South Africa is special. No, we’re not talking rugby (phew). Neither are we talking melktert, biltong or boerbeskuit (sigh). We’re talking politics (yay). With 620 parties registered to participate in the upcoming municipal elections, we may be the most “democratic” country on the planet. OK, India has 2,500+ registered parties, but they also have 33x more voters. If we had a similar sized population, we’d have more than 20,000 parties.. Eek!
Yes, we’re special!
We can only hope this bounty of options does not cause electile dysfunction as voters face analysis paralysis. Meanwhile, since we’re practically swimming in acronyms, we may as well have an acronym fly-past (but hopefully not too close for comfort). Let the game begin!
The year is 6 ACDP (6 After Coronavirus Dem-Panic). Immune systems (and brains) are no longer a conspiracy theory. Social distancing is what happens to you when you swear at voters, not something you do to avoid viruses from spreading. A mask is something your beautician puts on your face to lighten your skin (and your purse). But change is afoot. Climate change, to be precise. Semi-global warming is hitting our side of the planet once again. With change comes the need for adaptation. Last-ditch coronavirus assaults are in the air, ready to inflict their dreaded EFF (Exhaustion, Fever & Fatigue).
You know the drill by now. One of the KIDs (Knowledge Insufficiency Device) brings home a BUG (Blasted Unwelcome Gogga) from SCHOOL (Socially Coercive Historically Obsolete Organisation of Learning).
At first, you fear it may be ANC (Another Novel Coronavirus). The PA (Panic Alarm) sets in, and you realise it’s time for DA (Drastic Action). You feed the KID some vitamin C (no, the C does not stand for Corruption), but you’re too late. The IFP (Infection Flourishing Process) is already gaining momentum. Like skittles, one member of the household after another falls over.
Like the wildebeest stampede in TLK (The Lion King), you can see it coming your way, but you can’t escape the inevitable. First Junior Skittle topples, then it goes up the food chain, eventually felling PAPPA (Paediatrically Arrested Progeny Producing Appliance). Eventually, only MOM (Miracle Of Miracles) is left standing.
For some days, the house sounds like a taxi rank as the skittles keep shouting PE (Gqeberha) and EL (KuGompo ), with a few wheezy DBNs in-between (eThekwi-i-i-i-ni). Just as you are nursing Junior Skittle back to the pink of health, the BUG grabs hold of you, too. Viruses hit your throat like MKP (Machine Kun Pellets) and it feels like COVID-26 (Craftily Optimised Virus Inflicting Disaster), especially as it proceeds to stomp on your chest like the private security detail of some Perpetually Opportunistic Executive Politician Operating Lawlessly.
Unlike 6 years ago, when a single sneeze earned you two weeks off work (paid sick leave, nogal), times have changed. Your GP books you off for 3 days only (despite the bottle of KWV you take along in your handbag).
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so you deploy your old cadres without following due tender processes:
– Vitamin C, 5-10 g daily, dissolved in 1 L of water and taken over the course of several hours.
– Phaphama Solution, one tablespoon daily
– Fulvic Acid, two capsules or one tablespoon in a cup of water, gargle and swallow daily
And, just for good measure, you enrol the services of a sturdy war veteran, a cup of thyme tea: One level teaspoon of thyme spice (fresh or dried) on a cup of boiling hot water. Allow to draw and cool for about ten minutes. Add a teaspoon of raw honey and one teaspoon of fresh lemon juice, just for taste and extra Zooma vuma.
Hey presto! You feel faintly human again. Now begins the egg-dance, as you pretend to be too ill to go back to work while catching up on some essential household stuff and even reading some of those BOOKS (Bygone Old Obsolete Knowledge Systems) by your bedside.
Good thing you got your sick certificate before you took your doepa, so you have two days to HR (Hover & Recover). You just need to fake it so the rest of the household (who are now picking themselves off the floor) will not bother you. You feign just enough empathy with their plight to ensure you get some in return. Meanwhile, you keep deploying your cadres and war vets like a real police general.
You call the WUHAN lab (Where Unscrupulous Humans Assault Nature) to find out if this was indeed ANC. They deny everything but offer you an upgrade anyway. You know, one that will make KID’s voice disappear for two weeks. You politely decline. Instead, you pretend to be hoarse for another two days. This makes everyone else whisper, too, which you secretly find funny.
But all good things come to an end. Suddenly, it’s back to WORK. (We Owe Right Kidney). During teatime, you compare notes with colleagues around the water cooler. Everyone agrees this virus was FF+ (Very Very Bad). Hopefully, somebody keeps the bats and pangolins apart for a couple of months so you can properly recover.
