The dark side of change

It’s unlikely I was the only one suffering from a minor medical emergency last Sunday. Having tried all the regular remedies – aspirin, fried food, suicide – I dragged my shattered carcass off to the shop and bought a few cans of Coke.

I don’t usually drink this filth for political reasons, which, at this point in time, are a little hazy. I think it had to do with the bottlers in Columbia hiring paramilitary thugs to murder employees caught drinking Pepsi. Or something. I don’t know why I cared. I might have been going through my social justice warrior phase before discovering it doesn’t pay very well.

On Sunday I couldn’t have cared less if Coca-Cola turned out to be the official sponsor of the Trump family. I needed to dilute the massive amount of post-World Cup beer that had caused my blood to stream about as well as Telkom Wi-Fi on a rainy night in Diepsloot. Coke can adulterate, corrode or kickstart just about anything and it was my last shot.

I ripped the can open and guzzled it right there in the shop. There was a moment when everything went quiet. Like that scene when a bomb goes off in Saving Private Ryan. Instead of being stricken with temporary deafness, like Tom Hanks, I clutched my throat and, eyes swiveling wildly in my head, retched clumsily into a conveniently placed ornamental palm. Like Gary Busey in, well, real life.

I thought I’d been poisoned. It tasted as if the paramilitaries had spiked it. Once my internal organs calmed down, I inspected the can. “Plus Coffee” it said. And, in the event that one’s hangover was affecting one’s vision, in bigger letters, “Real Coffee From Brazil”. To make absolutely sure the customer knew what was happening, there was even a picture of coffee beans on the side. I didn’t notice any of this when I bought it because nobody in their right mind pauses to check if their Coke has been contaminated with anything other than the usual cola-related toxins.

What kind of crazy person would come up with such a terrible idea? This is not the work of a normal crazy person, that’s for sure. This is off the charts. Have people built up such a tolerance that they now need a caffeine boost with their sugar?

We have all, at one time or another, been exposed to children speeding on sugar in a confined space. I have been on long-haul flights with children who were given Coke to drink. They react as if they are being electrocuted. Now imagine them having the new Coffee-Coke twenty minutes into a thirteen-hour flight. They would kick the back of your seat so violently that you’d end up with a splintered coccyx and, a month after disembarking, a kidney transplant. The runty savages would be fighting among themselves to get into the cockpit and everyone in economy class would spend the night praying for engine failure.

My point is that people should just leave good enough alone. Remember that old slogan, Coke adds life? Okay, it doesn’t if you work for a bottling plant in Bogota. But for those of us far downstream of the production line, Coke has done its job adequately.

What would happen if someone had to drink a Klippies and Coffee-Coke? I shudder to think. Actually, I’ve been shuddering for three days. I wish it would stop.

I’m not the only one who doesn’t want things tampered with. Take Dr Mbuyiseni Ndlozi of the EFF, for instance. An educated and sensitive man, he was deeply conflicted when the Springboks won the World Cup. There are black and white players in the team, which meant he could only voice his support whenever a darkie had the ball. The moment it was passed to one of the neo-colonial, counter-revolutionary puppets of the West, he had to shout “Phansi amaBhunu!” or look away and pretend he hadn’t seen. It couldn’t have been easy for him. The final whistle must have been particularly awkward. Not everyone can make it clear that you’re cheering the black players only. You’d need a PhD in political science to pull that off.

Simultaneously angry, happy and sad, Ndlozi turned to Twitter and offered his congratulations to Siya Kolisi. The white players, he suggested, should get their congratulations from Prince Harry. The prince, who has made it abundantly clear that he has had quite enough of white people in general and his family in particular, was off drinking beer in the Boks’ changing room. Harry would have noted that Faf de Klerk, while possessing the instincts and agility of a Miniature Schnauzer, is developing a bit of a boep. Being a gentleman, he refrained from pointing and laughing.

Our benign president, Cyril Ramaphosa, is also encouraging change. He said we should do like Siya says and work together. That’s fine for Siya to say. His house is a hotbed of racial unity. Personally, I’ve only ever known blondes to be nothing but trouble. Brunettes, too. And redheads.

Comrade Ndlozi’s political doppelgänger down at the shallow end of the gene pool, Oberstfuhrer Steve Hofmeyr, offered to translate Cyril’s message. “Let the Siya injection make you numb so you don’t fight back when we grab your land from under your arse because you’re white.” Translated from the original Afrikaans, obviously.

Steve bravely left his land unguarded and went to a friend’s house to watch the final. He couldn’t watch at home because he destroyed his DStv decoder a few months ago. I can’t remember why. Perhaps because it was black.

So that’s the thing. We don’t want change in this country. Not really. If we did, we’d do like the Ecuadorians and Chileans and take to the streets in our millions and refuse to leave until someone did something to fix the economy. If Eskom started working and Jacob Zuma stopped appealing, we’d have nothing to complain about. We would be lost without our healthy sense of fear and loathing of those who look, think and talk differently to us.

#ImStaying because I can’t wait to see what Cyril doesn’t do next. I also want to feel what it’s like to live in a country that’s been accorded junk status by all three major ratings agencies. Not every nation can achieve it, you know. You have to really not work at it. So far it’s only two out of three. Hopes are pinned on Moody’s delivering the coup de grâce in three months’ time.

For now, though, let us link arms with the likes of Mbuyiseni Ndlozi, Irvin Jim and Helen Zille and go laughingly backwards into the future.

 

 

  • Don’t forget to visit the Contraband page and order your signed copy of my latest book, Durban Poison.

A Letter to Kallie Kriel, Caucasian-in-Chief of AfriForum

Hello Oom Kallie. How is it going with Oom? Is it okay with Oom if I call Oom Oom? I believe it is a mark of respect in our culture, although if someone calls me Oom I want to punch him in the mouth. Maybe there is something wrong with us. When I say us, I mean we English-speakers. Not we white people. There is nothing wrong with white people. This is a well-known fact. Even scientists have proven that God chose white people as his number one race.
I just love being white. Don’t you? It’s the best colour. You can wear anything with it and never have to worry about your broeks clashing with your hemp. By hemp I am obviously referring to the marijuana that many young white people carry around in colourful fabric bags these days. Does Oom smoke boom? I hear it is very good for the cancer and also the appetite. Is it true all the Boer generals smoked it and that is why the Third Boer War never took off? Too much sitting around chatting and laughing. Still. It’s probably a good thing otherwise we’d all be speaking Australian today.
Congratulations on your recent tour of America, a country that until recently was enemy territory for you. Now that our hero Donald Trump has made the White House white again, America can once more take its rightful place in the world. Blood and soil, Oom. Blood and soil.
You even got a meeting with the US Agency for International Aid. That would never have happened while the Kenyan antichrist was president. Did they give you money? I bet they did. You should use it to stock up on dog food. When the genocide moves from the farms to the suburbs, you are going to need lots of dogs. As you know, darkies are more scared of dogs than they are of white people. You can thank democracy for that.
I could hardly believe my ears when President Ramaphosa said you and the man who plays Chewbacca to your Han Solo, Robin to your Batman, Donkey to your Shrek, Gollum to your Frodo, Tonto to your Lone Ranger, Gromit to your … whoops. Where was I? Yes. Ramaphosa said that instead of trying to mobilise the international community against your own country, you and Ernst Roets should “come back home for inclusive dialogue”.
Sounds familiar. You probably remember better than I the day that Zulu King Dingane invited Piet Retief and some of his men around for a spot of inclusive dialogue, then shouted, “Bulalani abathagathi!” The Voortrekker leader said, “Two sugars please,” but it wasn’t the right response and they were all killed. If you don’t understand Zulu, Oom Kallie, now would be a good time to learn.
Speaking of which, you need to get your sidekick to change the title of his self-help book. Kill the Boer sounds too much like advice. South Africans take things literally, especially the illiterate ones.
I’m not sure I agree with you that the government is complicit in farm murders. Bludgeoning is heavy work and you’d be hard pressed to find a civil servant prepared to lift a finger, let alone a blunt instrument, for less than six figures and a promise of jobs for at least five members of his family.
I must admit to being a little curious about your strategy for getting the government to reverse plans and policies that might level the playing field and nudge Afrikaners off their perch as apex predators. I’m talking purely in the financial sense, here. I don’t mean Afrikaners go around biting people’s legs off, even though they do share some characteristics of that other apex predator, the great white shark. As you know, most Afrikaners have electroreceptors on their foreheads, much like the white shark has the ampullae of Lorenzini on their snouts. If you stroke them, their mouths fall open and they go into a kind of trance, rendering them quite harmless. By the time they come to their senses, some may find their land has been expropriated without compensation.
Warn your people, Oom. Warn them not to let strangers stroke them on the forehead. By strangers I think we both know who I mean. And there’s nothing more strange in this world than people who aren’t white. Am I right? Of course I am. It’s no coincidence that white rhymes with right. Those people what wrote the dictionary knew what they were doing.
Your organisation – which I’m guessing stands for Afrikaners For Umbrage – only has a couple of hundred thousand members. Even though your motto is, “Laat jou stem hoor”, which apparently means, “Let your guns sound with the roar of a thousand lions”, I can’t see how you can take us back to the good old days through a campaign of righteous Christian violence. Not with those numbers. And certainly not without the help of the police and army. They won’t even help normal people, let alone you guys.
Thing is, I have heard talk among white people, or, as some communities affectionately call us, whypeepo, of a growing discontent within the ranks. The ranks being mostly bikers, diesel mechanics and others unfamiliar with the ways of the common apostrophe. They use cryptic phrases like, “Wait. It’s coming. You will see.” I never ask what it is that’s coming, finding it safer to lower my eyes and back away slowly.
The truth is, Oom, I am a bit of a coward. Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not a leftie or a liberal. I am just a simple coward. I know I should be standing shoulder to shoulder with you and Solidarity and the Suidlanders and Dan Roodt and the people who only sing the uit die diepte van ons hemelpart of the anthem at the rugby, but I also know that we are heavily outnumbered and I don’t want to have to fight my way through forty million black people only to get to Simon’s Town and find the last boat has left.
There is a good chance I am wrong because I have been married twice and know all about being wrong, but I would sleep easier at night knowing that Steve Hofmeyr and Julius Malema might one day marry were it not for their height rather than their political differences. Is that wrong? Do I need an exorcism?
This crazy dream of mine is unlikely to come true as long as you keep saying that apartheid was not a crime against humanity. I do agree with you, though. Puffy pants and rhinestone studded denim jackets were a crime against humanity. Having the barman put Pepsi instead of Coke into your brandy is a crime against humanity. But apartheid? Okay, sure. It couldn’t have been much fun not being allowed to visit the beach or a park or cinema, theatre or restaurant, but they had things we didn’t have. Lots of brothers and sisters, for a start. And they weren’t forced to go to school. Or the army. Not a bad life at all.
As you pointed out, the security forces only killed around 700 people while the National Party was running the show. Hardly a crime against humanity. On a good day, the Israelis take care of that many Palestinians before lunch.
And apartheid wasn’t our fault, either. There would have been none of that business in this beautiful country if there had been no black people to start with. But we have forgiven them for making us do the apartheid and it is time they stopped talking about it.
Actually, Oom, there’s something called the Rome Statute that recognises apartheid as a crime against humanity. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking of the marble statute of that kaalgat oke David with the little willy and wondering how a statute can recognise anything.
You and many of your followers are doubly blessed. Not only are you members of the master race but you are also beneficiaries of the Dunning-Kruger Effect. This is what the darkies must mean by white privilege.
Anyway, Oom Kallie, I must go and find my passport in case of the genocide. If the airports are closed, I will see you at the harbour.
Steve:Julius