I man a de Bush Doctor

Big up to Mario Oriani-Ambrosini. This week he stood up in parliament and appealed to President Jacob Zuma to legalise medicinal marijuana as an alternative treatment for cancer patients.

The Inkatha Freedom Party politician was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer last year. There is no stage five. His personal treatment plan included marijuana. If PW Botha were still president, this admission alone would have got Ambrosini ten years in jail and forty stitches for the police dog bites.

Would Zuma support the Medical Marijuana Bill? How could he not? I have never met a Zulu man who hasn’t smoked weed at some point in his life. Then again, most of the Zulu men I have met were the ones selling me weed in the first place. But that was then, when I was young and foolish.

I can’t imagine Sbu Mpisane returning to his La Lucia mansion after a hard day of doing whatever it is that nobody, not even the NPA or Sars, knows, loading up a gold-plated bong and sucking down a few sticky heads of primo intsangu before dispatching Shauwne to the kitchen to whip up a plate of toasted caviar and lobster munchies garnished with white truffles and drizzled with gold dust.

Ambrosini said it was a crime against humanity to deny medicinal marijuana to cancer patients. He was probably high when he said it, so we should cut him some slack. What Bashir al-Assad is doing to his own people in Syria is a crime against humanity. Let’s keep things in perspective.

Having said that, I was in an oncologist’s office in Morningside eighteen months ago. Me, my sister, my father and my mother. Mum was in a wheelchair because lung cancer makes you lose your appetite, which very quickly makes you lose all sorts of other things. She hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that she was dying. I’m not sure she ever really did. When I tried to take her for lunch on Mother’s Day, she said, “Wait until I’m feeling better.”  She ran out of life before we could have that lunch.

The oncologist’s office was filled with oil paintings and sculptures and the fripperies of the rich. Perhaps he needed it. He was, after all, a doctor whose patients were almost guaranteed to die, regardless of whatever treatment he recommended.

He flashed his dazzling white teeth and used words like “palliative” and tossed out helpful phrases like “there’s no point bankrupting yourselves on the most expensive chemo”. In other words, the cheap shit is just as ineffective.

While he was showing us, on his laptop, the progression of the cancer, I asked if marijuana might not be an option. Again, the smile. A little less dazzling, this time.

“No,” he said, looking at me as if I were slightly retarded. “That doesn’t work.”

I didn’t mean as a cure. I meant as a way of way of stimulating my mother’s appetite. As a way of easing the pain that would eventually see her crying out for her own long-dead mother.

The drugs he prescribed didn’t work. From what I saw, at horrifically close quarters, they made my mother’s last few months infinitely worse. It wasn’t his fault. Specialists are trained not to divert from their well-trodden path.

In America, the possession of marijuana is legal in Colorado and Washington. It has been decriminalised in fourteen states and is legal, medicinally, in twenty states.

In Uruguay, you can do whatever the hell you like with it.

In Spain and Switzerland, you can grow as much as you want on your property.

The Dutch don’t give a damn about it.

And in South Australia, which has Adelaide as its capital, you can legally grow one non-hydroponic plant for personal use. In Canberra, you may grow two hydroponic plants. Bloody anal Aussies.

If you want to use marijuana because you’ve got a touch of the old cancer or simply because you want to kick back and have a bit of a laugh, you might want to avoid the progressive democracies of Bulgaria, China, Latvia, Somalia, Syria, Slovakia, Ukraine and Uzbekistan.

And, of course, South Africa.

 

An open letter to sports minister Fikile Mbalula

Howzit Fiks,

I reckon I can dispense with formality ‘coz you been hanging with rappers and threatening our soccer team with, like, death. That’s cool. I’m down with that kind of thing.

So I read in the paper that you want to host some games. Commonwealth and Olympic, yes? I like that about you. A big man with a big vision. But as you put it in the elegant language of international diplomacy, “The biggest fish to catch is the 2024 Olympics.”

Last year, the government said the cost to host an Olympics would be too high. A few days ago, you said President Jacob Zuma had indicated South Africa was ready to host the Games. The counter-revolutionary press called this “a major shift in policy”. Later, when they were drunk at the bar, they called it, “yet another ridiculous remark from someone who has all the leadership skills of a blind sheep”.

The idea of South Africa hosting the 2024 Olympics seems like a dream. I can’t even imagine still being alive in 2024, but I suppose that depends on which roving outlaw biker gang will take me in and provide me with food and fuel in return for services rendered.

Can you believe that Rio will host the Olympics in 2016? After the Soccer World Cup, the only things left standing will be two Cracolândia heroin whores and a mulatto dog that can sing in broken Portuguese.

And how about Tokyo hosting the 2020 Games? Can we look forward to dolphin-stabbing events? Radiation relays? The country that eats a fin whale in the fastest time wins gold?

I agree with you, comrade minister. We are ready. Durban is ready. I have given this some thought and come to the conclusion that Albert Park should be the nerve centre of the 2024 Olympics. Of course, we cannot call it Albert Park because the colonialists named it after Queen Albert, the bandit transvestite who did some mad stuff in Bombay and it might offend countries who consider the name Albert to be sacred. Obviously I am not referring to those nations whose understanding of Prince Albert is a ring-style piercing that extends along the underside of the glans from the urethral opening to where the glans meets the shaft of the penis.

We need to rename Albert Park before you make your pitch to the Olympic committee. I suggest we call it Whoonga Park. It certainly sounds more African than Albert.

What with it being held in Durban and all, here are some unique events you may want to consider introducing.

The individual medley. The athlete must source a gram of whoonga, smoke it and correctly estimate the percentage of crystal meth, heroin and rat poison.

Archery. Contestants fire arrows at moving car guards.

Tendering. The rules of this event are confidential.

Fencing. Teams must buy stolen goods and sell them off for the biggest profit in a limited period of time.

Surfing. Contestants paddle out at North Beach and try to get as many waves as possible before being harassed, intimidated or threatened with arrest by a lifesaver on a ski.

Roaching. Teams have one hour to come up with the biggest cockroach.

Prosecuting. Teams must find a way to put Shauwn Mpisane behind bars.