Rebel rabble

More than twenty percent of the matric class of 2013 failed the year and, quite frankly, we decent law-abiding citizens are appalled at the prospect of them rushing off en masse to the nearest traffic lights to harass us with inflatable dolphins or look at us with cold accusing eyes as if it’s somehow our fault that weevils got into the education system.

Around this time of year, men in beards are inclined to rabbit on about how essential it is that today’s school-leavers learn how to become entrepreneurs. What rubbish. Let us not delude our children with urban mythology. The truth is that real money is made only by exploiting those who can’t spell entrepreneur. The slow and the dumb have always been grist to the millionaire and they always will be.

When I was at school, kids who regularly failed were called rebels. They were also called morons, but I preferred to think of them as rebels. So what do we do with our tens of thousands of rebels? It’s blindingly obvious. Get them to form a rebel army before they think of it themselves. If the government thought along similarly preemptive lines, they would insist the workers go on strike at least twice a year. Cosatu would be obliged to oppose it.

Right now, the kids who failed matric outnumber our regular troops by three to one. That’s a serious force right there. Sure, they might be disorganised, lazy and not very bright, but is that any different to those serving in the SANDF?

Complacency is destroying this fine country and there is nothing like the looming threat of a rebel incursion to make you switch off the telly and take notice of what is happening around you. We pay taxes, we pay bribes and we think that’s it – our civic duty is done. What we really need to be paying is attention. We need to focus. I know. It’s not easy. But if we can’t get Ritalin into the water supply, the next best thing is a rebel army made up of countless adolescents who can’t hold their liquor and who think multiplication has something to do with shagging.

This will not be a violent rebel army. Violence takes effort. It takes commitment. You don’t simply wake up late one morning, put on any old thing and go out for a spot of maiming and pillaging with the lads. These kids were so slothful and slack that they couldn’t pass their exams, even though the final results were massaged more than Tiger Dicks’ wood.

The new rebel army will have to be broken down into manageable groups. Part of the reason they failed matric was because there were 145 of them to a class and lessons consisted of flirting, getting high and doing unspeakable things to the biology teacher as part of the practical.

I would suggest no more than five to a unit. That way, they can’t easily pair off and go lie in a river bed all day long, toying with one another’s genitals and idly wondering where the sun goes at night.

So that would mean 40 000 separate units spread over 1 221 037km², which would give you … I don’t know what it would give you. It gives me a migraine.

I think I am best suited to lead the rebels. Even though I passed matric, it was more painful than passing a kidney stone. It must be said, though, compared to today, the matric exam back then was heavier than the entrance exam to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Time, combined with expired medication, late-night games of pool and a lifetime of demented women, can play havoc with one’s memory.

Since our rebel army won’t be doing much fighting beyond the odd jealous squabble among themselves, they will have to do other things to earn their keep. It will be a requirement that at least one person in each unit has the ability to entertain. Instead of uniforms, they will be issued with clown outfits.

The units will call unexpectedly on our homes and offices, as proper rebel armies do, and we will donate food, clothing or money on completion of their performance.

If they can’t make us rich, they should at least make us laugh.

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