by Paige Nick
‘If you say so,’ the writer says, returning his phone to the desk.
‘Thank you. So, how has your week been, Mr Muza?’
‘Much better now that I’m seeing you,’ Muza says, letting out a small chuckle.
‘Please, Mr Muza…’ Vuyokazi begins, then pauses and changes tack. ‘Today we need to discuss your plans for the future.’
‘How excellent, Vuyokazi, that happens to be one of my favourite topics of conversation. My future plans are of utmost importance, because as I’ve told you, I plan on becoming the ex-future President of South Africa.’ Muza winks at Stone.
‘Okaaaaaaaay,’ the parole officer says, dragging the word out. ‘Of course it’s good to have hopes and dreams, but Mr Muza, one must be realistic, particularly when these hopes and dreams involve rewriting the Constitution of the country from scratch. So what if, just for today, we talked about your plans for less far into the future. Like the next six months, for example?’ Vuyokazi says.
‘That’s also easy,’ Muza says, ‘because in the next six months I plan on making great inroads to becoming reinstated as the Supreme Leader of South Africa. The people of South Africa love me so much, they can’t wait to have me back. Are you getting this down, comrade writer? This is good stuff.’
‘Come now, Mr Muza, this really isn’t an efficient use of our time, is it? Even if you did manage to get around the Constitution, there isn’t another election coming up for a few years,’ Vuyokazi says.
‘There could always be a coup. Look what happened with Mbeki’s quick exit, and Trump was out within months. In these truly great nations, one day you are in, and the next day you are out. And then in again. And then you turn around, that’s what it’s all about.’
‘Mr Muza, did you just quote the hokey pokey? Look, I’m afraid I need to be frank with you…’
‘Miss Ngcobo, in that dress you can be as frank with me as you like,’ Muza leers.
‘We’ve discussed this before, Mr Muza, my name is Mrs Ngcobo.’
‘That’s okay, I am a man who is quite capable of sharing,’
‘Mr Muza,’ Vuyokazi snaps, ‘this is not an appropriate conversation for a meeting with your corrections officer. I’d appreciate it if we could stay on topic for once.’
‘Of course, for you, anything. What would you like to discuss next, Mrs Ngcobo?’
‘As we’ve covered a number of times, as part of the terms of your parole, I need to ensure that you’re a contributing member of society.’
‘I am a very contributing member of society. I contribute my great leadership skills on a daily basis. Did you get that, writer?’ Muza says.
‘What about community service, Mr Muza?’ Vuyokazi asks.
‘What about it?’
‘Well, when are you planning on doing it?’
‘What do you mean? I’m doing it all the time. I have dedicated my life to it. In this last week alone I gave over four hundred autographs, so many that my team of doctors are concerned that I am in danger of getting a repetitive strain injury in my elbow, as well as my ingrown toenail. Plus I posed for at least seven hundred selfies. I am doing a great community service by giving my fans the best days of their lives and great new profile pictures and memorabilia to post on Facebook and make all their friends jealous. If that isn’t community service, I don’t know what is.’
‘Actually, strictly speaking, that’s not community service, Mr Muza. And I’m concerned about all these public appearances you claim to be making. You do understand that you are under house arrest, don’t you?’
‘Of course, of course, but I am allowed time out for business meetings, and to go to church and play sport,’ Muza huffs.
‘You’re telling me you’ve been going to church and playing sport?’ Vuyokazi asks, surveying him overflowing from his chair.
‘Religiously,’ Muza says.
They sit in silence for a moment as Vuyokazi wonders again what terrible thing she did wrong in a previous life to deserve this.
‘Perhaps we should move forward, Mr Muza,’ she says. ‘When we last met here, you were deeply resistant to the potential job opportunity I had lined up for you, so this week, with your permission, I was thinking we could do a simple aptitude questionnaire to assist me in trying to find you something that might appeal to you more, with the dual purpose of earning an income, and helping to reintegrate you into society. Just in the short term, of course, until you become a leader again,’ she adds hurriedly. The thought of opening that line of conversation again makes her eye twitch. ‘So why don’t you start by telling me what kinds of things you like doing?’ Vuyokazi says, pen poised.
‘I like being President,’ Muza says.
‘Of course you do. What about your greatest strengths, what would you say those are?’
‘I’d say my strengths are being President,’ Muza says.
‘And your weaknesses?’
‘That’s a tough one,’ Muza muses for a moment before responding. ‘I would probably say that my strengths are also my weaknesses, because they inspire envy. That’s why my enemies were always out to get me, right from the very beginning. Jealousy.’
Vuyokazi lets out a guttural moan; Stone sighs.
‘Mr Muza, let’s try this; if you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?’ Vuyokazi asks, shuffling through the pages of her questionnaire for something, anything, that might be of use.
‘ A cheetah,’ Muza says. ‘No, no, wait: lion, I meant lion. Writer, put down lion, okay? Forget I said anything about cheetahs.’
‘The next question is where you see yourself in five years’ time, but I suppose we know the answer you’re going to give to that one.’
Muza nods. ‘Supreme Leader, obviously,’ he says.
‘Obviously,’ Vuyokazi says. ‘And how would you describe your management style?’
‘The Boss,’ Muza replies.
Vuyokazi leans back in her seat, abandoning her notes. ‘Let’s try another route. Pretend for a moment that you need to apply for a job: what would your CV say about you?’
‘I don’t have a CV,’ Muza says.
‘But let’s pretend you had to write one today.’
‘I suppose I would put there on my CV that I’m The Most Important Person In The Country Of South Africa For Over A Decade, and that I am also the Future Most Important Person In The Country, too.’
Vuyokazi grinds her teeth.
‘Surely you agree, Mrs Ngcobo, that would be the best CV any HR person has ever seen?’
‘Perhaps so, Mr Muza. Now that you’ve considered all these issues, what kind of job do you think you could envision yourself in, OTHER than as future leader?’
‘Well, surely as The Most Important Person In The Country, I’m overqualified for anything else?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but what I’m getting at is: what do you have in mind to do to support yourself?’
‘Ah, now I finally see what you’re getting at, Mrs Ngcobo.’
‘Oh thank the Good Lord,’ Vuyokazi breathes a sigh of relief.
‘Now I understand why you’re asking eleventy million questions about my future business plans. You should have come right out and asked me straight-up, Mrs Ngcobo, no need to be shy. What if I told you that I have a fantastic business proposal for you: how would you like to come in on the ground floor of a remarkable opportunity? For just a minor investment, you could double, no triple, maybe even quadruple your investment. It’s the no-strings-attached investment opportunity of a lifetime, or my name is not Jeremiah Gejeyishwebisa Muza. What do you say? Are you in?’
‘I believe our time is up for this week, Mr Muza,’ Vuyokazi says.
‘Really? That was quick,’ the ex-President says.
‘Please send Nurse Kekana in to take Mr Muza’s sample,’ Vuyokazi snaps into the telephone.
Once Muza and his writer have stepped out of her office, Vuyokazi drops her head on her desk, squeezes her eyes shut, and thinks about all the years she spent getting her l
aw degree, the long hours and sacrifices she and Nelson made. She should have listened to her father and gone into private practice.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘That was a very successful meeting, don’t you think, writer?’ Muza announces, turning a letter opener he nicked off Vuyokazi’s desk around in his fingers. ‘I hope you took good notes. Did you get that bit about me being a lion?’
‘I got it, I got it,’ Stone says, the engine grinding as he tries to changes gears without pressing in the clutch.
‘That meeting will make a really excellent chapter, don’t you think? You must say that the parole officer was very pleased with my progress, particularly all the charity work that I’ve been doing. And that considering the amount of community service I’ve been racking up, she is going to campaign the justice department to have my parole shortened even more.’
‘I’ve got a better idea: why don’t we actually tell the truth about what happened today? We could say that she made you piss in a cup and tried to find a valuable place for you in society, and that you called yourself a cheater by accident and then stole something off her desk on your way out. That would be a fascinating insight into the life of a parolee.’
‘That’s crazy. Nobody wants to read about that, writer, I told you that many times. I also told you to forget about that whole unfortunate cheetah thing,’ Muza says.
‘Muza, can I be honest with you?’
‘You can try,’ Muza says.
‘I think this book is your once-in-a-lifetime chance to tell the real truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, to show the world who you really are,’ Stone says.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We are telling my truth and showing the world who I really am.’
‘No, you want me to show them who you want them to think you are. That’s different to who you really are.’
‘We’ve discussed this already in great detail, comrade writer; don’t put me in a bad mood. I need you to tell my story the way I need you to tell my story.’
‘Yes, and I need to tell the truth.’
‘But I thought we had a deal. I am smoothing the way for you with Elijah – you haven’t even been beaten up again. You have all your fingers and toes. And in exchange you will write my memories the way I tell them to you. What have you been writing in that little book? Let me see.’ Muza lunges for the writer’s notebook, grabbing it off the back seat.
‘That’s mine! And it’s private,’ Stone yells, trying to hang onto the steering wheel and bat the Moleskine out of the ex-President’s hand at the same time, but Muza holds it at arm’s reach.
‘Petulant, what does that mean? Wait, obstinate, I know what that means,’ Muza says. ‘What the hell is all this, writer? Megalomaniac? I’m not a megalomaniac! If you insist on putting all of this nonsense in the book, I will tell Elijah that you don’t ever plan on paying him back, and I will encourage him to chop off all your extremities.’
Stone pulls up at the gate outside the Homestead and the two men glare at each other, both blazing.
‘Well, I’m definitely not getting out; my toe is sore,’ Muza says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Stone pulls up the handbrake, gets out and stomps over to open the gate. He pulls a zap sign at the YOU magazine journalist before getting back in his car and driving through the gate. Then he realises he has to get out the car and close the gate again. He kicks at the ground on his way back to the car.
‘Writer, I’m telling you, and let me be completely clear here. This is your last chance to get on board with me. I can make your problems with Elijah go away, he and I are really very close. I don’t think you quite understand how much of a living hell I can make your life. Now are you going to write what I need you to write, or do I need to get a new writer because your fingers will all be broken?’
‘Muza, why can’t we write the truth? You never know, you might find it cathartic. You could find forgiveness and redemption in the process,’ Stone says.
‘Why did you suddenly decide that you want to write the truth, now, after everything you’ve done?’ Muza says as they pull up outside the house.
‘That cancer thing was a mistake, I’m a decent human being and a good writer, and I’m not a liar.’
‘Just my luck, you discover your long-lost conscience and want to write the truth on my clock.’
‘Muza, at this rate we aren’t going to have any book, truth or lies. Do you realise that we have exactly twelve days to write this manuscript and so far I’ve got nothing good? Zip, zero, nada! It’s a practically impossible undertaking.’
‘The only reason we’re not going to have a book is because you’re a lazy writer who is refusing to write my story.’
‘I’m not refusing to write it, I’d love to write your story. I just refuse to write your lies.’
‘They’re not lies, they’re my truths.’
‘Well if that’s the case, your truths are terrible lies.’
‘That’s not true! Ask me anything, writer, and I’ll tell you my truth about it, and then you can put that in the book. I don’t know why you can’t grasp this very simple concept.’
‘Okay then, when can we talk about the Guppies?’ Stone asks.
‘I’ve never heard of them,’ Muza says.
‘You see, that’s what I’m talking about! Everything that comes out of your mouth is utter bollocks.’
‘Okay, okay, but there really is nothing to talk about, I barely know them. They are just businessmen brothers who now live in Dubai. They have nothing to do with me. You can put that in the book, and say I said it.’
‘Why would I do that? It’s not the truth, it’s not even near the truth, in fact it’s so far away from the truth that it doesn’t even have the same postal code as the truth.’
‘That’s your opinion, writer.’
‘No, that’s the truth.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t the truth?’ Muza says.
‘Oh my God, I can’t deal with this, I’m in hell,’ Stone shouts as he follows Muza through the house and into the study.
His jaw drops and he rubs his eyes in shock. ‘Mom, what are you doing here?’ he blurts out at the sight of a grey-haired lady sitting on the guest chair across from the one occupied by the angry cat, drinking tea with Bonang and Refilwe.
‘What, a mother can’t visit her son anymore?’ she says. ‘Don’t I get a kiss hello?’
Stone kisses his mother on both cheeks, unable to mask his dismay. ‘Mom, I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Well, if you’d answered any of my calls or texts, I would have been able to tell you I was coming. Your father and I have been worried sick about you, Matty. You could have been lying dead in a ditch, for all we knew. You’re my only son, I’ve been beside myself.’
Muza clears his throat loudly.
‘Oh, sorry. Mom, this is Mr Muza. Mr Muza, this is my mother, Eileen Stone.’
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Stone,’ Muza says with his oiliest smile, shaking the ends of her fingers gently.
‘Sorry Mom, it’s just we’ve been really, really busy here,’ Stone says.
‘Busy fighting by the sound of things. What was all that shouting about?’ Eileen asks, eyeing them both.
‘We were just telling your mother that you two are always at each other’s throats, weren’t we, Bonang?’ Refilwe says.
‘Really truly constantly, they fight like crazy cats and dogs,’ Bonang agrees.
‘Only because he refuses to write my memories,’ Muza says.
Stone opens his mouth to respond, but his mother cuts him off. ‘Matthew Joseph Stone, I’m shocked! This is not how your father and I raised you. I really don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. Especially after Mr Muza and his lovely … er … wives have been kind enough to put you up. He chose to work with you on this project, which I must say, was very generous of him after all the trouble you’ve been in. My husband and I are most grateful to you for taking our boy in, Mr Muza,’ El
aine says. ‘Now you two boys shake hands and make up. Go on, Matthew, you tell Mr Muza that from now on, you will write his memories properly like he asked you to.’
‘You don’t understand, Mom…’ Matthew starts.
‘I don’t want to hear one more word out of you, Matthew Stone. Now you two shake hands this instant.’
‘She’s right, you should shake his hand, baba,’ Bonang chimes in.
‘Fine,’ Stone says, and grumpily puts his hand out.
‘Fine,’ Muza says, taking it.
‘Fine,’ Stone says again as they shake once and then both let go.
‘Fine,’ Muza repeats.
‘Well done, boys,’ Eileen says, clapping her hands. ‘Now doesn’t that feel better?’
‘Another cup of tea, Eileen?’ Refilwe offers.
‘Oh yes, thank you, that would be lovely,’ Eileen says.
‘How about a cup of tea and a nice sandwich, Muzzy? I’ve got apricot jam, you love apricot jam,’ Refilwe says.
‘Never!’ Muza shouts.
Refilwe and Bonang glance at each other.
‘Oh I’ve got it, at last,’ Eileen says, clicking her fingers as Refilwe takes her empty cup from her. ‘You really remind me of someone, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on it until right this second. Doesn’t she look remarkably like our Beauty, Matty? Oh, our Beauty is just wonderful, and as honest as the day is long. She’s been with us for fifteen years, she really is one of the family. Don’t you think the similarity is amazing, Matty? I wonder if you’re related? I think she’s from the Eastern Cape or somewhere like that,’ Eileen chatters.
The room goes very quiet. Matthew sinks his head into his hands.
11 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WRITER
‘Champ, how are you?’
‘Dumi? I didn’t recognise your number,’ I say, cursing myself for answering an unknown number. I know better than that, I must be losing it.
‘You haven’t been answering my calls or my emails or my texts or my smoke signals. I’m starting to think maybe you’re avoiding me.’