Two Satirical Stories
Oliver Tichmann
©
Copyright 2023 by Oliver Tichmann
|
Image from Wikimedia Commons--Marc
Antony's Oration at Caesar's Funeral by George Edward Robertson |
Let
Me Have Folk About Me That Are Dumb
I
am grateful for the basic, generic education that I received.
Back
when I had a bank account, the bank manager called me in to ask why
my overdraft was overdrawn. I'm puzzled as to why bank managers ask
redundant questions. Also why, in the face of skyrocketing national
debt, they are so obsessed with trivia.
Drawing
myself up to my full five feet, five inches height to intimidate the
short bugger, I explained that the square of the hypotenuse is equal
to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. He was impressed,
rolling his eyes and looking heavenward.
Knowing
that Vasco De Gama did some sailing around here has been useful. It's
a great conversation starter in the long Home Affairs queues.
It
would have been useful to be able to select subjects just a little
more aligned to the real world and one's own aptitudes. For example,
languages for me, quantum physics for many of you - a better start to
the world of careers. Still, it's good to know that Archimedes
promoted hygiene and Isaac Newton healthy fruit.
Condoleezza
Rice and some others were involved in a think tank, (inspired, I'm
sure, by our own Cyril), to address the risk that poor education
posed to national security.
"What
in the name of Julius are the Yanks on about?" I thought.
An
encounter with a mugger got the brain cells working a bit more
briskly. It was then that it struck me (the gentleman himself having
struck me twice).
Would
we be a lavatory country if our education had been different? What if
we'd been challenged to think independently, solve real problems,
analyze information, innovate, make reasoned decisions?
Our
problem solving abilities are piss-poor.
"We
don't have decent facilities. Let's burn down our library.
That
should do It."
"We
have a bewildering array of problems that no one party can solve.
This requires some profound thought. Let's march in March and if our
people are hungry, don't blame them for climbing into those kotas and
chips on your shop counters."
We
cannot catch dumb, brutal thugs. What hope of collaring the slick
criminals masquerading as politicians, businessmen and civil
servants? No wonder that we are a safe haven for crooks, terrorists
and every kind of parasite.
Our
decision-making is appalling.
"The
Great Liberation Movement has trashed our country. Let's vote them in
again. There are still some railway sleepers, stations and cables
that need proper disposal."
Our
innovative responses to some complex problems have been to
appoint a minister of electricity and to have a pathetic march. The
minister gave us a foretaste of his own formidable problem solving
skills. In one meeting with some Eskom staff he established that de
Ruyter, journalists and others have mistaken technical problems for
horrific corruption. Yes, one can see how easily that could happen.
Almost twins, those two types of problems. Lord, let this man be
available for president!
We
are like a crew in a deep, underground mine. The roof sags. The
supports rot. Managers, shareholders, miners, engineers run around
shouting garbled instructions. Some dance around, their shouted
slogans and foot stamping makimg the supports tremble. How long?
I
see, Ms Rice. The dumbing-down of a country is the prelude to its
destruction. A kind of marinating of the ox for the spit.
This
may suit some. Borrowing from Bill:
Let
me have folk about me that are dumb
Dull
headed folk and such as sleep upright
Yond
Clevas have a lean and hungry look
They
think too much
Such
folk are dangerous
Just
an opinion. I'm sure that the experts on SABC TV and in government
have it all buttoned down. And we can sleep well.
My
community newspaper had an article headlined "Remembering Good
Old Durban". There is no good old South Africa to remember
- not for everyone. We had hoped for a good, new South Africa. We got
the dumbed down version.
The
front page headline was "No-one Left Behind This Human Rights
Day".
Apologies
to Don McLean:
Bye
bye Miss South African Pie
Drove
my Chevy to the levee
And
got shot in the eye
The
Ruin Of A Great House
When
the brutal tyrant fled in terror to parts unknown, he left behind a
great house, splendid orchards and fields and even treasures beneath
the rich soil.
Oh,
you bet there was rejoicing in the streets. Ale overflowing in
taverns. Neighbour shouting to neighbour. Singing, dancing. All was
splendour and joy unbounded.
And
the speeches were grand as the ballads of the poets.
"No
more shall the sound of weeping be heard in this our land. No more
the terror of the hand raised to strike or the knife to wound. Every
man and woman shall have peace and joy at their labours and in their
homes. The young child and the aged shall know peace and be
cherished. This place of rivers, mountains and green fields shall be
an inheritance for generations to come. And this great house. We
shall rule with wisdom. Justice and compassion will be our guides.
This is our pledge."
Then,
a rainbow in the sky and many took it for a sign.
From
the east and the north came many, fleeing from tyranny and every
misery that the curse of evil rulers brought in the lands 'east of
Eden'. And the stewards of the land welcomed them, saying:
"This
is a large land and you shall live and labour with us in peace."
But
there came also thieves, murderers and vagabonds of every sort.
Seeking to hide themselves among the people, they took new names and
wives. And many a Lerato Ndlovu sauntered through the land, doing
whatsoever their hearts desired. But the stewards, stars in their
eyes, paid little heed,
Slowly,
ever so slowly, came the ruin of the great house, the orchards and
the fields. Even as a frog is boiled. The fruit trees were hewn down
for firewood. Smoke and ash swirled over the cornfields. In the
house, where the stewards sat at gallons of wine, mounds of KFC and
power drinks from spaza merchants, the young people and the guests,
invited and uninvited, did as they pleased. Forgotten the
grand
speeches and the fine promises. Gone the fine linens and the precious
things. And out of cracks and holes crawled the vermin.
Slowly
at first, feelers and whiskers testing the dank air. Then boldly,
fat, insolent and swaggering. Still the stewards ate, drank,
quarrelled and mused upon moonbeams. Forgotten were the young child
and the aged, walking in fear, dread and hunger. And of the
inheritance for generations to come, was spoken not a word.
Appeals
to decency and compassion fell upon ears clogged with the fat of the
land. Indeed, the persons of the stewards shone so with fat, that
people crossed the streets and shielded their eyes for fear of being
blinded.
And
as the house stank of decay and urine in corners, the vermin sat at
meat like masters of the dwelling. And the stewards quarrelled over
bedrooms and the last KFC drumstick. And in the house were found dead
men's bones, some said to have done themselves mischief, having many
knife wounds about their backs.
Then
those who cared for the great house and the lands made an alliance.
But, all too soon, they fell to quarreling over every inconsequential
thing that the mind of man can devise. And they, too, became as of no
consequence.
In
the house, the vermin scurried to and fro, rats with bulging eyes and
cheeks, and other loathsome creatures. And the stewards lay
supine, sated with food and drink, dreaming of great cities and
castles in the skies.
Then
some inquired of wise men: "What is to be done?"
"Five
years", they replied. "To rebuild. To cleanse every
nook and cranny of vermin. And those within must seek other lodging.
For as long as they remain, so long continues the decay."
But
the people knew that, until the last leaf withered on the fruit tree,
until the last brick crumbled into dust, until the last ear of corn
was blasted, the stewards would stand fast. For that is the curse of
gluttony and greed. The raging thirst for power drinks. The curse of
this great, dark continent.
This
the wise counsellors saw. And they could but recall the words of the
book:
"And
great was the fall of that house".
A
resident of Durban, on the East Coast of South Africa, I write a
satirical blog called 'The Scuffle Continues'. I'm a retired former
Human Resources practitioner, writing short stories, poetry of sorts
and satirical letters and articles.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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