Survival of the Fittest?

images (11)“That was most unpleasant.” Gertruida goes harrumph and finishes her beer. “Imagine that? We’re being investigated for being honest.”

“What did you expect, Gertruida. Those poor men have to investigate somebody – and if not the criminals, why not us? We’re exactly the type of people that disrupt the peace and quiet in the country. The baddies sneak around and do their thing in silence, and at night. We, however, tend to get rather rowdy within minutes of Boggel unlocking the front door.” Servaas goes tsk-tsk and orders another beer. “We certainly have a lot to learn.”

The watch the black BMW drive off, not quite managing to miss the big pothole. The crunch of the chassis on the road causes the patrons in the bar to relax  a little, The visit by the three men had been as unexpected as unpleasant. Dressed in black suits and sporting Raybans, Gertruida immediately recognised the secret service attitude. However, after the two-hour grilling, she still isn’t sure whether they are from the police or some other government agency. True to the nature of these things, the men didn’t bother to introduce themselves properly.

The list of questions seemed endless. Who are they? Who funds them? Why are they constantly criticising the government in general and the president in particular? What are their plans? Do they have a stockpile of weapons? What’s this about them planning to declare their own republic? Did they not respect the high office of the president and other parliamentarians?

Oh, the men were friendly and never threatened the group at the bar in any way, except to discuss amongst themselves the expense of hiring a lawyer and how difficult it’d be for these backward people to meet such accounts. They also talked about the overcrowded jails, the gangs that are more powerful than the Minister of Correctional Services, and how popular a few white faces in the cells would be.

In the end they left, asking – nay, ordering – them to be more careful in their denunciation of the government that tries so hard to rule fairly over the obedient masses in the country.

“Well,” Boggel slides a cold one across to Servaas, “at least we never said anything about the president showering, the way he’s losing weight, or how one of his wives tried to poison him. If we start telling the truth, we’d be in deep trouble.”

“Stop moaning like that, Servaas. Lets concentrate on saying nice things about the way the country is governed. There has to be something….”

Silence.

“O-o-okay.” Kleinpiet scratches at his five o’clock shadow, staring at the ceiling. “Let me see. We can consider awarding prizes for the top performers in the higher echelons. Mmmm. Not a bad idea.”

Vetfaan catches on immediately. “Like the Order of the Hammer and Sickle for somebody who’s getting the Russians to build nuclear reactors here, and the plans to dump the waste somewhere in the Kalahari?”

“Oh. My. Word! Talk like that will see you sent to Siberia, Vetfaan! How can you make such statements? Those men will make a sharp u-turn in Grootdrink if they heard this.” Precilla is clearly upset. “It’s like proposing the De Klerk Medal of Courage to anybody who speaks out against the quota system in sport.”

“No, I’d like to see somebody brave enough to accept the Jan van Riebeeck Award for Responsible Thinking. You know? Somebody who can point out the cause of all the strikes, land reforms and Marikana.” Boggel smiles smugly at this brilliant suggestion. “And while they’re at it, they can have the ceremony to convey the Order of the Iron Bar – First Class,  to the architect who now has to bear the blame for the swimming pool at Nkandla.”

After this they consider the Weighless Award for the politician who loses the most weight, the Shower Award for the cleanest parliamentarian, and the Cirque du Soleil Medal for the best clown in the House. Surprisingly, they all go to the same person.

The group at the bar gets so deeply involved in the discussion that they fail to see the black BMW stop in front of the veranda again.

“These people are mad,” the man in the back says as he removes the earpiece.

“You are right, comrade.” The driver sets the air-conditioner to ‘Freeze‘.  “It is a common malady that occurs in such isolated places. These men and women have too much time to think, then they come up with these crazy ideas. Politicians try do it, too – but their ideas are harmless: they just talk. We’ll have to report this to headquarters.”

The man in the passenger seat remains quiet. He actually likes the drift of the conversation in the bar. Having a bit of fun amidst the chaos in the country shouldn’t be halted by the law. In fact, he’d want to see them encouraged; especially after the silly idea of establishing a university here. These Rolbossers, he reckons, could have had marvellous careers in Escom or Sanral. But, sadly, these people lack the drive and ambition needed to aim for such illustrious careers.

They’re just too honest to be employed, unfortunately.  And, since the survival of the fittest (or the most creative at factual gymnastics) is a law of nature and politics, these people won’t be a factor to consider in the near future.

He sits back to allow his compatriots to discuss – at length – their report. Let them talk, he thinks, and let them write that report. In the end nobody’s going to read it, anyway. The officials concerned have bigger fish to fry: like whose turn it is to pop out for KFC.

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