Unpresidented

by Paige Nick

  ‘Well, just goes to show, clearly not anyone. You don’t have a choice, Matt, you need to make this work. Plus, you’ve pocketed the publisher’s advance already. Unless you want to give it back?’

  I gulp. I’ve spent it twice already. You’d be shocked at how quickly the penalties on credit card debt mount up.

  ‘I know, it’s just, I don’t know if I can write it. He’s … he’s … he’s just so…’ I say.

  ‘Remember, there’s no such thing as can’t. All you have to do is get him to tell you his story. That’s not so hard, is it? Anyway, he has to comply, he signed a contract with the publisher.’

  ‘I tried! But he’s kept me hanging around for three days, THREE DAYS, Dumi. He finally agrees to see me, and when he eventually pitches up, hours late, let me add, he deals me a pile of horse-shit we can never use. It’s all made-up crap and alternative facts about how thin and loved and important he is. And here I am, living on fumes, and I’m kiepie-the-doos who has to bend over and take it, record every bullshit word he says, then type it up verbatim. A monkey with a typewriter could do this job, Dumi. And he keeps insisting on exclamation marks everywhere. He says a sentence and then he says “exclamation mark” at the end of it. Who does that? Every sentence is propaganda and political spin. Where’s the journalistic integrity in that? And I’m supposed to slap it down and put my name on it at the end of this process, if there ever is an end and I don’t kill myself first. Dumi, you have to get me out of this.’

  ‘I don’t mean to touch on a nerve, Matty, but speaking of journalistic integrity, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve embellished a bit in your writing, and then put it out into the world with your name on it.’

  ‘That was a mistake, Dumi, how many times do I have to tell everyone? I’ve never done anything like that before. It was an error of judgement made in a moment of panic and very likely alcohol poisoning. It wasn’t my fault. My brain was affected. I’m the victim here! If I’d known that everyone would find out and I’d be relegated to toxic sludge and downgraded to junk status, I never would have done it. Plus, that’s even more reason why I can’t do this gig. If the world sees me writing bollocks again after all that nonsense, then it really will be all over for me, six–love. If they don’t trust me now, imagine how they’ll feel after this?’

  ‘Buddy, I think you’re over-reacting. Once this book is a hit, things will unkink themselves for you. All you have to do is get the book down. It’s not that hard, you’ve done it before.’

  ‘You aren’t implying that I should lie in this book, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not, nobody wants you to lie on purpose. I was just pointing out that if you did, it wouldn’t exactly be the first time, that’s all.’

  ‘None of this is ever going to blow over, is it?’

  ‘Of course it will, champ. You’re a pro. You could do this with your eyes closed. You’ve just got to dig deep and get the story out of this guy. The whole true story. Or at least make it feel like a whole true story. You’re a journalist, that’s what you do. Try to forget who he is and what he’s done, and coax it all out of him. Stroke his ego, make a friend out of him. Hell, get him drunk if you have to. Get on his good side.’

  ‘Believe me, this man does not have a good side.’

  ‘Everyone has a good side, especially when this much money is involved. You’re going to have to do whatever you have to do, Matthew, because we need that story, and we need it fast. The clock is ticking on this puppy. If you don’t deliver on time, there’s no money, no deal, no book, and I don’t want to have to remind you, but you’d have to give back the whole advance, every cent.’

  ‘No, you don’t have to remind me, thank you, I’ve got an ulcer that does it for you every time I eat anything almost spicy!’

  ‘The secret here is not to panic, Matt. You can do this. You’re still off social media, right?’

  ‘Yes, why? Oh God, is it still so bad?’

  ‘Nah, it’ll blow over. Just don’t Google yourself, okay, buddy? And I don’t think you should go back on Twitter either.’

  ‘Please. This phone I’m using is as opposite to smart as you can get, and we’re so far from anything that resembles wi-fi out here, there’s zero chance I’d be able to get online anyway.’

  ‘And please tell me you’re clean?’

  ‘Of course I’m clean, Dumi. I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere, with thirty days to write an entire book, what do you think I’m doing?’

  My phone bleeps as I lose another bar of battery.

  ‘Listen Dumi, my phone’s about to die, and there’s something else I need to talk to you about quickly – I need help with a bit of cash.’

  ‘What did you do with your advance?’

  ‘I had some things I needed to take care of. Bad credit card stuff and a few other complications. Is there any way you can spot me something, just enough to tide me over until I get this first draft done?’

  ‘They’ll pay you another chunk of your advance the second you deliver the manuscript, Matt. It’s pretty much a miracle I could get you anything at all, let alone that much. In fact, I’ve done such a super-great job, I should be getting way more than forty per cent.’

  ‘It’s thirty-five per cent.’

  ‘Either way. How else will you ever make this kind of cash for one month’s work? Especially considering your current reputation. This thing is a godsend, Matt.’

  ‘Come on, Dumi, I know you can float me, just for a few weeks. I’m living on fumes and Ramen out here, buddy.’

  ‘Sorry champ, I’m as broke as you right now. You know how it goes; I only get paid when you get paid.’

  ‘What was that? Did I hear a champagne cork popping? Where are you, Dumi?’

  ‘I can’t hear you, I’m going through a tunnel. Skfjasdjfadkjfas zzzzzz. I’ll call you in a couple of days … lsdkfjdsljfakdfa … you go write that book, pal.’

  ‘Dumi, can you hear me now? What about now?’ I say walking around the room, trying to get a better signal.

  ‘…deliver that manuscript so we can all get paid. Tunnel, tunnel, going through a tunnel … adfkadjfkdjsfajdljfad. Good luck … you can do this…’

  I hear a woman giggling in the background, then people laughing, knives and forks on plates, and the tinkle of more music.

  ‘Dumi? Dumi…?’

  My phone goes dead.

  ‘Bloody agents!’

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘It was a man delivering a letter,’ Muza offers as he steps back into the study. Neither woman looks up. Muza shoos a cat, curled up on the guest chair across from his old desk, but the animal hisses and gives him a nuclear-range death stare, so he gives it a wide berth and eases himself into the other guest chair, careful not to put too much weight on his pulsing buttock. He doesn’t remember them having a cat before.

  He flashes back to better times, sitting at this very desk, then strewn with government tenders, lobbying papers, communications from other presidents, bags of money, and legal paperwork aimed at changing the constitution’s unhelpful two-term limit. Now it’s covered with sewing patterns, pins, and enough fabric to sew at least three parliamentary gowns for Madam Squeaker.

  He even remembers one of the Guppie brothers sitting in this very chair, the one that now has a different fat cat in it, not that many years ago, and makes a mental note to try and call them again. For such a hub of business, he can’t believe how bad the cell phone reception is in Dubai.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what the letter says?’ he asks his wives.

  Bonang and Refilwe look up as Muza slides a fingernail under the edge of the envelope and pulls out a sheath of papers. Muza scans the words as quickly as he can, which is slowly.

  ‘It’s … it’s something like a final notice from the municipality,’ he says at last. ‘They say we have some outstanding rates and property taxes due, plus some fines for non-payment.’

  Bonang sucks in her breath, and hastily drops her head back down to he
r sewing.

  ‘I don’t understand this at all,’ Muza mutters.

  Refilwe looks at the ceiling as if there is something very important up there, instead of a patch of damp inching its way across the ceiling like a crocodile.

  ‘They say here that they haven’t received any rates payments since 2017. That can’t be right.’

  Bonang clears her throat. Refilwe hums nervously.

  ‘This isn’t possible. It must be some kind of mistake. Bonang, you paid the rates while I was away?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Bonang says quietly.

  ‘I sent you money every month to pay the rates. Didn’t you get it?’

  ‘I got it, sthandwa sam’, sure.’

  ‘So what did you do with it? You said you were paying the bills?’

  ‘Baba, you don’t understand. We had to pay for food and airtime.’

  ‘There were also the cars, the drivers, and the bodyguards at first,’ Refilwe fills in.

  ‘And all of us wives, we needed new clothes after the trial, of course. Everyone and the press had seen our entire wardrobes already, when we were in court to support you every day for all those months. There was so much media attention. We are … were … are … the wives of a very important man, you know. We couldn’t be seen out there in rags. And then when the other wives and all the family left, I had to pay for this sewing machine and some fabric so I could start my business.’

  ‘And I needed this laptop and some cards and stationery so I could start my own business too,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘And don’t forget, we needed that printer,’ Bonang adds.

  ‘Yes, the printer,’ Refilwe nods. ‘You can’t start a business without a laptop computer, business cards and a printer, everyone knows that.’

  ‘It also has a built-in fax and scanner too.’ Bonang is on a roll.

  ‘Very useful for a new business start-up, those things,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘But what about the rates? Why didn’t you pay the rates?’

  ‘Why should that be our responsibility, baba?’

  ‘So you lived here and you didn’t pay any bills? Even though I was under the impression you were paying them?’

  ‘We paid the electricity,’ Bonang says.

  ‘And the water,’ Refilwe chips in.

  ‘Now it says here that we have until the first of next month to pay what we owe for the last three years, eight months and twenty-seven days.’

  ‘You mean YOU have until the first of next month to pay what YOU owe for the last three years, eight months and twenty-seven days,’ Bonang says. ‘I don’t see my name anywhere on the title deed.’

  ‘Me neither, ’ Refilwe says. ‘How much is it, anyway?’

  ‘It says here it’s four hundred and thirty-nine thousand and three thousand and … and … wait … it’s four hundred thirty thousand nine thousand … wait, listen properly … it’s four hundred and thirty-nine thousand and three thousand and fifty seven thousand...’

  ‘Just give it here, Jeremiah.’ Refilwe snatches the letter out of her husband’s hands. She peers closely at the papers, shuffling through them quickly. ‘It says here that you owe four hundred and thirty-nine thousand, three hundred and fifty-seven rands and sixty-seven cents. And you have exactly thirty days to pay it, or else they will repossess the property and turn it into a landfill site.’

  ‘Refilwe, quick, call Ma Thuli, this is estate capture!’ Muza yells.

  ‘I don’t think that’s really what that means, baba,’ Bonang says.

  ‘And anyway, she’s not the Public Protector anymore,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘Okay, what about Madam Squeaker, can we call her? She was always in my corner.’

  ‘Muzzy, I just don’t think this is her realm,’ Refilwe says.

  Muza slumps forward and cradles his head in his hands.

  ‘Can’t you take the money out of your savings, baba?’ Bonang asks.

  ‘What savings? You think if I had any savings left, we’d have a roof that leaks on my head when I sleep?’

  They sit in silence, until Muza hears the whirr of the sewing machine coming back to life as Bonang returns to work. He wonders how she can sew at a time like this. At least Refilwe is on her phone texting someone, making herself useful. She’s probably asking someone important for help. The wife of a dignitary or ambassador or Minister or something.

  ‘Where are we going to find four hundred and what-what thousands and all those cents in thirty days, my wives?’

  Neither woman responds.

  ‘Hey, your business is doing well, isn’t it, Bonang?’

  ‘Sure. I’m hoping a big order will come through from Cottonworths soon. If things carry on like this, soon everyone will be wearing ShweShe designs. I may even find my name back in parliament, in a different way – on the red carpet.’

  ‘This is great news, my wonderful first wife. So, I was thinking maybe you can loan me some money?’ Muza wheedles. ‘Or even you?’ He looks to Refilwe. ‘Your business looks like it’s doing well. You have that computer, the printer, the ad you put in City Press.’

  Neither woman makes eye contact with him.

  ‘I don’t even need the whole four hundred thousands, I need only a very small investment to get my new business plan off the ground. I haven’t told you about it yet, but your husband has big plans, my wives. Very big, powerful plans, which are going to make us all a lot of money again. We will have enough to pay off this money we owe, and still have millions left over. We could fix up the Homestead; fund my campaign to become the new ex-President of South Africa. We could even build you your very own sewing factory, right here at the Homestead, Bonang. And Refilwe, you can have a proper law practice, with a fancy photostat machine and everything. What do you say?’

  ‘I already have a photostat machine. It’s built into the printer,’ Refilwe says. ‘I bought it with…’ she trails off.

  ‘You know what you should do, baba,’ Bonang says, ‘you should start an imported showerheads business, you could be the spokesman. You could call it Bathroom Bazaar or something like that.’ The two women burst into floods of giggles.

  ‘That is a really stupid idea,’ Muza snaps. ‘Why are you both laughing so much? It isn’t even funny. Anyway, I told you, I have an idea already, a very big important idea. You will be stunned into amazement when you hear about it.’

  ‘How much do you need to get this “very big important, stunningly amazing idea” off the ground?’ Bonang asks once she and Refilwe have stopped wiping their eyes and slapping their thighs.

  ‘A little starter capital, that’s all. Only around fifty thousand,’ Muza wheedles.

  ‘Fifty thousand rand?’

  ‘No, fifty thousand cows. Yes of course, fifty thousand rand!’

  ‘Yho! You’ve got to be crazy, baba, I’m not giving you fifty thousand rand,’ Bonang shakes her head so vigorously that her headwrap comes loose and she has to retie it.

  Muza turns to Refilwe.

  ‘Don’t look at me, Muzzy,’ she says. ‘I’m only just starting out, I’ve got nothing … except the printer-fax machine thingy. What about all your cronies? You made them all rich for years. Why don’t you ask one of them? Fifty grand is nothing to them, it’s what they spend on Moët and pizza on a Sunday afternoon at Hyde Park Mall after church.’

  ‘I could, of course I could. But I thought that you two clever ladies of the business world would like to get in on the ground floor of this proposal. I wanted to come to you first because you are the most important people to me. If you can’t count on your family, who can you count on, after all? Just think about what you can do with all that money when I pay you back what you loaned me, plus interest. And you could even split the initial capital, then you could both be my partners. Half-half. We are good at sharing here, aren’t we?’

  ‘You know who you should ask for this start-up capital, Muzzy?’ Refilwe says.

  ‘Who?’ Muza asks, shifting his focus to his second wife.

  ‘Trum
p.’

  Both women snicker.

  ‘Very funny, Refilwe. You know he doesn’t take my calls anymore, not since he left for Russia. So what do you say, Bonang? After all, you are the one responsible for not making the payments while I was away. Surely you owe me this at the very least?’

  ‘Baba, like I said when you first came home and asked me for a loan, if you need money, I’m happy to pay you to work for me. I already told you I’ll show you how to use this sewing machine, or the interlocker; it’s not so hard. Even that cat could do it if she really wanted to, but cats never want to do anything, they’re not career animals. You could learn how to sew easily, and I’ll give you five rand for every skirt you finish. How’s that for a generous business proposal? You will have your fifty thousand rand in no time at all.’

  ‘And I can always find some faxing, dictation, or typing for you to do too,’ Refilwe adds. ‘I could pay you a rand per page, special rate.’

  Muza pushes his spectacles up his nose with his middle finger and raises his voice: ‘I am an important man! I have important telephone calls to make and meetings to set up and businesses to start, and leadership battles to re-win, and memories to write, and money to pay back. I am the past and future President of South Africa. I am not your seamstress, nor your secretary!’

  ‘Baba, we talked about this, if you’re going to continue to live under this leaking roof, you’re going to have to carry your weight,’ Bonang says, giving his waistline a pointed stare. ‘So right now you are the future President of this pile of skirts. These seams won’t sew themselves.’

  Muza groans.

  ‘Shame, Muzzy, I’m sure this can’t be easy for you,’ Refilwe says. ‘How would you like me to make you a nice plate of phuthu ne nyama? Just the way you like it.’

  ‘No thank you,’ Muza snaps, stiff-lipped.

  Bonang shakes her head. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still going on about the whole poisoning thing? I told you we would never try to hurt you, you just had a bit of unfortunate gastro that time.’