The Amanpour Interview with Zuma You’ll Never See

Credit: nypost.com

Sometimes, when world news brings down a mood of gloom over Rolbos, they play a game. Gertruida will dress up in her Sunday best, and become Gertruida Amanpour, international reporter for CNN (Chaotic Network News). She’ll then interview somebody famous, using an empty beer bottle as a microphone. During these sessions, Boggel gets onto the counter, and films the proceedings with an empty wine-box, having cut two strategic holes in opposing sides.

They don’t do this for free at all, the audience must pay a small entrance fee and if the interview was particularly funny, they’ll pass a hat around afterwards. The proceeds end up in the Rolbos Orphanage Fund, which buys Christmas presents for the orphanage in Grootdrink.

Tonight, Gertruida Amanpour is interviewing Jacob Vetfaan Zuma.

Amanpour: Mister President, you are a most educated man, I see. Tell us about your schooling?

Jvz: Well what can I say? You know I am highly intelligent, don’t you? You have to be, to be in charge of the country. So it’s only natural that I educated myself. If you don’t believe me, you can check it out on the government’s Presidency site. And you know the government never lies. Never. We don’t lie. No.

Amanpour: That’s very interesting. You must be very proud of your country?

JVZ: You crazy or something? No, there are too many strikes and unions. Even the police are getting better. No, I’m on record that my favourite will always be Mozambique. Oh, they have occasional floods, but us rich people don’t live in the valleys. Have you seen Nkandla?

Amanpour: You are also a very proficient dancer, I hear.

JVZ: Of course. To be who I am, you have to be good at that. That’s the legacy of Robben Island – I learnt ballroom dancing there. If I may (coughs and pushes up his glasses with his middle finger) I’ll refer you to the Presidency site again. I quote: ‘South Africans know and love him for his prowess on the dance floor and his impeccable vocal chords.’.  (aside) Don’t you just love spin-doctors?

Amanpour: At the age of almost 73, you seem surprisingly spry. What’s your secret?

JVZ: I take daily classes in political athletics. And I’ve a black belt as a  master in moral gymnastics… Why do you ask?

Amanpour: (embarrassed, changing the subject) You have a favourite chocolate?

JVZ: Of course. It’s a One Bar. It reminds me of my prison days…you know? A jail window with only one bar left after you’ve filed through the rest. (waves a dismissing hand) Oh, you won’t get it. Don’t worry.

Amanpour: You seem to be quite a Cassanova, Mister President. Officially you are married to four women, and have 19 kids?

JVZ: Twenty-one, officially, if you read the papers. We all know ‘officially’ means you never have to say you’re sorry.  I will not be drawn into a debate about this. All I can say is that I did better than Steve Hofmeyr. (laughs, holding his stomach) He’s such an amateur! But I can tell you this: if I wasn’t the president, the school-fees would have killed me.

Amanpour: You’ve been described as ‘an organic intellectual’ with ‘a cavalier attitude’. Can you elaborate?

JVZ: Yes.(coughs) Farming has always been important to me.

Amanpour: There have been calls for you to resign. Professor Pityana wrote you a letter in this regard, and I quote: ”My… motivation for taking this step is the recognition that we have to pull back from the precipice – or to coin a phrase, from this ‘moral cliff’ – where any sense of public good or virtue, loyalty or restraint are absent, and the moral sensitivity of the nation is in paralysis,” and ”In other words, the absence of a moral basis for human conduct – especially in public life – is totally lacking and the victims will be the poor and the powerless.”  Surely, Mister President, these are serious words. How do you respond?

JVZ:  Come on now! (cleans his glasses and smiles disarmingly) Do you really think we should start listening to professors in this country? What do academics know? They’re a legacy of Apartheid, a throw-back to colonialism. We’ve progressed far beyond that. If you Americans are still caught in that type of slavery, it’s your own fault.

Amanpour: One last question, Mister President. I know you told me to stay away from (she checks the five-page list of forbidden subjects) asking questions about Nkandla, the Arms Scandal, rampant corruption, crime statistics, the state of schools, hospitals and service delivery. You said you’d invite me to some tribal dancing if I did. So, here’s my final question: how do you see your future in South African politics?

JVZ (coughs, laughs uncomfortably) Well, you see, I’ve never been involved in politics. I don’t do that. I only do what the party tells me to do. I’m a servant, see? I serve the party. They build my house, I sign their papers. Once Nkandla is paid for, I’ll step aside. There are many more comrades that need housing, you see? So, as somebody who’ve never been involved in politics, I don’t have a future in it at all.

Amanpour (stares at the camera) And there you have it. South African President denies being a politician. This is Gertruida Amanpour, returning you to the studio. Good night.

***

They don’t pass a hat around afterwards. Servaas say’s it wasn’t funny at all. Boggel’s suggestion that everybody makes a donation to the National Association for Unappreciated Statesmen and Eligible Amateurs does, however, raise enough for a teddy bear. Gertruida thinks Vetfaan was brilliant, calling his performance a ‘true-to-life’ rendition of a very mysterious character.

She says they must think of doing a show in Grootdrink, but then they’ll pass the hat around before they start.

Standing next to me in this lonely crowd,
Is a man who swears he’s not to blame.
All day long I hear him shout so loud,
Crying out that he was framed.
(Bob Dylan)

Wednesday Flash: a Conversation in the Bar

“Some crimes are unforgivable. They are premeditated, well executed and ruthless.”

“True. If somebody does such things on purpose, there’s no excuse.”

“And it’s not just the abuse of trust we’re talking about here – it’s far worse.”

“You know the funny thing? Sections of society still have sympathy for him. Somehow he still gets support.”

“It’s the family, man! He’s got quite a large and extended family, and they feel obliged to stand behind him.”

“Don’t forget the money, chaps. It makes the world go around, remember? With millions at his disposal, it isn’t so far-fetched that he has lots of friends. Lots of people love travelling on a gravy train.”

“And he’s a womaniser, as well. Hopped from one bed to another. Must have a lot of charm to be a Cassanova like that.”

“Mmm, Valentines must have been difficult for him.”

“Well, some people see him as a hero. Somebody who overcame everything, to become an icon. I mean, he did see himself as a leader of sorts, didn’t he?”

“I think he could have had the world at his feet. You know: the right place, the right time, the right words, even the right actions – and he would have been revered for generations to come.”

“But now we’re stuck with his mess. The damage has been done. I doubt if we’d ever recover from it.”

“Well. It’s over now. The process has begun. He won’t last long.”

“It won’t be hard to say goodbye to him. In fact, it’ll be a pleasure.”

“Sure. The country doesn’t need him. He shattered dreams and wrecked so many hopes… We all hoped, didn’t we?”

“Yes. We did. We were stupid.”

Servaas walks in, dressed in black.

“You chaps still talking about the court case in Pretoria?”

“No  Servaas. We’re talking about the gun-mad basket case in the presidency.”

Why is the President Bald?

Servaas puts down the paper with a thoughtful frown.

“The world is going crazy. Everybody is apologising for things they did. Can you wrap your mind around that? I can’t. This is so…unusual!“

“I think we should  thank Minami Minegishi and Chris Huhne. We all make mistakes. There is not a single living soul on this planet, aged over a year or two, who haven’t lied or tried to manipulate circumstances to suit them. Sure – maybe they did wrong, but it takes a lot of courage to knuckle down and take the rap. That’s what I call integrity. If people want to punish them, that’s the way it is. But I can only tip my hat and respect their efforts to come clean.”

“I agree, Gertruida. It does command respect.” Kleinpiet flashes her a wry smile. “Now, how are we going to get that same honesty here?”

“Well,” Boggel gets on the crate to serve another road, “at least our President is honest. He’s shaved his head a long time ago. That should tell us something.”

Beware the Playful Jackal..

“You learn a lot by watching animals,” Vetfaan says, “especially the clever ones, like a jackal. They are so clever, they can be con-artists or politicians.”

“If you insist on making comparisons, try to use things that aren’t the same. It’s more convincing that way. Effective communication is a skill, you know?”  Gertriuda looks up from her knitting with a irritated frown. She gets like this every time she reads a newspaper. Boggel tried to hide the latest edition of the Upington Post – the one with the president on the front page – but she ferreted it out from under the counter.

“I watched one the other day. Just as the sun set, I was on my way to my house, when I spotted a movement in the veld.” Vetfaan ignores Gertruida completely. “I stopped the bakkie and tried to see what it was with my binoculars. He was so well camouflaged that it took ages to spot him, but he was stalking a rabbit and I eventually got them both in sight. First, he crawled nearer, like a dog does when it wants to impress you. On his belly, crawl, crawl.” Vetfaan tries to imitate the animal, but his paunch is too big; and he has to stop when everybody laughs. “The rabbit knew he was there, I’m sure. It was watching the jackal very carefully, lifting his front paw as if he was uncertain what to make of the situation. Now, I don’t care how stupid you are: when you’re a rabbit and a jackal comes crawling along, you have a pretty good idea what’s on the jackal’s menu for tonight. That rabbit just sat there, staring at the crawling beast.

“And you know what he did then? He started fooling around – playing the clown. The jackal rolled over, played dead, jumped up and ran a little circle before going down on his stomach once more. The rabbit looked at him, went hop-hop, and looked again. All the time, the jackal moved closer. And closer.” Vetfaan signals for another beer as he remembers the little game the two furry animals played. “All friendly-like; two old pals having a romp in the sand for the fun of it.”

“Tell me he didn’t kill the rabbit!” Precilla’s hands are over her mouth, her pretty eyes wide in horror.

“That jackal sneaked ever closer, and then started to make little fun-bites. You know? Teeny little snaps of the teeth, showing the rabbit he was just putting on a show. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Come on, Vetfaan! Tell me he didn’t do it!” Her voice is strained. “That poor rabbit shouldn’t play  with…”

“You’re right. The last fun-bite was the killer. Chomp! Exit rabbit, stage left. Hero on stage, enjoying supper at his leisure. And he did take his time, too – as if the foreplay made him appreciate his meal even more. No running and skidding around rocks; just a meal delivered, easy as you please, right there where he wanted to enjoy it.”

“Ag no, Vetfaan! That’s a stupid story! How can you expect us to believe you?” Precilla desperately wants to believe it’s all a lie.

Ten minutes later, amid the hush on the stoep after Precilla’s angry departure, Gertruida gets up to fetch the newspaper.

“It’s true, isn’t it? The jackal and the rabbit and the game? I see it’s all over the front page as well. Zuma wants to speed up land reform – and abolish the principle of willing buyer, willing seller. He says the ANC will fix the economy. That; in the same week our credit rating has gone down again. And, he says here, businesses that backed the ANC, will prosper. What does that mean? It’s the most subtle, civilised form of bribery…

“No, that jackal played it perfectly. He got the rabbit.  If we don’t wake up, the same is going to happen with us. It is, my friends, inevitable…”

Vetfaan agrees. He says he knows Nature must take its course, and that certain events are predictable in the maintenance of the food-chain. The ecosystem is the ecosystem, nobody should tamper with it. But he drives around with his rifle on the passenger seat these days. Just in case. At the very least, he can scare the jackal off to go and do some proper hunting.

The President: ‘Pets are too White’.

“Zuma did it again.” Gertruida issues the flat statement with an air of despondency.

Boggel puts down the Cactus Jack in front of her, raises an eyebrow. “Another wedding? Twins? More improvements at Inkandla?”

“No, Boggel. He’ll need the services of an orthopaedic surgeon this time.” She takes a swig, sighs happily, “Boy, am I glad we live in Rolbos. At least we’re too unimportant to notice, otherwise he would have had a dig at us, too.”

“What are you going on about, Gertruida? You don’t make sense…” The question marks in Servaas’ eyes are all too plain to see.

“Our dear president,” she pauses a second to emphasise her point, “has just said that Africans should not have pets. And if they do, they shouldn’t take them to a vet. And may I remind you his massive complex is situated in KwaZulu Natal, one of the places with the highest incidence of Rabies. Oh, and he didn’t stop there. He said Africans should stop trying to be White. Only White Africans are supposed to keep pets – it’s a bad habit. According to him, straightening hair is a denial of their heritage. He wants to implement a program to ‘correct’ the thoughts of the younger generation – so they can learn how to be African again.”

“But that has been the purpose of other governments in the past, as well. I mean: to ‘educate’ the population to think correctly. Go look at the history of Europe, you’ll find it there.” Sammie doesn’t like politics or discussing it. He says Jews have suffered enough – he wants to be left in peace, that’s why he set up shop in Rolbos.

“Yes, and he lashed out at the fashion industry as well. Said women shouldn’t use facial creams, especially if it lightens their complexion. And that young girls should have children, because it’ll teach them to be mothers.”

“That must have been quite a speech,” Kleinpiet shakes his head, “was he sober?”

“Ag man, he usually makes funny statements. A few years ago he said he cannot tolerate gays.  I don’t think he always follows a prepared speech – he simply rocks up at a meeting – any meeting – and says whatever comes to his mind. And you know what? People love it. They cheer themselves hoarse and sing his praises. Then they go home to feed their dogs and pets – and put on skin-lightening cream while they straighten their hair. It’s all a show, Kleinpiet. Just a show.”

“So why, Gertruida,” Boggel brings her back to her initial statement, “would he need an orthopaedic surgeon? It sounds more like he needs lessons in diplomacy?”

“It’s called the incurable and highly contagious oropedal deformity, Boggel. It’s an extremely serious condition for people with a high public profile. In fact, it’s often the cause of a spectacular fall from esteem, tending  to end up with them flat on their faces.” This, she can see, is way over the heads of her little audience. “It’s a form of foot-and-mouth disease, guys. When it’s in that deep, only a qualified surgeon will be able to dislodge the foot from the mouth. There’s only one condition with a worse prognosis: the infamous cranio-anal malformation.”

Of course, she doesn’t have to explain any further. If you’ve lived in South Africa long enough, the antics of politicians can’t surprise you any more. And we don’t laugh about it anymore, as well.

It hurts too much.

The USSR is Back…

“So we’re going to have a socialist president, a capitalist vice-pres and a communist work-force to govern the country. And all this, I must remind you, under the banner or democracy.” Gertruida has been following the unfolding events at Mangaung on her transistor radio and is keeping the patrons in Boggel’s Place up to date with the news. “I just can’t see how they’ll all live in the same hut until 2019.”

“Ag you know Gertruida, that’s why Nkandla is so huge. When they have their Camp David discussions, they’ll be so far away from each other, it won’t matter what is said. Nobody’s going to listen.” Vetfaan signals for another round before going on. “And remember – there are lots of inquiries on the horizon. Some of those guys had their hands too deep in the till with the Arms Deal Scandal and other bits of corruption. I’ll bet you a friendly beer: whoever gets elected at this conference – it won’t be the team of same guys in power by December 2013.”

“You may be right. The governing party has become a speeding juggernaut; there’s so much momentum to the divisional forces within the organisation, something will have to give. Like is the past, they’ll find a few scapegoats to blame – like they did to poor Malema. It’s okay to toe the party line, but if you cross them, they’ll get rid of you. And that’s their biggest problem – trying to look innocent with several hands in the cookie jar. If they want to come out of the corruption scandals as a going concern, they’ll have to sacrifice somebody really important. It’s the only way to fill up the cracks.”

Kleinpiet shrugs. “It’s the same in all governments. Tell me – with the exception of the Queen – who, in world politics, were born to the job? Politicians  aren’t born; they get made. They spot the cookie jar when they’re quite young, and then work tirelessly to become somebody that others listen to. And why do people listen to other people?” He pauses before answering his own question. “Because they hear stuff they want to hear. Better schools. Better clinics. Better roads. Bigger social grants. We can’t blame our government for inventing these promises – it’s a global phenomenon. Promises create politicians.”

“The origin of the word politics is interesting.” Gertruida is lecturing again.”Polite, police, policy and politics all derive from the Greek word denoting a citizen. It’s supposed to say something about the order and rules within a city. And the word candidate is derived from the same language; Candida, meaning ‘white’.” She holds up a stern hand. “We shall not pursue the origins of candidate any further, gentlemen. There are ladies present.”

“So, originally politicians were clean, blameless citizens who were respected and therefore granted the responsibility of determining rules?” Boggel climbs on his crate to be part of the conversation. “So, how did we end up with the sad state of affairs we have to cope with? I read in The Upington Post that Thuli Madonsella has more than 14,000 cases of corruption to investigate. We have 30-odd ministers. I reckon that averages out at about 500 cases per ministerial department. I think it’s a world record.”

“Gee, Boggel! You can’t make allegations like that! It’s not the ministers who do the wrong stuff – there are many people under them who…”

“Exactly!” Boggel smiles apologetically as he interrupts. “They should have been in charge. They should have been aware. They should have had systems in place to prevent all this fraud. They should know who is spending money on what. That’s my point: if a minister in – say England – runs a department and some junior clerk siphons off a few million, he resigns. He acknowledges his oversight and takes the knock. That’s what honourable men do.”

“Well, I still think the congress in Bloemfontein made the right choice. If you re-elect somebody who’s really paid his dues, you get a smooth operator. New blood in the Presidency would have meant somebody had to learn all the ropes from scratch. I mean, if you know where the cookie jar is, you don’t fumble around and run the risk of upsetting the whole thing. You take cookies one by one without making it obvious.” Kleinpiet finishes his beer. “And with so many children and wives, we can’t expect the poor man to survive on a government salary, can we? He has to make sure he can supplement his salary on a continuous basis, so he’ll make sure the cookies don’t disappear into the pockets of less-deserving individuals.”

“I’m a bit confused,” Boggel says as he wipes his brow. “You’re telling us we’ll be run by a Communistic Capitalist Corrupt Parliament. That’s the CCCP all over again. Vetfaan told me he saw those initials in Angola, during the war.”

“No, Boggel, not the CCCP. We’ll have a nice government. Uninterrupted Stealing, Swindling and Redistribution. It may sound Russian, but it’s an African thing. It says: no matter who leads, the rules don’t apply to him or his pals. It’s not so bad for the president either. You get somebody else to pay for your house as well.”

“So, what did you say about the end of 2013, Vetfaan? You’re still willing to take that bet?” Boggel extends his hand.

When they shake on the deal, Gertruida wishes Vetfaan and Boggel the best of luck.

We’re all going to need it.

***

And way out, on the unforgiving ocean, the party was in full swing. This ship cannot sink, they said. The orchestra on the main deck was pumping out a traditional dance as they neared the iceberg. Nobody paid attention to one man who headed for the lifeboat. Kgalema Mothlante was not going to drown, not at all. He knew too much. And as the men and women danced to the rhythm, he drifted away.

Later they’d all wonder what happened to him, but by then it would be too late. He planned his next step carefully. While the last passengers floundered in the cold waters, he started rescuing those that didn’t make it. He won’t make the ship float again, but he’ll make sure they never build another Titanic.

Flashfiction: Sandy

“They’ve got a hurricane in America,” Gertruida says, because she knows everything, “called Sandy. They say it is a Frankenstorm.”

“Do they have deserts over there?” Vetfaan tries not to gape. “I thought the Kalahari is the only one.”

“That hurricane has nothing to do with sand, Vetfaan. It’s about winds, rain and snow.” She’s really trying to be patient.

“Then why call it Sandy? Shouldn’t it be Rainy, or Windy?”

“Hurricanes get girl-names, silly. You don’t get girls called Windy – they’ll never make it past high school with a name like that.” Gertruida sniggers at the thought. “Imagine introducing her to your parents: ‘Hi mom and dad, this is my new girlfriend. She’s Windy.’  It just won’t go down all that well.”

“I can’t understand the hype. What makes Sandy so special?” Lucinda is used to Mediterranean storms, but this one seems worse.

“It’s the warming of the Caribbean Sea, Lucinda. It is where tropical storms get born. But if it meets the unstable cold jet stream from the melting North Pole, it causes a situation where winds from the North and South crash into each other. The one is warm, the other cold.  And the energy released, is beyond comprehension. That’s Sandy.”

“Okay, I get it.” Vetfaan sits back with a satisfied grin. “It’s like Malema and Zuma. A lot of hot air gets met with a mass of cold-hearted political ambition. The result: a hurricane that disrupts lives, causes electrical shortages and drives people to leave the security of their homes. Schools get closed down, the economy suffers and people don’t work.”

Gertruida rolls her eyes. Sometimes she has to let go of the belief that her countrymen still hope for a better future.

“Vetfaan, we should think – and pray – for those folks in America. They’re facing Sandy. It’s real, you know?”

“And we’re facing our own hurricane, Gertruida. It’s called Bloody. Tell me: do they care?”

Boggel’s Hand

Boggel stares at the man. Precilla takes a deep breath. Gertruida has never seen anything like it.

The man is in his middel forties, dressed to the nines in black pants, white shirt with a bandana around the neck, and shoes made from an unfortunate crocodile’s remains. His rose-tinted glasses show enough of the eyes to reveal the crow’s feet. And he is handsome in the way people think film stars should be. Amongst the dusty and khaki-clad men in Boggel’s Place, this guy stands out like a diamond o a black board.

“Beer?” A good barman will always look after your thirst before asking questions.

“No. I don’t drink.” The other customers in the bar nod – they knew this man isn’t normal.

“Well, what I can do for you then?” If he doesn’t want to drink, he must be lost.

“I need to hire this venue for a day – and a night. Poker championship. International. We pay well.”

Boggel shakes his head. “If I hire this place out, the townsfolk have nowhere to meet – or drink something. I’m afraid…”

“Ten thousand bucks,” the man interrupts him. “The thousand for one day. US dollars.”

Several low whistles echo around the room. Eighty-thousand Rands! For one day? Surely…?

“Boggel leans over the counter after getting onto his crate. “Why?”

“Well, it’s like I told you. Poker. I represent some of the richest men in the world. They meet four times a year, alternating absolute luxury – like the Bahamas – with places completely in the bundu – like here. They fly in, play for big stakes, and then fly out again. It’s about the atmosphere, see? For this tournament they want a place in the desert, far from civilisation, and with plenty of cold beer. They don’t like lodges and they hate hotels. My job is to look for a place in South Africa that fits their wishes. They want to dress up like cowboys.”

“Oh no!” Lucinda gets up and marches to the man. “This is another lion story, no? You make fun of me again? Tell me!”

Of course he has no idea what she’s talking about. “No, madam, I’m serious.” He takes out a fat sheaf of notes and places in on the counter.

“Take it,” Vetfaan shouts, “take the money! We can set up a bar in Precilla’s shop for one day, and these guys can play their poker here. It’s a good deal.”

People seldom hear about these strange happenings in the rural areas. The big news corporations follow the TV crews from strike to unrest, from war to upheaval; feeding the sensation-hungry masses on as much gore, lies and deceit, financial and natural disasters all over the world, as they can muster. Most news hounds haven’t even heard of Rolbos – go on, ask a few and see the reaction. So, it is hardly surprising that four of the richest men in the world – one Chinese, one Englishman, one American and the obligatory Arabian gentleman – never reach the hallowed pages of print when they play their friendly game in Rolbos. At stake is only a few million; a paltry sum for these men; for they come here to escape and enjoy themselves. They are very careful to keep under the media-radar – even the helicopter flight that touches down next to Sammie’s Shop doesn’t appear on any register.

***

And fun they did have! First they had a ‘showdown’ in Voortrekker Weg, with fake pistols and blanks, then they sauntered in cowboy-style into Boggel’s Place and waited for the barman to fill their glasses. Gertruida, who has seen all the Clint Eastwood movies, tells the rest the men are dressed like real cowboys, and that the leather protectors on their legs aren’t a new fashion statement.

Boggel is the only local resident allowed behind the counter, and the nattily-dressed hunk does the serving. It is all very civilised and Boggel will later say he didn’t understand these men. They could have retired to any old club or retreat anywhere in the world, but they chose to land up in Rolbos. Gertruida will say that is the point – these men get bored, and unless they do way-out things, they get grumpy and the world economy suffers.

“Men like those,” she says, “are able to push the world’s finances this way and that – and sometimes they do it for fun. But always, always, they benefit. If the Dollar plunges, they buy. If oil goes up, they sell. Money begets money, guys; people like these gentlemen can make or break countries.”

Of course they all nod and say ‘yes’, but the concept is just too large to understand. Farmers work with ground and with sheep – important things – and have difficulty to grasp the intricacies of cellphone giants, quantum technologists and billionaires. They correctly place those under the heading of Not Important, simply because such people care little about the little men on the street. Surely: if someone isn’t concerned about you, you shouldn’t be bothered by them? It’s logic, according to Vetfaan.

***

At nine that night, the Chinese gentleman stares at his cards in disbelief. Four Aces! In his entire poker career, this has never happened to him. The bidding opens, and it is soon clear that every one of them had a special hand. Brit has a full house, Uncle Sam holds with a straight and the turbaned man is happy with his flush, king high. Like peace on earth, this combination of hands is virtually impossible, but it happens, right there in Boggel’s Place.

Soon the stakes are sky-high and they all have all their chips on the table. The trillionaires look on in disbelief as one hand after the other is revealed; and when Mr Ho puts down his cards, a few seconds of complete silence follows. Then laughter – incredulous at first –trickles across the table, but  soon they are laughing and slapping each other on the back. It’s been years since they had such a lot of fun.

Their day of fun is over. They’ve all get back to their private jets and plush offices manned by skimpily-dressed aides the next day; something that puts a damper on their high spirits. Mr Ho is keen for another hand, although the rules of their game state that as soon as one player cleaned out the rest, that player buys a round of drinks and they call it quits. Rich people are careful with money, Gertruida says. Yet, in the flush of his victory, Mr Ho pleads for another game. Just one more. The other three, by then convinced of their opponent’s run of luck, politely refuse.

“Ha! Mister Balman! You like play hand with me? I play you for this bah. What you say?”

Boggel was completely taken aback. His bar? “T-t-that’s all I have!”

“Okay. I undelstand. So we play faih. You put evelything on, I put evelything on. Faih game. No cheat.”

To Ho and his pals, this is just a game. If Ho lost a fortune, he’d simply start buying some commodity (gold, platinum, oil) and increase the demand on a product in short supply. The price then goes up, Ho sells, and billions flow his way once again. Easy. The four of them egg Boggel on, taunting him, making him wonder if he has the guts.

To their surprise, Boggel pulls over his crate. “Right. Lets play. Only one hand.”

When Gertruida later asks him why he agreed, Boggel tells her that a fifty-fifty chance represent good odds. On one single hand he had a chance of becoming richer than the Oppenheimers. If he lost, he’ simply have to start Boggel’s Place next door – even if it’s a tent. According to his thinking, the Chinese man made a very bad decision however: if he lost, he’d lose big. And if he won, Boggel says, who would support the bar if Mr Ho ran it? No, he wasn’t worried: his patrons would follow him.

My Movie Star deals and Mr Ho snatches up his five cards. He sits back, his emotionless face giving away nothing.

Boggel don’t touch his cards. Leering over at his opponent, he growls: “Ye-e-e-es?”

***

They still talk about that game. The Chinese gentleman asked what Boggel would like to put on the table. Boggel said “Everything,” without looking at his cards. Ho said this is not the way the game is played. Boggel replied that wasn’t his problem – did the gentleman want to play or not?

***

“So he left, Boggel?” Gertruida can’t believe what she is hearing. “Left, and said he wouldn’t play with amateurs?”

And Boggel smiles and said yes, that’s exactly what happened.

“So, after he left, did you peek at your cards? What did you have?”

Boggel shakes his head.

“No, he chickened out; that was enough. I shuffled those cards right back into the deck, and gave it back to Mr Movie Man.”

***

 Gertruida says that’s the way you should run a country. Don’t kill your opponents – just allow them the opportunity to doubt. That’s a death worse than dying. They don’t have to know what winning (or not) hand you’ve got. What counts is that they must think they can’t match you. That, she says, is like the battle between Zuma and Malema, or Obama and Romney. Here, too, one will have to throw in his hand and walk away like Mr Ho did. The only difference is that the loser will really lose everything.

Boggel agrees, sting the trick is never to take yourself too seriously. That’s when you lose to amateurs. Politicians do it all the time, he says – and not only in South Africa. All you need, he says, is faith…

The Painting, The Question…

“That guy made a lot of money with that painting,” Gertruida says, “and he got people talking. Maybe that’s what all art should do?”

“But the detail, Gertruida! Did he really have to add all that detail to the painting? Wouldn’t a small little loincloth look better?”

“Yes, maybe,” Vetfaan has an envious look, “but that wouldn’t have covered that whole thing. He’d have needed a beach towel.”

“I find it disgusting.” Precilla shivers at the thought of the picture. “I mean, he is the President, after all. How would you guys feel if they painted you like that?”

“He would have needed a bigger canvas,” Kleinpiet says without blushing. “Bold strokes and lots of paint…and a bigger canvas.”

“I don’t know, you guys. At my age one tends to, well, be less of a man than in your twenties. You know, you lose hair and sight and hearing as you get older. The rest of the body seems to follow suit. In the end, I think old men are a sad reminder of the youth they once had.”

“But the prez is seventy already, Servaas. He’s the same age as you, give or take a few years. Are you saying the painting is a fake?”

“Sure thing. If you believe the painting, he should have bruises on his knees. No, believe me, the painter used his imagination to portray a different aspect of the prez’s personality. It could say something about priorities, or nepotism, or even corruption. I don’t know, but I think the artist was trying to tell us something.”

Kleinpiet draws the outline of South Africa on the counter top. “You mean – that artist wants to make the public aware of what the president has done to the country?”

“Well, that is a relief,” Precilla smiles for the first time, “I thought it had to do with, you know, er … the physical side of things. If it’s only a metaphor, I can live with it. I won’t buy the painting though – it’s much too graphic.”

“But that means he did the whole country, Precilla, not just his particular preference for a specific occasion. That’s worse, I think.”

“We’ve been done, as you call it, since forever. Tell me,” and here Gertruida pauses for effect, “tell me which government, for as long as you can remember, has had the true interest of the people at heart. It’s always a power game, that’s all.”

“Then we’ll commission our local artist to paint the world’s leaders all in a similar fashion. A huge canvas, with all of them lined up next to each other. It’ll cause an international sensation!” Vetfaan smiles lewdly at Kleinpiet. “You can do it, can’t you?”

“Nope. What do I do with Merkel and the Queen? You can’t do this type of art with ladies.”

“Okay then. Only the men.”

And so Kleinpiet draws them all. The presidents of the modern world, all next to each other; with our president in the position of honour, right in the middle. He covers the entire counter top with his unique style, painting with beer froth.

Boggel waits for the last little bit of detail before he takes the cloth to wipe it all off.

“I like my bar the way it is, thank you. Politics, and all the stuff that dangles from it, do not belong here. While we know artists have a licence to portray life as they see fit, we in Rolbos have a certain dignity of our own. I’m not worried about the president’s sense of honour, but we won’t gravitate to his level, will we? So, how’s about a round of Cactus Jack, then we can talk about really important things – like the drought or who’s going to fill up the pothole in Voortrekker Weg?”

At least, Gertruida muses, Rolbos won’t get swept along by the events in the rest of the world. While everybody out there gossips and sniggers about a silly painting, Boggel will force them back to reality. The most important question will pop up sooner rather than later.

Who will pay for the next round?

Now, that is a situation  really worth debating. At least Rolbos has priorities when it involves important stuff. They know you can solve many more problems with Cactus Jack, than with dangling objects from an Armani suit