The arduous journey to total African domination

Now, I am a man who likes to dream.

Big.

Apart from all the Milo powder I could eat, one of my biggest dreams is an entire African Continent under my control, a United States of Zuma.

A USZ, if you will.

My idea is to incorporate the tip of Africa and the top of Egypt under one government, namely my own.

In many ways, Cecil John Rhodes and myself were cut from the same cloth, as it were. Men of similar ideals. Except for that nasty homosexual rumour that dogged Mr Rhodes most of his history – my good friend Robert M warned me about that one – we are men with grandiose dreams.

But alas, my plans, my dream of a USZ are hampered.

You see, such a plan always requires a road map, as it were. And a road map implies a journey of sorts. And a journey always entails travelling companions.

Which in my case would entail a certain Winnie M and that young upstart that she associates with, namely one Bra JuJu. (why is anyone’s tata ma chance).

I see it as a road trip, with yours truly behind the wheel. On the road to total domination. But sooner or later the useless rhetoric, the blah blahing and incessant droning from the peanut gallery in the back seat (Bra JuJu et al) will become too much for one person to handle.

And the end result of all that noise is that “one” takes “one’s” eyes off the road and reaches back to smack with whatever is in “one’s” hand at the time (be it a brush, knitting needle (???), rolled up Drum Magazine or a KFC drum stick from the Street Wise II box). We’ve all been there, I’m sure.

And what happens when you take your eyes off the road for just one second?

A tree happens to cross the road at that moment, or the idiot approaching in his BMW X5 strays across the centre line and hits you.

Journey over.

And that is my problem.

Bad travel companions!  Gets me every darn time.

So, who guards the guards then?

I awoke to the sounds of an alarm going off in the early hours of the morning. In my half asleep state, I was unable to tell if the noise was emanating from within the palace or from without. (Without is none of my concern, as it were).

So I did what any normal male would do – I woke my wife and told her to go check it out.

At first, Ma Ntuli looked at me with eyes that would make a lesser man wet his pyjamas and then growled – Relax, fool. The tax payer provides us with bodyguards for this exact reason.

Presidential Ambush - And you didn't even see it coming.

Pleased by Ma Ntuli’s absolute logic, I lay back into my continental pillow (paid for by the tax payer, just like the guards). But then, from a dark corner of the presidential suite, from somewhere behind the Marc Chagall (never did like his stuff), came a voice, which I swear was audible. It spoke out a name, nothing more –

INDIRA GANDHI!

Ma Ntuli did not move, so I prodded her and repeated the name:

– Indira Gandhi!

– What the, she said.

– Gandhi was murdered by her own body guards, was she not?

– Yes, so you better warn Bra JuJu then, shouldn’t you.

Indeed I should.

But then again, after we had survived the night and emerged from our slumber, I thought better of warning him.

Why?

Because every now and then, the movement needs a martyr.

Fact!