Ode to Zumanation: So long, Mangaung
- Richard Poplak
- South Africa
- 03 Jan 2013 12:00 (South Africa)
Following the last several American election campaigns, the award-winning journalist, novelist and doggerelist Calvin Trillin composes a long comic poem summing up the proceedings. The poems are lengthy affairs – Dogfight, on the battle between Obama and Romney, was recently published as a book – but Mangaung barely makes a decent dirty limerick. Nonetheless, we gave it a try. By RICHARD POPLAK.
Allow us to indulge you with this lengthy song
Which details the shenanigans in nearby Mangaung,
Where our ruling party gathered to vote for a king
And bequeathed upon the nation the same ding-a-ling.
It was billed as a contest that would end in a death knell,
Instead, it barely lasted ‘til the opening bell.
The incumbent, The Chief, landed no killing blow,
For the contender arrived in a coma and left a no-show.
But now that we’ve dumped a whole bunch of spoilers—
Perhaps a précis of what led to the toilers
Who sweat away as they run into the ground
The Rainbow Nation that Madiba found;
To set upon each other like hogs at a trough
In a hurry to make sure they eat more than enough.
Every five years, like Commies of yore,
The ANC gathers to chart a course to shore.
While they table great ideas, like jailing journos
And eat fine grub—and we ain’t talking Fournos,
Delegates come from across this great land
To pick the Top Six, to whom they will hand
The largest economy for ten thousand leagues,
Which comes with a fleet of gleaming Merc AMGs.
Last time this happened, it was rather unpleasant—
The incumbent was plucked and roasted like pheasant.
His tenure at the top was clearly done,
And The Chief, the challenger, would at last have his fun.
He and his posse set upon the Pres with bad intent
Finishing him off, regardless of how bent
Was The Chief, who faced at that time
Corruption and rape charges, and was covered in slime.
No matter, because this is democracy, and the delegates spoke,
While the rest of us medicinal marijuana did toke.
It seemed unbelievable, but there it was in the papers:
We were ruled by a posse of arms traders and rapers.
Alleged, I should add, because the highest office has privileges,
The law glances off ‘em, while it is less sanguine with us villagers.
The new Pres was left alone to rule as he saw fit,
A clear mandate, he explained to delegate after delegate,
To deliver services, increase employment, and build a big house,
To ensure that his friends had no reason to grouse.
He’d need ‘em, you see, come the end of his run,
Because a king without friends is like a beach without sun.
So what has our leader done with his power?
Nothing. Bupkes. Zero.
No, we swear it, it’s true –
The country stumbles around like a street kid on glue.
In the last five years, you wouldn’t believe!
From scandals and dirt there’s been barely a reprieve.
The New Pres’s friends have got fat on the take –
He can’t Shaik them off, he can’t Gupta break.
They helped him out first, it was quid pro quo
Don’t worry, though—they’re as pure as the driven snow.
(Even our Madiba was in on this thing
To keep the New Pres in compounds and bling)
The optimistic among us thought, “Hey, he’s done!”
They’ll finish him off in the fields of Mangaung.
Surely his record speaks ill of his reign,
In that it says “nada!” and that he’s to blame.
But would a challenger run? We were never certain—
The ANC operates behind a Louis Vuitton curtain.
By the time the challenger said “Aye!” it was far too late
He was put on a hook and dangled as bait.
The press called it “tense” and “epic” and “fraught”
But in the end, their hyperbole amounted to naught.
The New Pres became the Old Pres by a vote of 4 to 1
And brought with him some pals to share in the fun.
Of note is a fellow of riches galore
A one-time man of the people, now a magnate and corporate, um, bore.
He is the Deputy Pres now, next in line for the throne,
His long knives he sharpens upon a whetstone.
A month or so back he sent out an email,
Suggesting some discipline tips for miners—epic fail!
Thirty-four dead, but no matter, who’s counting?
He’s back to drinking from his champagne fountain.
Now, the 53rdNational Conference is all but over,
A storm blows in and delegates run for cover.
Their work is done, the New Pres is Old,
On his fine work of late the delegates were sold.
This may make you tear the hair from your head,
And spend the next seven years in a bed.
But don’t fear, there’s a cure, listen close to our words
It’s a prescription even the poorest can afford:
Smile, think good things, don’t mope or glower,
Just do as Old Pres does, and go have a shower. DM
Photo: Zuma supporters were showing their support outside the entrance to the UFS campus. On the pile in front of them, they have put bags, suitcases, food, money and other travelling paraphernalia indicating that Kgalema Mothlanthe must take the bus to go home. 17 December 2012, Mangaung, South Africa. 53rd ANC Conference. (Greg Nicolson/NewsFire)