed the work,’ Sizwe says.
‘That’s okay, comrade, although we miss you on the gate. When I am restored to power, everything will be different.’
‘I hope so, Nxamalala. Thank you, Nxamalala.’
‘Now, take the bag and shake my hand. And remember, Waterval Airport,’ Muza says.
‘Waterval Airport,’ Sizwe says, taking the bag. ‘Nxamalala?’
‘Yes, Sizwe?’
‘What about the bag, can I keep the bag?’
‘Yes, my friend, it is very much your lucky day.’ They shake hands and Sizwe glances over Muza’s shoulder at Elijah, sitting on a bench fifty metres away. He nods, then turns and walks away with his bag.
‘Streetwise?’ Muza asks as he sits down next to Elijah.
THE WRITER
‘Carlos, it’s Matthew Stone.’
‘Matthew, what’s up, mate?’ Carlos says.
‘Listen I’ve got a breaking story for you. This is a big one, I swear.’
‘What’s that then, tjom?’
‘It’s Muza, he’s up to something, and I think it’s pretty big.’
‘Oh no, not this again.’
‘You have to believe me, Carlos. I wasn’t lying to you before, I really have been living at his Homestead and writing his memoirs for the last month.’
‘Sure you have.’
‘I mean it, Carlos, you can call my agent, Dumi. Call him, I’ll give you his number, ask him, he’ll confirm it. Anyway, Muza’s hooked up with this guy called Elijah, and they’re definitely up to something illegal. He’s a known drug dealer.’
‘How do you know that?’ Carlos says.
‘Um … you’re just going to have to believe me on this one. I know this for a fact. He’s Malawian, but he’s Jewish.’
‘Which is he, Malawian or Jewish?’
‘Both.’
‘Oh come on, Stone.’
‘I know it sounds crazy, it’s a long story, he’s got some kind of Jewish connection. He makes the soup and talks the talk and everything.’
‘Is this guy your drug dealer, Matt?’
‘Yes, yes, okay?’
‘And did you buy any drugs from him today?’
‘No, man, you don’t understand, I’m totally clean. And I’m dead serious, this could be a huge story, and you could break it for the Sunday Times. I don’t even want anything for it. Muza is with Elijah now, they’re definitely up to something. I’m tailing them, I’m like five cars behind them, but they haven’t seen me. I’ve been very careful.’
‘Okay, so what is it exactly that they’re up to?’ Carlos asks.
‘Well they had this black tog bag. I don’t know what’s in it, maybe drugs or money or guns or something like that, and then they went to the park and handed the bag over to this other guy I recognise from the Homestead.’
‘Who was this other guy?’
‘I don’t know his name, there were so many guys always coming and going. But he used to work for Muza as part of his entourage. He always manned the gate when I first arrived, but then he got a job as a security guard at a gated complex. Hey, maybe this has something to do with the complex, an inside job? Like a hold-up or something?’
‘Christ, Stone,’ Carlos mutters.
‘Please Carlos, you have to believe me, I’m not bullshitting this time.’
‘Where are they now?’ Carlos asks.
‘They’ve just pulled up at the KFC. Wait, they’re going inside, not to the drive-through.’
‘Matthew, look, I’m sorry, it’s not enough for us to go on, but it was nice hearing from you. I’ve got to go, okay? I’m on deadline,’ Carlos says, and then the line goes dead.
I slam both hands on the steering wheel, then duck as Elijah glances back over both shoulders before following Muza into the building.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Dear recording machine, remember that time I won all that money in the lottery? That was a very lucky day for so many reasons. Because that was the day I lost my remote under the cushions of the couch. And then when I went looking for it, I discovered that there was in fact a hole in my leather couch. My famous security upgrades clearly didn’t extend to the couches. To some, this would have been a very unlucky discovery. Some people would have called the people they bought the couch from for a very expensive amount, and they would have shouted at them and demanded all their money back.
‘But not me.
‘You see, after meeti
ng Sizwe in the park and doing the handover of the bag, and after Elijah took me for lunch at KFC, and after I dictated more of my memories to the writer (who is finally doing a good job on my soon-to-be bestselling book). And even later, after Elijah and I had finished talking about our business plans some more, and after my wives tried to convince me to eat their pap and wors, and I declined and ate one of Elijah’s bagels with schmeer instead, and after we all watched Idols on television together, and after Elijah left, and both my wives finally went to bed. After all that, I hid the hundreds and thousands from the tog bag inside the hole in that leather couch. Nobody will ever think of looking for it there.’
5 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WRITER
I’m typing up Muza’s deluded version of his charity efforts that he fed me at the Spur, when Muza and Elijah burst into my rondavel without knocking.
‘I’m looking for a writer,’ Muza says.
‘Then you’d better look somewhere else,’ I say.
‘Stop fishing for compliments. We need your help to write our commercial for Bathroom Bits, quality shower fittings straight out of Italy that will help you wash all your troubles away.’
‘Thanks for the offer, sir, and of course I would love to help you both with this fantasy project, but believe it or not, I’m actually here to write a book, and I only have a few days left to finish it.’
‘Come on, writer, don’t be such a nebbish. You scratch our backs and we’ll scratch yours,’ Elijah says.
‘If I give you a quick chapter for the book, will you help us with our commercial? Come on, get out your phone to record it. You can call this chapter “Master Plans and Business Plans”. Then put in there that we went to Ogilme & Blather, the greatest big advertising agency on the planet, and they made us cappuccinos and they helped us come up with our commercial, and then Steven Spielberg, who is a close personal friend of mine, came and shot the commercial with us, but it only took one take because the international spokesman for Bathroom Bits was such a professional that he didn’t need any more than that. In fact, everyone is saying that if he wasn’t going to run for the Game of Thrones, that the ex-President should go to Hollywood for a career in show business. And that he looks a lot like Samuel L. Jackson, because of his bald head and things.’
