Goodbye, Mr President.

Dear Mr President. Last week the lovely, kind security guard at my sons school was held up and robbed at his home. I assume he didn’t have many belongings to begin with, but what he did have was taken. He was assaulted and beaten up. We got together as a group of moms and raised some cash for him. Not millions, but hopefully enough to put a smile on his sad, bruised face. This is the gentleman who greets every.single.child by name on a daily basis, high-fives grubby hands and patiently co-operates with toddler nuances. You didn’t walk into his humble home, steal his things and beat him up, but I blame you.

Dear Mr President. I was warned against taking photos at certain venues over the weekend – because there are bad men who will try and hurt me. Rob me, assault me. I know it’s not you waiting in the shadows eyeing out my camera or lens that I work every day to pay off, but I blame you.

Dear Mr President. Students are burning the very buildings they claim to want to sit inside and learn in. They are torching buses and historical places and rioting in the streets. They are turning a noble cause into something very big, and very frightening. You aren’t in the streets burning cars, or assaulting policemen, but I blame you.

Dear Mr President. We are in the midst of a very worrying drought. Responsible citizens are kicking dust in their once-green garden and letting it mellow-if-it’s-yellow. You aren’t kicking dust are you? I bet your fire pool is full and floatable. I know you didn’t physically kill my poor sun damaged plants, but I still blame you.

Dear Mr President. It’s taking me 3, sometimes more, hours to get to and from work every day. Taxis driving in the emergency lane of highways while I sit and listen to 90% local shit on government radio and news about fire pools and droughts and feesmustfall. It’s cool though; those eTolls you insisted would improve our quality of road experience still look helluva pretty with their cobalt blue lights. I know it isn’t you in-front of me in your unlicensed vehicle, but I still blame you.

Dear Mr President. Pinterest is the closest many of us will come to a holiday in the foreseeable future. Gosh, the Rand is like a toddler on steroids, up and down and in and out. What fun you must be having chuckling away as your people scrape cents for bread and beg for food. I myself look like a bobble head when I prey for the traffic light to turn green before I have to apologetically shake my head ‘no’, again, at another beggar lining up in the intersection. My wallet is dry, MR president. Between the taxes and the double jobs and the charity and the constant doling out of money to save our citizens, to help as much as we can, while you sit sipping champagne in full blue pools and flushing your number 1’s. We are spent, exhausted, tired.

But, I must apologise. You don’t always do nothing. You aren’t always this apathetic.

When you sent your wolves on poor Pravin, the only honest one amongst you. When you willingly let your country slide and wobble. You cut the brakes of the vehicle Mr President, and then you handed over the keys to criminals who would speed feely, knowing full well there was no safe stop in sight.

When you used your power and friends to stop Thuli. When you kind of eventually paid back some of the money. When you slept through budget speeches and laughed your way through Parliamentary debates. When we lost track of your wives and mistresses. When you took that shower. It’s time to go. It was time to go the day you started.

Surprisingly, you have done one great and very powerful thing; you have united the citizens of this country in our mutual dislike and disrespect for you. No-body wants you here, we all want you gone. So please, leave. Flee. Run. Resign. Just go. I’ve had enough. South Africa has had enough.

Totsiens. Hamba Kahle. Sala hantle. Sala kakuhle. זייַ געזונט. Lamtumirë. Sbohem. Αντίο. Hyvästi. 再見. La revedere. Au Revoir.

Fuck off.

PS – I treated myself to a manicure over the weekend, and by Tuesday it was already chipped and peeling. I don’t know how it’s possible to, but I still blame you.

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Reasons People Have Kakked On Me During My Pregnancy*

  1. I walked down the ramp at the office in the rain and nearly fell.
  2. I walked down the ramp at the office in the rain and did fall. The next time it was raining my lovely colleague Lucy took my arm and helped me walk down said ramp. Then she fell. I think the bigger issue here may be the ramp itself.
  3. I stood on a revolving office chair to fix an aircon vent. My boss charged out of his meeting with a face like thunder and yelled “What the hell do you think you are doing? What if you fell and your baby died? You can’t do that when you’re 8 months pregnant”. To which I replied “Oh, I’m only 7 months pregnant. Don’t worry, if I was 8 months I would never have done this”
  4. I leaned down to find the cheesy Marmite from the office cupboard and my tea lady scolded me yelling “No Kate, stop it, we are here for you”.
  5. I opened and closed a manual garage door.
  6. I left for work in the morning without packing snacks.
  7. I grabbed a basket at the grocery store instead of a trolley. My friend Amy was with me and said “pregnancy is not the time for baskets”. 5 minutes later a 750 gram tin of fruit rolled out the trolley and landed on my foot, nearly breaking it. I think pregnancy is in fact a time for baskets.
  8. I was being emotional. You know what’s fun, non pregnant people? When you tell someone with a human growing inside of them that they are being emotional. We love that.
  9. The office desks were being re-arranged and I tried to help. After a bit of a fight they let me carry a pot plant and an empty Tupperware.
  10. I walked through the metal detector at a meeting. The other option was to pole-vault over it onto the other side. Silly me.

Funnily enough, things I haven’t been scolded for:

  1. Grocery shopping and pushing a trolley the size of a Boeing at Douglasale Pick n Pay at 6 pm on pay day.
  2. Washing the dogs. I’m pretty sure wrestling two 15 kilogram octopus (octopusses, ocotopee?) covered in butter would be easier.
  3. Dropping an earring and crawling, leopard style, under the bed to search for it.
  4. Driving in Randburg. Or Fourways, or anywhere other human beings and taxis also drive.
  5. Refilling the 21.8 kilogram office water bottle after getting tired of shouting “Guys I am dying of thirst, please can someone replace the 21.8 kilogram water bottle” (A few days later when someone noticed that it had been done, I got kakked on for doing it myself)

* The word ‘kak’ is a glorious South African’ism for ‘shit’. pronounced ‘kuk’. Ie: “You speak more Kak than Jacob Zuma”.

To be ‘Kakked on‘ implies being shouted at, and should not be confused with literally having feces dumped on ones self. If I had written a blog post about ‘Reasons I have been covered in poo during my pregnancy’, then I was probably in bad labour, or there’s something terrible wrong with the State of our Nation. (Apart from the actual State of our Nation).

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I'm Feeling A Little Glum

Someone last night said to me they had recently stumbled upon my blog, and now dedicate Fridays to reading it for their weekly laugh. That made my day. But Bron, I’m sorry, today is not going to be one of those days.

You see, I’m feeling pretty glum. It could be the late night and lack of sleep, it could be the preggy hormones, or it could be that for the first time my rose tinted view of South Africa is less rosy, and more realistic.

Last night we went to go watch Alan Committie at the Pieter Torien theatre at Montecasino. If you haven’t watched him live, do yourself a favour and buy a ticket- he is true comic gold.

As with all South African comedy shows, the majority of the fodder is always based on real life events in SA – load shedding, Zuma, crime and the ANC. We go there to laugh, because the state of affairs in this country make it so much easier to do so – we as South Africans are forced to find the humour in what is becoming a rapidly deteriorating country. At one point Alan turned to the audience and said “But despite it all, we truly have one of the most beautiful countries in the world, right?” and the audience cheered and cheered. Normally I would have joined in, louder than them all, but last night, I couldn’t.

Have you driven up and down our roads lately? Have you seen the rubbish, the mess, the weeds, the derelict buildings and the taxi ranks? Unless you travel by helicopter, you too would have been stuck for hours on end during load shedding, wondering why the robots weren’t solar powered (it’s a crime issues you see). You, like me, may have also seen pedestrians get knocked over, motorbike accidents and car accidents ranging from irritating bumper bashings to body bags. When you finally reach your destination you too may have had to use a bottle of water to wash your hands and rely on a generator or gas stove to cook your food.

In December we drove to Port Alfred. The carnage on our roads has me debilitated to such a point that for 11 and a half hours I could not close my eyes – even as a passenger – because I had the irrational thought that unless there were 2 sets of eyes on the road at all times, something dreadful would happen.

Coupled with this, our recent incident has left me paralysed with fear when driving home, and pulling in to my own driveway is now a mute-radio,unclip-seatbelt-watch-gate-close-whiles-keeping-an-eye-out-for-suspicious-activity process. And that’s during daylight! I wont even go to gym or out at night unless I’m driving with my husband. This weekend I’m home alone and I’ve already planned to be locked up indoors by 6pm.

All this while Zuma makes a mockery of what used to be my favourite place in the entire world, Robert Mugabe memes and load shedding schedules flood my Facebook feed and I pee in the office bathrooms with a torch because we have no power.

I suppose my entire view has shifted because it’s no longer just about me. In 100 days or less I am having a baby, and that baby is going to be born into an environment where I don’t know if I can fetch him from creche on time because I may or may not be stuck behind a dead traffic light. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to heat his room in winter or protect him from a taxi playing chicken at a 4-way stop. I don’t know if I will be able to walk him in his pram in my street without holding my breath, and I don’t know if I will find him a school we can afford where textbooks aren’t burnt and the teachers aren’t on strike.

So excuse me friends, for I am feeling fucking glum. I hope it lifts and I hope my fleeting thoughts of emigration fade very quickly. Because if there is one thing worse than the way I’m feeling today, it’s the thought of moving to a place where I don’t have my family and friends by my side.

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I Drew The Jacob Zuma Family Tree But Ran Out Of Paint.

Johannesburg – President Jacob Zuma is to marry his long-time fiancée, Bongi Ngema, next weekend, the Sunday Times reported in its early edition on Saturday evening.

The president’s spokesperson, Mac Maharaj, confirmed to the newspaper that the president would formalise his relationship with Ngema at a private traditional ceremony in Nkandla in KwaZulu-Natal.

Ngema will be Zuma’s fourth wife. His other wives are Sizakele Khumalo, Nompumelelo Zuma and Thobeka Stacey Mabhija.

He divorced home affairs minister Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma in 1998 while another wife, Kate Zuma, committed suicide in 2000.

The president has a three-year-old son with Ngema. His bride-to-be has already accompanied him on a diplomatic trip to France.

Ngema hails from Umlazi township, south of Durban and has numerous qualifications including a business degree.

The president celebrated his 70th birthday on Friday where Ngema and Zuma’s three wives were on hand to help him cut a R12 500 birthday cake.

The Sunday Times said the president’s Nkandla homestead had been given a R64m upgrade that included six new double-storey thatch rondavels for his wives and family

Taken from an online News 24 article. 

So THAT is why I will be voting this year. Just like I have voted every year I’ve been allowed to since I turned 18. 

I asked 10 random people in my office today and of those 10 – not one person said they would be voting. Here is their rationale:

1. I didn’t register in time

2. I would rather sleep in

3. Public Holiday, woohoo

4. I forgot to register

5. I have no-one to vote for.

Guys, my patriotic hart has a huge sad right now. if you do not vote, for legitimate reasons in the 2014 elections then the following rules should apply:

1. You must come to work on voting day.

2. You must never get a public holiday again

3. You must get me coffee every day (ya, I’m throwing that one in there)

4. You can never ever complain about our country again

5. You must remember that you are to blame for Jacob Zuma’s family tree looking like this:


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