Mandela fariebel

Mondli Makhanya explained the basis for the Sunday Times article, “Feud rips Mandelas apart” as being their contribution to maintaining the Mandela legacy. Having learned of all the family intrigue they felt that it was best to put it into some sort of context, in order to preserve Madiba’s fine reputation. All good and well.

I wonder if Mondli’s mob needed to have bothered because the Mandela family feud pale when compared to a Jewish fariebel which breaks out before or during any function. Compared to one of these, Madiba’s problems will appear insignificant.

Like the Mandelas, the Trapidos and allied families are always embroiled in some or other war, the origins of which most of us can’t even recall. We know the sons of bitches are wrong, we just can’t quite seem to remember why. They just are, trust me.

Even with Winnie’s branch upset with other branches of the family or Graça’s children being accused of being the favourites, nothing compares to the deadliest of function-goers encountered at a Jewish function — the yenta. This is an inquisitive Jewish woman at a function (or elsewhere) who just has to know everyone’s business so she can pass it along to all the other yentas.

The Northern Suburbs’ Hunting Yenta — on the prowl at a wedding or a barmitzvah — is far more dangerous than a cornered King Cobra after being trampled on by mistake and waking up to find it has a terrible migraine.

At least with the Cobra it’s a relatively quick and painless death. The yenta, on the other hand, will corner you and start to bombard you with questions she knows your wife would never answer. Jewish husbands are sitting ducks — they’ll give any answer just to get out of there.

I’m sure Madiba wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with a yenta asking him: “Why aren’t Winnie’s kids here? Do you think that they are jealous of Graça’s children? I’m sure they wouldn’t have been happy with Graça’s children all sitting at the main table. Do you see Winnie often? Why not?” … and on and on and on.

With me I’m more than happy to answer all their questions: “Where’ve you been … I haven’t seen you for so long?”

“In prison”

“Oh my God! Why?”

“I was caught with tons of child pornography on my computer”.

“Really, shame! How are Robyn and the kids?”

“Fine”.

“Who do they look like?”

“Funnily enough like Robyn’s ex-boss. They’re his double. When he walks into the room you’d swear it’s one face. Do you think it’s possible to transfer DNA by breathing the same air?”.

“Are you going to have more kids?”

“I can’t. They castrated me when they took my computer”.

“Oy, it must have been so sore! I see your sister’s not here …”

“Ja shame. She lost everything so she’s started a home escort agency. She can’t go out because she does all the work herself”.

“Oyayoy. It must be so hard on her”.

“Not really, since her parole she’s stopped doing groups”.

That’s the way to deal with those yentas. Give ’em a reason to want to be about two continent lengths away from you and any function you might be attending in this lifetime. I’m thinking of adding a highly contagious disease as part of my repertoire so I can decide when they’ll be scuttling off to the other end of the room.

After that the yenta runs to tell her part of the family what I said. Half of them can’t believe what trash we are, while the rest are so pissed off that I was so flippant with my answers that neither half of that equation will talk to us. Which gets the government (Mrs Traps) miffed and she won’t speak to them either.

So I land up alienating that yenta and her clan. They don’t phone, they don’t visit — they won’t even discuss us at functions. I’m thinking of patenting it.

Madiba, what you have achieved for this country is unbelievable. Your legacy is safe and your name will grow into an untouchable legend of which we will be forever proud. What those who follow do to your legacy is another question, but it will not be altered.