Unpresidented

by Paige Nick

  ‘Ronald Reagan was a president who was also an actor. And Arnold Schwarzenegger had that reality show on television,’ Elijah adds.

  ‘Good point, comrade! Put that into the memories too, writer. It will make me sound very knowledgeable. You can write it better of course, and spread it out over a number of pages, and make it sound good, but that’s the bare bones of this chapter.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ Elijah says.

  ‘Are you sure you want me to write that in your memoir? Don’t you think Ogilme & Blather might have something to say when it comes out? And that’s not even to begin with what Steven Spielberg’s people will have to say.’

  ‘The Ogilme & Blather people will say that they were honoured to have worked with such a great businessman, politician and international spokesman, and then they will enter the ad for the Loeries or Hadedas or whatever those advertising awards are called. And Steven Spielberg really is a close personal friend of mine. Come, Mr Stone, stop dragging your feet, we’re wasting time that we could be spending working on our brilliant, award-winning commercial.’

  ‘Fine,’ I sigh, ‘let’s get this over with. Tell me more about your Bathroom Bits.’

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘Dear recording device, you absolutely will not believe this. I went to let Elijah out the gate, after we had finished conceptualising our amazing television commercial for Bathroom Bits – quality shower fittings straight out of Italy – and ALL the press and paparazzi are gone. All of them. Gone, like smoke. How? Why? Am I not an important person, worthy of the news anymore? Can you believe even the guy from YOU magazine has left, and he’s always been there.

  ‘All that remains are their tyre-tracks and their litter. Oh, the days and nights I’ve wished them to be disappeared. Like those times they followed me and Elijah whenever we left here, shouting my name, “Muza, Muza, who is your new friend? Is he a politician? Does he work for the Guppies? Muza, where are you going now? Muza, what are you doing? Muza, tell us, are you going to the Saxonwold shebeen?” Fishing for any small scrap of a story. “Where are you coming from Muza? Where are you going to, Muza?” Did I change my vest today, what did I eat for breakfast? Who did I vote for in the last elections? Always shouting, shouting, shouting twenty hundred questions in my face.

  ‘And now they are gone.

  ‘It’s very strange. Since the day I arrived back at my great Homestead, they’ve been here. YOU magazine pays good money, even just for a blurry shot of me eating a doughnut, or rubbing my buttock. Or at least they used to. But now that I have my plan in place, I can begin to prepare to become the Grand Master again. And then they will be back, and everything will return to normal.

 

  4 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE WIVES

  ‘Come baba, I’ve got work to do. What is it you want to show us?’ Bonang yells through the kitchen door.

  ‘Do you know why we’ve all been called to the kitchen office? Do you think he knows about the Tinder?’ Refilwe whispers.

  ‘I doubt it. If that was the problem, why would the writer and the black Jewish be here? I think it’s got something to do with their stupid showerhead business,’ Bonang says.

  ‘I hope you’re right. Tea?’ Refilwe asks, as she fills the kettle.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Ladies, you’re on our stage,’ Elijah says, bustling in.

  ‘I thought this was the sink,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘And I thought it was your office?’ Bonang says. ‘You and Muza are very confusing.’

  ‘We need you to take your seats, so we can start the show,’ Elijah says.

  Once tea has been made and everyone has settled at the breakfast bar, Elijah stands behind the kitchen island and addresses them with an air of importance.

  ‘Ladies and writer, please, if you will, imagine it’s a regular night, and you are sitting at home, busy watching a show on television…’

  ‘Is it Generations?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘I don’t like Generations. I hope it’s Muvhango,’ Bonang says.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter which show it is,’ Elijah says, rolling his eyes.

  ‘But how can we imagine we are watching a television show if we don’t know which television show we are watching?’ Bonang wants to know.

  ‘Is it soccer? I haven’t watched a match in forever,’ Stone chimes in.

  ‘Neva, soccer, pah! Not if Bonang and I are home. It should definitely be Generations.’

  ‘Alright, alright, it’s Generations. You’re all watching Generations,’ Elijah says.

  ‘Yay!’ Refilwe says.

  Bonang and Stone boo and hiss, and Elijah shoots them a dirty look.

  ‘Okay, so you’re watching Generations whether you like it or not, and it fades to a commercial break.’ Elijah dims the lights in the kitchen.

  ‘And then the first commercial comes on.’

  ‘What commercial is it?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘I like that Nando’s one, is it that one?’ Bonang asks.

  ‘It’s not inside, it’s onnnn top!’ Stone chants.

  ‘Yes, yes! Whatever,’ Elijah shouts. ‘It’s the Nando’s one, are you all happy now?’

  ‘I’d be happier if we were watching soccer,’ Stone says, and everyone turns to stare at him. ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Right, so the Nando’s ad finishes and fades out,’ – Elijah dims the lights in the room until they’re in full darkness – ‘and then the next commercial starts.’

  They wait for something to happen.

  ‘I said, “and then the next commercial starts”!’ Elijah yells through the kitchen door.

  ‘Is there something wrong with our TV?’ Bonang whispers.

  ‘Muza, I said “the next commercial starts”,’ Elijah shouts again.

  Muza pokes his head around the door. ‘Are you ready for me to start?’ he asks.

  ‘And action,’ Elijah says.

  ‘We’ve discussed this before, comrade,’ Muza says. ‘I have to say “and action” and “cut”, not you. That’s how it goes with these big international commercials. Saying “action” and “cut” is the job of the international spokesman and CEO, everyone knows that.’

  ‘Alright, alright, bubbe, you can say it, just go already.’

  ‘Is this part of the commercial? If it is, it’s not very good,’ Refilwe says.

  Elijah groans. ‘No, no, it’s starting now.’

  Muza steps into the middle of the kitchen as Elijah turns the lights back up again. He pulls a wooden spoon from the cutlery drawer and speaks into it as if it’s a microphone.

  ‘If you’re looking for a showerhead, you’ve come to the right place. Introducing Bathroom Bits, quality shower fittings straight out of Italy, and brought right into your home. That’s right, it’s Bathroom Bits, the best showerheads South Africa has ever seen.’

  Muza prances around as he shouts out his lines, holding up imaginary shower heads and showing them to the audience.

  ‘Wash all your troubles away with Bathroom Bits, brought to you by Muza, the ex- and future President of South Africa. They really worked for me, and I know showerheads. They’re the hottest showerheads you’ve ever seen. Or the coldest, depending which way you turn the taps.’

  ‘I wrote that bit,’ Stone whispers.

  ‘So get yours today on www.bathroombits.co.za – you’ll love them more than any other fitting in your home, or my name’s not ex- and future President Jeremiah Gejeyishwebisa Muza. And cut!’ Muza says.

  Elijah turns the lights in the room on and off and on and off. ‘There will be lots of lights on set when we shoot this commercial, I’m just trying to create an atmosphere and an ambience, and get you used to them,’ he explains. ‘Ladies, writer, it’s finished, you should applaud now.’

  They clap politely.

  ‘And? What do you think?’ Muza asks.

  ‘Can we finish watching Generations now?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘Do you really think you should mention
the whole future President thing? Maybe we should just stick to the script the way we wrote it?’ Stone says.

  ‘Yes, but it’s a great opportunity to get everyone used to the idea of me becoming the President again. The more they hear it, the more of a reality it will become. It’s subliminal presidential advertising on top of Bathroom Bits advertising. It’s a win-win situation. Don’t worry, I know all about these things.’

  ‘But you are the ex-President, that’s how everybody thinks of you now. And I think that’s already a very good name – catchy, too,’ says Elijah.

  ‘Let’s talk about it later,’ Muza says.

  ‘Is this how he plans on paying the money? With showerheads?’ Refilwe whispers to Bonang.

  ‘Seems so,’ she whispers back.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Muza asks again.

  ‘I still think my “Umshini Wami” recording idea was better. Hip hop MC Ex-Future Prez, I can see it now,’ Bonang pipes up.

  ‘Yes, since when are you a showerhead salesman, Muzzy?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘Since when am I a hip hop MC?’ Muza responds.

  ‘You always sing in the shower,’ Bonang says.

  ‘Tsha! You guys just wait and see, this brilliant commercial, directed by my friend Elijah…’

  ‘I thought it was going to be directed by Steven Spielberg?’ Stone says.

  ‘…is going to sell many tens of millions of hundreds of thousands of showerheads, and then I’ll use that to pay the money and fund my campaign to become the Master of Ceremonies of South Africa once again.’

  ‘After I’ve made my money back too, right?’ Elijah pipes up.

  ‘Sure, sure, of course, my friend, of course, that’s what I said,’ Muza purrs, clapping him on the back.

  3 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE WRITER

  ‘Hello, champ, are you in here?’

  I sit up at my desk. ‘Dumi?’

  ‘How’s my favourite writer?’ Dumi says, standing in the rondavel doorway, wearing a white suit and hat.

  ‘Dumi, what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Well you didn’t leave me much choice, did you? You haven’t been answering my calls or my emails or my texts, and your esteemed publisher is breathing down my neck, plus our last conversation wasn’t the friendliest we’ve ever had, so I thought I’d better come out here and check up on you myself. That dog almost got me, though.’

  ‘Yeah he doesn’t like people. Or cheese or salami or nuts or chicken. You shouldn’t have come all this way.’

  ‘A trip to see my favourite writer is always a treat. How’s it going?’

  ‘Crap,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, sure, but how many words do you have?’

  I look at the screen and catch sight of the sentence I’ve just typed. ‘…I was probably the most respected person in prison…’ the cursor blinks at me mockingly. ‘I’m almost finished,’ I say.

  ‘Great stuff! Well done, champ, I knew you could do it if you just put your mind to it.’

  ‘I didn’t put my mind to any of it. I’ve only written down all his lies, verbatim,’ I say.

  ‘You worry too much, Matt. None of that will matter when you’re rolling in royalties and the movie deals are flying in, and millions of people are reading this book, and seeing your name on it. And you’ve got a hooker on one lap and a platinum credit card and a bag of coke on the other. There’s your redemption right there. You know what they say: living well is the best revenge.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Dumi, it’s all propaganda. And despite what you say, I really don’t think my career will survive me publishing more lies.’

  ‘Nonsense! Let me see, is this it?’ Dumi smells like expensive cologne and cigar smoke. As he leans over my shoulder and peers at the screen, I move without even thinking. I hit Apple A to select all. The computer highlights the contents of the document in blue. I only waver for a split second, and then I press the delete button, then Apple S to save the now empty file.

  ‘Wait, what did you just do?’ Dumi asks.

  ‘It’s gone. I deleted it,’ I say. ‘No more lies.’

  ‘Where’s it gone? Quickly, Apple Z, Apple Z. Christ, Stone, tell me there’s a backup somewhere, please, for the love of God, tell me there’s a backup. Did you just delete an entire book?’

  I suddenly feel a hundred kilos lighter.

  ‘Shit, Matt, what the fuck is wrong with you? We have only days until the deadline. There’s no time to mess around. Please tell me you have a backup file stashed somewhere.’

  ‘That was it,’ I say, a small, dazed grin on my face.

  Dumi grabs the front of my T-shirt in his fist and pulls me towards him. ‘You listen to me, Stone, you have three days to figure this out. I don’t care if you have to write all day and all night, until your eyes bleed and your fingers fall off, but you had better squeeze a book out of your asshole, or else we’re done for. Am I clear? Do you understand me?’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not playing around here. You’ll never work anywhere again. The world is done with you. I was the last person out there fighting for you, this was your last chance, and if you screw me over again, it’s all over. I’m not giving back my cut of the advance. I can’t, I don’t have it anymore. I invested it.’

  ‘In what, hookers and crack?’

  ‘What did you just say?’ Dumi says, letting go of my shirt and stepping away from me in disgust.

  ‘Nothing,’ I murmur.

  And that’s when Dumi loses it. ‘I don’t know why I stuck with you, Stone. You’re a born loser. Have you heard of King Midas, everything he touched turned to gold? Well, you’re King Porcelain, everything you touch turns to shit. You’ve never even legitimately tried to get this thing going. I’m done, do you hear me? You’re on your own. My lawyers will be in touch, and I’ll see to it that you pay back my money and yours. Every cent. Even if you have to sell your kidneys. Both of them! And consider yourself agentless!’ He storms out of my rondavel. I hear the dog barking, Dumi swearing, and eventually his tyres squealing as he barrels out of the Homestead.

  2 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘Muza, it’s Elijah.’

  ‘Hello, comrade.’

  ‘Get in touch with your friend at Waterval, tell him the eagle has landed.’

  ‘Was the eagle on the runway? Is that going to interfere with our plane taking off?’

  ‘There isn’t actually an eagle, Muza. It’s just a saying.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying, you need to get in touch with your connection, and tell him we are all systems go. Our plane will be loaded with our showerheads and ready to leave China tomorrow, as planned.’

  ‘Wonderful. Our compatriots will be ready for it to land at three twelve am at Waterval Airport.’

  ‘You’re sure your contact is ready for us, bubbe?’

  ‘Comrade, as long as there is no adverse weather, your plane will land at Waterval without a hitch. After all, we can compensate Waterval, but we cannot compensate the weather.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oy vey, forget it. It means everything is happening.’

  ‘Yebo, Roger.’

  THE WRITER

  ‘Hello. It’s Matthew Stone. Please don’t hang up on me.’

  There’s an echoing silence on the other end of the line. The hum of static is the only thing that tells me that there’s still someone on the other end of the line.

  ‘What do you want?’ he says eventually.

  ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry for what I did to you.’

  ‘I wondered if I’d ever hear from you.’

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘I still don’t understand why you did it.’

  ‘Honestly, and I’m not proud of this, but I was on deadline, I’d been on a massive bender, and I needed to make the noon deadline to pay
rent and, well, to buy more drugs.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why you lied. You interviewed me, I told you everything that happened to me. Why didn’t you write that in your piece? Why did you lie about what I said?’

  ‘If I’d only written what you told me, the magazine wouldn’t have published it. Nobody wants to read a story about an ordinary bloke getting cancer. People want to read about scandals. I was going to line up other interviews, some controversial stuff, but I went on a couple of benders, and then suddenly the deadline was there. I was desperate. I needed something juicy, otherwise they would have bumped my story, and I wouldn’t have been paid. So I panicked and made all that shit up.’

  ‘But didn’t you know I’d read it when it was published and tell everyone that it was all lies?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘You had stage four cancer. I thought you’d be dead by the time the piece came out in print. I didn’t think you’d make it, hell, even your doctors didn’t think you’d last that long. Magazines have a two to three month lead time, and the doctors had given you only eight weeks to live. I knew I was cutting it fine, but I was desperate. I was hoping for the best.’

  ‘You mean the worst. You were hoping for the worst.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you made up all that stuff about some imaginary battle I was having with my medical insurers, and how the doctors had misled me, and what terrible care the nurses gave me. And that I was going to sue the hospital. Even though I never actually said a word of it?’