by Paige Nick
‘Of course not, Dumi, why would I do that?’
‘Well I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, we were cut off the other day, and your publisher is breathing down my neck for the first ten thousand words of the book.’
‘There is no book,’ I say, my voice low.
‘What? No man, you always say that at this point in the process. And anyway, you said things were going really well. You were so happy with the book the other night, you even said, and I quote, “this is going to be the best thing I’ve ever written.” You also said, and correct me if I’m wrong, something along the lines of “the words are literally falling out of me, like a giant fountain of words.”’
‘I said that? That should have been the first indication that something was desperately wrong.’
‘I certainly didn’t think we’d have a problem sending them the first ten thousand words by now. How the hell was I supposed to know you were holed up over there, crying for your mommy? I’m an agent, not a mind-reader.’
‘Just call them up and tell them there’s no book,’ I say.
‘Bullshit,’ Dumi says. ‘It’s time for some tough love. I love you, you know that, but you need to get off your arse, and finish that book. I’m seconds away from selling the film rights, this thing is a cash cow for both of us.’
‘I keep telling you, but you don’t want to listen to me! It’s all lies. There is no honest book here.’
‘Listen to me, you still have eleven days to figure this thing out. Write something, hell, write his fucking shopping list for all I care. Just give me ten thousand words, and then I can push for an extension. But you’ve got to give me something to work with.’
‘Why won’t you listen to me? I’ve told you, there’s nothing to write.’
‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve even tried.’
‘I have tried, Dumi. Muza won’t tell me anything authentic, there are no words.’ My voice comes out as an annoying whine. ‘He only wants me to write this crazy propaganda. I’ll be the laughing stock of the universe. Again.’
‘Matthew, I don’t know what else to say or do, short of writing this thing myself,’ Dumi shouts down the phone at me. ‘This is the last time I’m going to say this to you, so open both your ears and close your trap for once. This is no time to suddenly grow a conscience. If you have to write lies, write lies, but just write them already and write them fast, or we’re both fucked. Do you hear me?’
‘Can I open my trap now?’ I say.
‘Go for it.’
‘I hear you loud and clear.’
‘About fucking time!’ Dumi says, and cuts the call.
Muza, Elijah, Dumi – even my own mother wants me to toe the line and lie. I can’t fight it any longer. Sure, it’s not like I haven’t lied before, so I’m not sure why this is so tough for me. I guess I thought this was my opportunity to do some small good at last, to become a decent human being and a serious writer instead of a journo pushing out scandals. To write something that makes a difference to the world.
And it’s not like I’ve had much luck writing something in my own words, so maybe even my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Right now this minute, I have a grand total of five hundred words. I can’t bear to even think about the thousands I lost in #listerinegate, and that’s after all these weeks in this hellhole. I can’t fight the universe anymore. I pick up my new phone and go back to the beginning of the recorded material I have in the app, press play, and listen to Muza droning on for a few minutes. If a monkey at a typewriter is what everyone wants, then a monkey at a typewriter is what they’ll get.
I close my eyes and remember Muza dictating his version of the story of his release from prison, and all the bogus fans, and made-up ululating, and all the propaganda bullshit, not to mention the nonsense about his fabled boxer’s physique. Then I start typing.
‘Chapter One.
‘It was a beautiful day outside, but I had to be patient when I was released from prison, because it took forever for the gates to slide open so I could step into freedom in my expensive suit.’
At least this is easier than coming up with an opening sentence of my own. I guess every cloud has a silver lining.
10 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘So, comrade, we need a name. What do you think of “Muza’s Shower Heads”?’
‘Sure bubbe, we could go that route, but don’t you think we should come up with something a little more catchy?’ Elijah says.
‘Like what?’ Muza asks.
‘How about “Showers, Showers, Showers”?’ Elijah suggests. ‘People like things in threes.’
Muza turns his nose up. ‘Hmm. I know, what about “Muza’s Golden Showers, for gold-quality shower heads!”’
‘Oy vey, I don’t think you want to go with that, my friend,’ Elijah says, pacing the room.
‘Or what about “Muza’s Imported Showerheads, the best imported shower heads, brought to you by the one and only Muza”.’
‘Bubbe, what say we keep the name more neutral, and less, um, personal? That way, you might net us a wider audience. What about “Bathroom Bits, shower fittings of the highest quality”,’ Elijah says. ‘You know, it would be good because the whole shower-head thing was related to your, you know, bits. And everyone always goes crazy about your bits: remember that painting?’
‘Please don’t talk to me about that painting. It gives me an ache in my head that surpasses even the one in my buttock. I tried to get that artist exiled to Zimbabwe, but the Constitution wasn’t on my side on that occasion. But you wait and see, when I am King Kong once again I will outlaw all his paintings, past and future. Then who will have the last laugh?’
‘Okay, okay, but what do you think of “Bathroom Bits”? We could also bring out a range of Bathroom Bits shower gels and soaps, for washing your bits. The strap line could be something like “Wash your troubles away, the shower gel for men with ambition.” All products need a strap line, everyone knows that.’
‘You’re quite good at this,’ Muza says.
‘That’s because some of my biggest clients are in the advertising industry,’ Elijah says.
‘Maybe you should be the Marketing Director for Bathroom Bits, comrade,’ Muza says, trying the name out. ‘Marketing will be a very important element of our business, especially since we’re going to be making our own commercials and everything. I’ll star in them of course, as the spokesman. But maybe you could direct them? That’s a very important job in the making of a commercial, you know, maybe the most important job of them all. Besides being the main actor and CEO, of course.’
‘That would give me great nachas,’ Elijah says.
‘We are going to make the best commercial this country has ever seen, comrade. And then we will sell out our first shipment in minutes.’
‘If that’s the case, maybe we should start planning our next shipment already, bubbe?’ Elijah says, gazing off into the distance, his eyes going unfocused.
‘You are full of exceptional ideas, comrade,’ Muza says. ‘We work so well together, I will definitely make you a minister in my new government when I am Emperor of the Galaxy.’
Elijah snorts. ‘What are you going to make me? The Minister of Recreational Affairs?’
‘What about Minister of Malawian Affairs, comrade? How does that sound?’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘There will be when I am in charge again.’
‘Are you meshuganah? What makes you think I want to be in politics? Anyway, back to business: shall I tell my people we want to plan a second shipment from overseas next month?’ Elijah asks.
‘Yes, but then we had better get to work on the commercial immediately. So we can sell out as soon as possible.’
‘I agree.’
‘Although…’
‘Now what?’ Elijah asks.
‘There’s just the small matter of funding for the commercial…’
‘How
much do you need?’
‘I’m guessing somewhere in the region of two hundred thousand.’
‘Oy gevalt!’ Elijah exclaims.
‘It’s actually a good deal, we are lucky we don’t have to pay the lead actor or the director. Maybe Bonang and Refilwe can help out backstage too, managing things when I say “cut”. That’s the lead actor’s job, you know. I wonder if the writer is any good with a camera?’
‘I will speak to my people. Maybe if there’s another shipment coming in next month, it will warrant this kind of investment.’
‘Imagine the returns when we sell out our first shipment in less than a month. You and your comrades will be laughing all the way to the bank.’
9 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WRITER
I turn on my voice recording app, place my iPhone on the table and press record, then focus on the menu. Not that I don’t know what’s on it: the Spur menu hasn’t changed since I was a kid. A Spur burger now is not all that different to a Spur burger fifteen or even twenty years ago. It’s comforting to know that some things never change. (Except that now they sometimes come with a side order of racism and aggression.)
‘How is my great book of memories coming along?’ Muza asks once the waitress has taken our order.
‘Okay,’ I say, sipping my Creme Soda. Ever since #listerinegate I haven’t been able to face anything alcoholic. Or blue. Fortunately, green is still manageable.
‘So you’ll be finished on time?’ Muza asks.
‘I hope so,’ I say.
‘It’s going to be excellent. Full of interesting facts and really, totally riveting.’
‘Facts? If you say so,’ I reply, my voice dry.
‘What about the Time magazine chapter? Do you have that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the parole officer parts?’
‘Yes.’
‘My version or your version?’ Muza asks.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’m toeing your line, ha ha, it’s all your version.’
‘Now you’re getting the hang of it. See, working with me isn’t that bad, is it? I was thinking next we should do a manifesto of what I will achieve when I am the Master of the Universe again.’
‘Sure. I’ve sold my soul to the devil already, how much difference could one more chapter of bullshit make?’
‘Don’t be like that, you are crafting a piece of history. It’s simply a matter of perspective. Today I think we also should do a chapter on all my great and important charity work.’ Muza says.
‘What charity work?’
‘Writer, I often think that you underestimate the effect that I’ve had on the people of South Africa.’
‘No, I think everyone in South Africa is painfully clear on the effect you’ve had on them.’
‘Nonsense, I have a truly excellent rapport with the public. It’s my thing.’
‘Oh really, and what rapport is that?’
‘Surely you’ve noticed how I’m always swamped with requests for my autograph, and how many fans I have? The people can’t wait to be able to vote for me again.’
‘Um, we’ve been in this Spur for twenty minutes, and nobody has swamped you yet, unless you count the waitress, and I’m pretty sure that’s her job.’
‘Comrade, you don’t see it because you’re not attuned to it, and you have racist tendencies. Look at this table behind us, for example; they are trying to get a discreet photograph of me as we speak.’
‘I don’t think they are, sir,’ I say, twisting in my seat, but he’s already limping over to their table.
‘Hello, good citizens of South Africa, can I help you with that photograph?’ he offers.
‘Thanks,’ says the dad. He hands Muza his cell phone, then puts one arm around his wife, and the other around his son.
‘Go on writer, make it a good one,’ Muza hands me the phone and then moves between them, so he’s in the middle of the photograph. ‘Everybody say ex- and future President,’ he says, making a peace sign with his fingers.
I take the picture hastily, then give the phone back to the dad.
‘There you go, congratulations,’ Muza says, with a big smile, clapping the man on the back.
‘Actually, we were hoping to get a picture of just ourselves. We’re here on holiday, from Soweto,’ the father says, handing the phone back to me to take another picture.
‘Oh,’ Muza says, disappointed. ‘But I am Jeremiah Muza, the ex-President of this great country. It’s a great honour to be in a photograph with me. A collector’s item.’
‘Yes, we know who you are,’ the wife says.
‘Dad, is he the man whose statue we saw that time at the Union Buildings?’ the boy asks, tugging on his dad’s sleeve.
‘No son, that was Madiba.’
‘Why wasn’t there a statue of this president, dad?’
‘It’s a long story, my boy, I’ll tell you later,’ the dad says.
‘Well, that was awkward,’ I say, when we’re back at our table and the waitress has delivered my burger and Muza’s steak.
‘White monopoly capital,’ Muza mumbles as he reaches for the pink sauce with one hand and an onion ring with the other.
‘Yes, except they were definitely black,’ I say.
We eat in silence.
‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ I eventually say.
‘For the memories?’ he asks.
‘No, nothing to do with the book, this is just between us. What’s up with your backside? It doesn’t seem to be getting any better.’
‘You promise this isn’t for the memories?’
‘I promise.’
Muza eyes my phone, and waits for me to turn the recording app off before he speaks again.
‘Writer, if you put any of this in the memories, I’ll have Elijah remove your fingers and toes two at a time.’
‘I swear this is off the record,’ I say.
‘This great pain in my buttocks is becoming a matter of urgent national security and importance. Why are you laughing, writer? Racist tendencies!’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t laughing, my Creme Soda just went down the wrong way. What does the doctor say about it?’
‘I haven’t seen one yet.’
‘God, why not?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Finish your steak, I have a cousin in Cape Town who went to medical school. He’s sure to know a GP in this town. This must be your lucky day.’
‘In that case, we should buy some lottery tickets on the way home, I wouldn’t want to miss out on a lucky day,’ Muza says.
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Dear recording machine, oh the relief, hallelujah. After lunch today, the writer drove me to a doctor to look at my buttocks. He stayed in the waiting room while I went in. The doctor made me take off my pants and lie down on his bed. Then he tutted and eished and ahhed for fifteen minutes examining at my buttocks. I thought he was never going to stop. He even called in one of his colleagues to come and take a look. He wanted to take a photograph of this thing – he said it was for a medical journal – but I wouldn’t let him. Chances are it’s for his Twitter feed and next thing you know, my buttocks are all over the cover of Bona Magazine. I wasn’t born yesterday.
‘In the end he called in a man named Lance, who cut out the problem, drained the wound, and then stitched me up. This doctor said he had run out of anaesthetic, and by coincidence also the numbing cream he usually uses, so he couldn’t give me anything to dull the pain. I tell you, it hurt almost as much as that NEC conference in 2016. I think I cried more than Brian did during that Eskom briefing. Then the doctor gave me a course of antibiotics, and told me that it would be sensitive for a while, and I should try not to put too much pressure on it, and I should change the dressing regularly. But the relief at having it out, thank Guppie, the relief!’
8 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WRITER
My cousin’s colleague told me it was the biggest ab
scess he’s ever seen. He said Muza must have a supersonically high pain threshold to have lived with it for so long. And that I possibly saved the ex-President’s life, although we won’t tell anyone about that, I’m hated enough by the public as it is.
‘When are the lottery results coming on?’ Muza asks.
We’re sitting on one of the leather couches in the Homestead watching TV. Or rather I’m sitting, and he’s hovering with one butt cheek slightly raised.
‘In about ten minutes,’ I say.
Muza looks at his Rolex.
‘Nice watch,’ I say.
‘The Guppies gave it to me as a token of gratitude.’
‘I thought you barely knew them?’
Muza glances at me, his eyes suddenly shifty: ‘I don’t know them in any great way. I don’t even have their phone numbers, and they’ve definitely never been here at the Homestead before, you can ask any of my many wives about that. Maybe they just wanted to give a gift of thanks to such a great President, for being so great.’
‘You don’t actually have that many wives anymore,’ I say.
‘You are right, and I have been thinking maybe it’s time I find a new one.’
‘Where would you look?’
‘I’m not sure. I remember when finding wives was easy, they fell into my lap like rain. Not so much these days. Cape Town isn’t the only place having a drought.’
‘And lobola can be costly, right?’
‘Yes, but maybe I could write an IOU. I will be good for it when I am in the seat of power again. Have you seen the remote? We need to turn it up for the results.’
‘I don’t have it,’ I say, feeling around behind me.
Muza lifts the cushions off the couch and exclaims. The fabric covering the base of the couch has come adrift. Muza reaches all the way down into the base of the couch and retrieves the remote.
‘These couches are practically new, nobody makes things properly anymore.’