I often dream of running my own banana republic. Nothing too big. I am not a greedy man. Something about the size of KwaZulu-Natal. In fact, KZN would be perfect. It’s got the bananas and is sufficiently balmy to keep the populace in that happy stupor that will prevent any thought of an uprising. The same sweaty calm that stopped the Natal secessionists from leaving the Union in the 50s. They thought about it for a while before pouring themselves another G&T and slipping back into their deckchairs. Lose our Britishness under that firebrand Malan or lose forty winks? The Zees won. Now of course I shouldn’t blanket the entire population of KwaZulu-Natal with the laziness of a few Durban colonials. But KZN is the sort of laidback place that may just allow me to run it as my own fiefdom. Mike Sutcliffe seems to get away with it, so why not me?
If I am to become the supreme sovereign of the Undemocratic Republic of KwaZulu-Natal, it would be only fitting to start with some decrees on how I intend to run my small nation. The basic pillars to my people’s happiness. Many say that happiness comes from universal suffrage and human rights. But in true dictatorial fashion, I am here to prove them wrong. In my land, the law will be replaced by a thing called justice. And justice starts with the little people.
Yes, toddlers. My very first decree will be to remove the rights of infants to fly on any day except Tuesday. Too long have our people suffered the banshee cries of a deranged infant at 50 000ft. Too long have we been cooped up for hours on end with a child who finds no pleasure in holidays or the wonder of modern transportation. No matter how well prepared or well intentioned a parent may be, that little guy is gonna cry. It’s what babies do. Just this morning I caught a 6am flight from Geneva to Amsterdam. And for 2 hours a little blond angel of Satan screamed his lungs out. He careered out of control from manic-choked laughter to high-pitched wailing. His little sweet face red and swollen from effort. The only relief were the moments when he decided to breathe. I spent the flight curled up in the corner with my scarf wrapped around my head, delirious from lack of sleep, convinced I was on a transport plane straight to Gitmo, the victim of some sophisticated CIA torture programme. For all we know it may come to light that the knickerbomber was seated next to a toddler. He was willing to blow off his knob rather than suffer any longer. Yes, by preventing them from flying on every day except Tuesdays, I will be saving our land a whole bunch of pain.
My second decree will be to get rid of Tuesdays. What a rubbish day. Stuck there between Monday and Wednesday without purpose. Not the beginning, not the hump, just a day of straight uphill slog. From now on, Tuesday will be replaced with Chooseday. A day where my peeps get to choose how they spend the day. In bed preferably. Or sitting under a banana leaf thinking about how they can better serve their almighty ruler — me.
My third decree is for the third estate of society. The commoners. Like many of my brethren, I like to eat. But I suffer from a common look. I appear to most waiting staff as a man who can’t afford to eat in their establishment, no matter how crude or cheap their offerings. Too many times have I been led to that “special” table reserved for my type. The seat near the door, the table almost in the kitchen or the fold-out wobbly buffet-table jammed in the corridor on the way to the ablutions. So close is it to the shanks, the patrons say thanks and leave me a 50c tip on the edge of my table for keeping the porcelain so pearly-white. Well, you can keep your dime. This will no longer happen to me and my kind. Mr Waiter you will give us that nice table, the one you’ve been saving for that magic group of socialites who never appear. We are not idiots. We know what you are doing. We will not sit in the back like Quasimodo. But if for some reason you really are blind enough to have missed that gorgeously empty table in the window or stupid enough not to realise we have money to spend, then we shall have your eyes well-peppered and your brain lightly seared and served up for entrée. For obviously you have no need of either. For good measure, we’ll also take your nose on a spit. You should heed the words of another old dictator, Nero — pecunia non olet. If you want to know what that means, look it up, you ignorant git! (BTW That’s me talking to the waiter and not to you, my beloved subject).
Decree four. Coldplay listeners. I am sorry but the tyranny of audio mediocrity is over. You are going to have to leave. No, don’t try and delete that MP3 copy of Parachutes from your hard drive, it is too late. You have committed the cardinal sin of rock music. You have tried to pass yourself off as an alt-bro while all along you were mainstream. You are a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Not since Paul McCartney and the frog song has the world borne witness to such profits of adult contemporary rock. And yes, I did mean profit because that is all Coldplay are. Not even Simon Cowell would sink that low.
Decree five. They say religion is the opiate of the masses. And if ZA News is to be believed, TV is the dagga. Well that makes sport the crack of the masses. And no one likes a crack dealer. So M-Net, your days are numbered. You will not withhold good sporting action from the people. You will not stop a man from getting his daily hit. From the day I take command, sport will become the new government loaf. Eight hundred grams of on-pitch action for every person at a heavily subsidised rate. There is nothing sporting about SuperSport so it has to go.
Decree six. The sardine run will become a national holiday. Every year we celebrate 14 000 mentalists running from Durban to Martizburg. A whole bunch of us stand on the old road hootin’ and hollerin’ and clapping our hands as they wobble by. But not for one second do we do the same for the millions of sardines that run not 88km but hundreds of kilometres up our coast. This absolute feat of endurance is not welcomed with loud cheers but large nets, buckets, rods, spearguns, dynamite, boats, helicopters and every other type of device that will stun, kill or catch these poor little critters. Well, my sardine friends, your ship has come in, and it won’t be lined with fishermen but well-wishers and a few cheerleaders dressed in skimpy fish-scaled bikinis. Ok, the cheerleaders aren’t for you but we need something to keep the crowd in line.
Decree seven. I am a leader who understands the virtue of popularism. So for good measure I will be relocating the head office of Eskom to Marion Island. I think it is about time they got to grips with what it means to live without electricity. And what better place to do that than an island in the sub-Antarctic Indian Ocean where it rains for 320 days a year and summers are a lovely 8°C. Plus there will be no real distractions there apart from the occasional penguin or meteorologist so the board can really focus on getting their job done.
Decree eight. I will solve crime by emptying all our prisons and putting the prisoners into the many gated communities that are dotted across our land. In turn I will fill the prisons with the residents of the gated communities. That way everyone will get what they want. The criminals will get to live in the houses they are constantly breaking into. And the residents will get all the security bars, high fences and barbed wire they could ever desire. Ok, maybe the exercise yard won’t measure up to the Zimbali golf course but not everything can be perfect in utopia. (Note to self: change meaning of utopia).
Decree nine. I will solve all issues of race and gender equality in my state by renaming the entire population David Smith. No more Georges or Thabanis or Avishaans or Piets or Candices. Each and every one of us shall now be known as David, Dave, Davo, Davester, Davie, big D, little D, D-rock, the D-ster and whatever other derivative of the D-dawg you can think up. Doesn’t matter if you are six feet tall and hard as nails or short and fat or slim with a well-defined bust, you will be David. We shall all walk in its commonness and gush in its anonymity. Together we shall love to be called the “beloved”. For that is what it means.
Decree ten. Scrap decree nine. Everyone named David shall have to change their name to George, Thabani, Avishaan, Piet, Candice or whatever other name takes their fancy. And I shall rule alone as: The David Smith, last of the Great Davids, Supreme ruler of the Undemocratic Republic of KwaZulu-Natal and her overseas territory, Marion Island.
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