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