Patrice Motsepe – The Art of the Schmooze

I have only just stopped gagging at the sight of Patrice Motsepe giving Donald Trump a fondle in full view of everyone at a World Economic Forum dinner in Davos.

It was like watching a porno where everyone keeps their clothes on and performs card tricks instead of sex acts. It just felt wrong.

To be fair to Patrice, you don’t get to be worth $2.6-billion without knowing exactly when and how to stroke someone’s ego to get what you want. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wrote a book one day called The Art of the Schmooze.

Also, let’s not forget that Patrice is still working his way up. He’s only number ten on the list of billionaires in Africa and just barely squeaks in to the top thousand globally. If I were a billionaire wanting to improve my rankings, I’d definitely leap at the chance to address the American president directly.

Patrice clearly knows his audience. From the time he stood up to shake Trump’s hand to the time he sat down, he spoke for just under forty seconds. It is universally acknowledged that Trump is unable to concentrate for longer than a minute unless there are colourful diagrams and a side-order of McDonalds.

In that short time, Patrice assured the most powerful man in the world that Africa loved him. Trump wondered why this skinny Congolese man was at his dinner, but it was a fleeting thought quickly erased when Patrice added that Africa also loved his country. Next to himself, money, Vladimir Putin, golf, golden showers and gilt-edged mirrors, Trump loves America more than anything.

The president’s mind swayed gently. He briefly considered shouting, “READ THE TRANSCRIPTS!” but snapped into focus when Patrice (is he Haitian?) started talking his language. Business. Now there’s something Trump can understand. And Patrice knows this. These weren’t off the cuff remarks. Patrice strikes me as a man who is nothing if not prepared for all eventualities. You don’t get to sit two down from Donald Trump at a dinner and not know what you’re going to say if you get the opportunity.

Unlike, say, me, for instance. I would have been trying to catch the eye of the waitress. Trump might not drink, but it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer. My cue to say a few words would have caught me completely unawares. I probably wouldn’t have shaken Trump’s hand. If he wants that kind of treatment, you seat him next to me. Not two down.

I wouldn’t have stuck to forty seconds, either. There’s a lot of shared history to get through. For instance, both our countries divided, oppressed and exploited their indigenous populations and many of our leaders are equally corrupt. At some point security would encourage me to leave.

In a display of strategic fawning, Patrice told Trump, “We do business in 50 countries. I had the honour of being one of the 100 greatest business minds – Forbes – and it was a great honour to be with you.” He wasn’t bragging. That’s not the African way. In Africa, we don’t blow our own trumpet. We pay someone to blow it for us. And if there are competing trumpeters, we buy them off or have them killed.

Patrice was simply mirroring Trump’s style. It’s Psych 101. You know how sometimes you’ll be talking to a woman you’ve just met and you touch your hair or scratch your crotch and she immediately does the exact same thing? That’s mirroring and it means she fancies you and wants you to do unspeakable things to her.

Trump is triggered by words like mining, financial services, property, real estate. When Patrice used those exact words, Trump’s face lit up. Well, as much as anyone’s face can light up when it’s already peaking at 750 lux with a heavy tangerine filter.

Trump responded, “You’ve done a great job.” This is his go-to line for everyone from Navy Seal war criminals to Russian prostitutes.

I don’t know what Patrice made of it. Me? I clean my car out and think, great job. Take the rest of the week off. I imagine Patrice has a fair idea he’s done alright. Still. It can’t hurt to hear it from Donald Trump, who, incidentally, is only $500-million richer than Patrice. The US president is the 259th wealthiest person in America. That’s pathetic. You control the most powerful military in the world, have a senate that is treasonously loyal and own friends, family and staff prepared to lie, cheat and steal for you, and you still can’t break into the top two hundred. Sad. No wonder he’s gone insane.

It’s obvious that Patrice was playing the role of marriage counsellor. Africa has been in an abusive relationship with America for a very long time. Imagine sending fleets of ships to a faraway continent to load up with black people, then bring them back to your country and auction them off to other white people who need free labour. Sounds as implausible as dinosaurs. These days, if you want to be a slave you have to make an appointment with a dominatrix and pay R750 an hour. Or so I’ve heard.

The abuse continued from George Washington all the way to George Bush. Where were we meant to go? Sure, the communists helped where they could, but they had problems of their own. They were being abused by America, too. We had to find our own safe house. Somewhere we could live in peace and prosperity without having to rely on our domineering big brother. But there wasn’t anywhere. There still isn’t.

While Patrice was glad-handing Trump, a motley crew of Muslims and homegrown commies was gathering outside the US embassy in Pretoria. Something about protesting American interference in the Middle East.

Beloved Leader and Highest Incarnation of the Revolutionary Comradeship, Solly Mapaila, threatened that the alliance partners would be “organising a series of activities” at all US embassy offices.

I don’t know, man. Sounds wild on paper. But I can’t help thinking that if the Viet Cong had issued a press release announcing an upcoming series of activities at the US embassy in Saigon in 1975, America might not have lost the war. Nah. They were always going to lose.

While Patrice was wrapping up his fellatio verbale, a bit of a chant broke out at the gates of 877 Pretorius Street. “One American, one bullet!” A popular sentiment in many countries, to be sure. However, the truth is we don’t have that many bullets. There are, like, 330 million Americans. We’d have to borrow from Swaziland. Or Malawi. And there’s nothing more embarrassing than going to your neighbours, cap in hand, to ask if they have any spare ammunition.

The people shall govern – or at least boo those who do

I was hoping to make it onto the guest list for the World Economic Forum on Africa that was held in Durban last week but someone must’ve intercepted my invitation. One of David Mahlobo’s spooks, I expect, who then tried to sell it on the black market. There is a white market, too, but I’ve never been to that one, either.
The WEF’s motto is, “Committed to improving the state of the world.” Well done, lads. The world has improved tremendously since the organisation was founded by some German dude in 1971. Today there are only 800 million people living below the international poverty line.
If you are reading this and wondering whether you’re one of them, it is safe to say that you’re not. Unless, of course, you are spending your $1.90 a day on a newspaper or a few miserable megabites of data instead of a bread roll and half a rat.
The people who set international poverty lines are those who, at the age of four, lodged a complaint with the Human Rights Commission when their pocket money was reduced to $5 an hour because Daddy’s seventh wife was taking three properties, nine cars and one of the islands.
I want to see the poor setting their own poverty lines, if only to avoid conflict between the poor themselves. I imagine this artificial construct causes ructions among the needy.
“You can’t sleep on my pavement. Fuck off.”
“What? Why?”
“Heard you’ve been earning above the international poverty line.”
“Oh, come on. I got $2 for weeding a garden.”
“Don’t care. You stepped over the poverty line. Go sleep up-pavement with the other larneys.”
Later, at around 3am, a fight breaks out over the rand/dollar exchange rate and a bottle of wine. A man walking his dog is stabbed in the leg. That’s all I know.
The World Bank, staffed by some of the most oppressed people in the world, sets the international poverty line. It only seems fair, then, that they should also set an international wealth line – a line beyond which nobody may go without having to subject themselves to a range of nasty challenges. A financial Fear Factor, if you will.
Sure, earn R60 000 a month, but if you want to go higher you have to subject yourself to public humiliation and … oh, wait. That’s called parliament. To be fair, your average MP isn’t rich, relatively speaking. They are sleepists and sheeples, sure, but they aren’t particularly wealthy. They might have their little fingers in the odd pork pie here and there, but they aren’t up to their elbows in opulent diamond encrusted pies drizzled in crushed rubies and served on platters engraved with the Gupta coat of many arms.
So. We are called upon to worry about the poor when they drop below a certain level of income. Get them up to $2 a day and we can sleep easily. But let it fall to a point where they can’t afford sherry or crack and we have to hire extra security, crank up the voltage on the electrified fencing and get a fresh pack of dogs that are more interested in killing than they are in eating. Better yet, dogs that kill the poor and eat them. Two birds etc.
Clearly worried about the consequences of the docile poor becoming the violent poor, the World Bank came up with two goats in 2013. No, they didn’t. They came up with two goals. Having a spot of finger trouble at this point. There are, though, people who would come out and vote if their government had to promise them two goats. Zimbabwe, for one. Probably Britain, too, at this point.
Two goals, then. The first was to reduce the percentage of people living in extreme poverty worldwide from 10.7% to three percent by 2030. That’s a lot of numbers for one sentence and I imagine most of you will be struggling to grasp what’s going on here. My cat just looked at me and smiled as if to say, “You’re projecting, mate,” which is weird because I don’t own a cat and even if I did it’s unlikely that it would use a word like mate. More chance it’d say bru or bro. Or, knowing cats, arseface.
So 2030 rolls around and the World Bank sends out its inspectors. Senseless takers. The lowest of the high. Men with bruised egos and basic martial arts skills inveigle their way into the poorest areas of every city around the world.
“Evening, sir. Would you describe yourself as a. comfortable or b. living in extreme poverty?”
“You’re standing on my face.”
“Oh, I see. Now you need a face to talk. You’re doing alright then, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t eaten since Tuesday …”
“It’s only Thursday.”
“Tuesday last week. Please. I need …”
“I’ll mark you down as one of our successes. Well done. You’re in the top three percent.”
“Do I get something?”
“Of course you do. You get to bask in the reflected glory of the World Bank reaching the first of its goals.”
“Some vodka would be nice.”
That’s the thing about those who loiter on the fringes of the international poverty line. They don’t see that they are dragging down global averages and ruining it for the rest of us. All they want is alcohol and a seat in parliament. Wouldn’t say no, myself.
The World Bank’s second goat is to “promote shared prosperity in every country in a sustainable way”. As far as weasel words go, these are right up there with, “In sickness and in health”. Not to mention “radical economic transformation”, Jacob Zuma’s penultimate straw which continues to be grasped by the rats blindly refusing to abandon the rotten ship Patronage.
Finance minister Malusi Gigaba, parachuted into the ministry without the benefit of a parachute, has recently taken to referring to his boss’s latest vote-catching phrase as “inclusive growth”. Fortunately, the international investor community is easily fooled when it comes to dressing up heavy words like “radical” in soft synonyms like “inclusive”. Now that I’ve given the game away, I fully expect to be shot at dawn. Or, given the speed at which our government works, 3pm. Unless it’s a Friday, in which case I’ll be executed on Monday. Unless the firing squad calls in sick.
Thing is, we don’t have anyone remotely approximating a Castro or Guevara in this country. If any of our politicians ever threatened to take to the bush, we’d have Gert from Brakpan calling in to a radio talk show saying, “Howzit boet. Ja, listen, I fink I found these rebel okes. They lekker dronk here by Kosi Bay.” And that would be the end of it.
We’re not going to take up arms because most of us earn so little that we’d have to choose between bullets or a gun. I’d rather have the gun because you can at least throw it at someone. I don’t know anyone who’d run away if you started throwing bullets at them. I probably would but that’s because I react badly to having anything thrown at me. Two marriages will do this to you.
For a long time, terrible things happened in this country before America allowed us to have proper elections. Now, confronted by our adversaries, we boo them.
As we all know, Zuma wasn’t able to address Cosatu’s rally on May Day because people wouldn’t stop booing. This is a good thing. Booing is free and there is little chance of being arrested for it. Your house might be set slight and you’ll never get a government tender again, but booing is almost always preferable to detention without trial and certainly an improvement on torture.
The ANC Youth League’s porcine president, Collen Maine, subsequently threatened to boo deputy president Squirrel Ramaphosa, who had addressed a rally in Mpumalanga without being booed or, as far as I know, even saying the word boo. I don’t know when exactly this mini Hindenburg plans to boo Squirrel.
I am relieved, though, as I’m sure are many of you, to hear that the fight for power will be conducted through booing and not the traditional African method of machetes at dawn.