The days of our politicians' lives

By Gosiame Legoale

I have a president who has an affinity for showers and an appetite for women, matched only by my imagination when boastfully declaring to any who would care to listen exactly how many skirts I’ve accounted for. I have a deputy president who has no official deputy first lady to utilise as his +1 when scouring the world in less than sky-worthy planes. He has this stellar velvet jacket he so often wears, and I imagine it’s how he endeared himself to the white minority. Either that or they approve of his choice of silver goatee (it’s like having George Clooney hair, just on the chin). There is a Youth League president, who’s not Youth League president due to his current expulsion, although given his current relationship status with the ruling party, expect an appeal within the next 14 days. He has threatened to start farming and if, as expected, he proceeds with the appeal, it may have more to do with the fact that mealie season is yet to start and not because of the bad advice he gets from the irritating white attorneys that compromise his legal team. That chapter is a bit too much; all I know is that with the investigation into his accounts and the status of his province, it seems that instead of the mines, we may just nationalise our young revolutionary’s wallet.

Mind you I’m far from a political analyst. I’m but as qualified as Jomo Sono is at leading his own team to the PSL title, so don’t mistake this for the golden truth and don’t expect any misplaced quotes or thorough research. This is my grey matter working longer than necessary and delving into realms it should not, far into the deep end with only the doggy paddle as my strongest stroke.

This is the story of our beloved and yet sometimes loathed “Three Kings of our eTag infested state”. The dancing head of state, the radical vagrant accounting for the uneasiness amongst our lily flavoured peach-looking suburban dwellers and the reluctant leader who attends black tie events sans a date (the pretty lady seen at the SONA was noticed, but the timid one is yet to put a ring on it). With all the necessary plots and schemes, third party referrals, and the return of the prodigal son into the limelight, South Africa’s political show deserves far more audience ratings than the reality TV-like election run over the Atlantic. Jacob begot Julius and watched gleefully from the sidelines as his Frankenstein worked to get his biggest adversary removed from the throne Zuma so sought for himself and his many wives. What he didn’t count on was the bite on the hand from the very snake he’d been feeding for the longest while. In an about turn, the once co-star in his many duet renditions of struggle songs of old seemed to be fighting Zuma for publishing rights. As majestic as Zuma’s voice may sound to plus size women (especially when he belts into song) the one voice of consummate reason has since been Kgalema Motlanthe.

He seemed to be the one senior citizen capable and willing to hush Malema back into his place during the whole Mbeki debacle. He has a demeanour that immediately demands respect, he looks the no-nonsense type, he’s someone who’s a sucker for protocol. Seemingly shy of the glare of the spotlight, he has since taken up the role of the church mouse as the cries get louder and louder for him to unseat “the shower they placed in Luthuli House”.

And then the once-president who can compare himself to faulty motor vehicles, as is common with such, has the grand pleasure of being recalled. Called everything from autocratic to senile and power hungry, he then became the apple of the Youth League’s eye when they changed tune from vilifying him to near calling him the greatest there ever was (he will however not be getting a bridge, bay, municipality or football stadium named after him and a certain bloke named Mandela beat him to being the face of our currency). He seems the odd kingmaker in this little tryst, but after a little political hiatus he has since started blazing the comeback trail as both factions seek some sort of endorsement from Oliver Tambo’s pupil. He, ever the aloof and elusive one, has not taken to blatant lobbying and, much like a poker player, has his cards flat on the table. I imagine that even Zanele Mbeki may be hard pressed to get even a whiff of what the former president may have lingering in his ever evolving Pan-African mind.

Malema himself is a ready-for-print tale, deserving more than the Kardashians his own reality show. Not only can his gut compete with Kim’s behind, but his persona could render Khloe redundant. Keeping up with Juju could work to grow not only Ryan Seacrest’s bank account, but a live feed of him trying on different berets could amuse many a television viewer. Sure, his appeal against the initial ruling from the NDC fell flat on a McDonald’s drive-thru intercom (I do believe uncle Cyril was the one taking the order) but what’s important to remember is that even fries which are cast aside could make a fulfilling meal for somebody else who is hungry enough. Although brash in his approach and unapologetic in his delivery, let’s not fool ourselves into believing Malema’s legacy will be erased with his expulsion from the ruling party’s youth wing. There’s enough to suggest he could do a Vladimir Putin and play puppet master, thereby ensuring his agenda and political vision is lived out and embedded within the trenches of the youth division as he still holds a large following within the ranks. He may be expelled but remember that we once too wrote the obituary for a certain Mr Mbeki. Loyal to a fault, don’t expect Malema to switch alliances. If anything, one can only fear the revelations that may follow. Zuma may yet have to postpone his celebratory shower. Although we all wish he would, Gwede may yet keep his beard a tad longer and as much as they may seek such, the calls for a regime change may become a bit softer but won’t completely fade out. It makes for riveting viewing, almost as much as when Marlena was possessed in Days Of Our Lives. If it was a tennis match it would be a replay of the Djokovic and Nadal showdown in Melbourne: entertaining, lengthy and with a relatively expected outcome.

The question seems to be whether those wearing influential hats going to keep us guessing about which of his wives Zuma takes to notable functions or, rather, if we’re better served by not having a first lady at all. The outcome from Mangaung should provide us with a clearer indication. I expect to witness the unravelling storyline safely from the comfort of my ever loving couch, with my faithful remote control in hand and a misty glass of tolerated whisky.

I’ll now switch back to the sports channels.

Kind regards,
The lad found at the bottom of a whisky bottle

Gosiame Legoale is a 26-year-old aspiring writer and keen social commentator. He’s also a social network fiend, a qualified graphic designer and a failed sports fanatic. He is caught somewhere between Wordsworth and Shakespeare and tries out as Socrates with every sip of whisky.