Should it be the Wild Coast or Ballito Beach? Emmarentia Dam or Drakensberg mountain? Nah, let’s be super classy. Let’s go to Cape Town. Clifton Beach. The weather is terrible in Johannesburg as it is; and will be for the next few days, according to the weather forecast.
You see, I have been toyi-toying with an idea of how to make the most of President Cyril Ramaphosa’s announcement that not only has the alcohol ban been lifted, but public spaces have reopened as well. These tidings tie in well with my annual ritual.
For the uninitiated, at the beginning of the year, I invite friends and neighbours to my house for the slaughter of a goat and the consumption of libations. I decided a long time ago that it was foolish to slaughter over the festive season when there is a surfeit of meat and drink. I decided I should do something that would make me stand out like a knapsack, as the Zulu expression says. I slaughter in January. Just when some people are rushing around buying stationery or trying to find schools for their children.
When will they ever learn to plan properly? Because of lockdown restrictions, however, I could not slaughter in the last week of January as I normally do. During his latest presentation, the president said the decline in infections and hospital admissions influenced the decision to relax some regulations, including reopening the beaches, dams and public parks.
Excited, I rushed to my supplier and bought a goat. I knew I could not slaughter the poor thing at my residence as social gatherings at our homes are still banned. Being the creative thinker that I am, I decided I’ll be flying, with my goat in a cage, down to a beach in Cape Town.
I’ll never buy a goat in that city. I hear goats over there eat beach sand and dagga only. Urgh! At the Mount Nelson Hotel, where I’m a respected client, they have in the past accommodated my goats in a special chamber inside my usual penthouse.
As soon as I get to Cape Town, I’ll get my factotums to pitch a tent at Clifton Beach. Thank you very much president for allowing us upper-class citizens of this country to booze and jol at the beach. The wretched citizens in the townships can’t have social gatherings at their homes. Poor things, you’ll be strong.
As usual, my party is open to all. Even the black economic refugees who find themselves squatting in Cape Town – some of them have been refugees since the 1920s! - are most welcome to join us at the beach. Even those who are still in Cofimvaba, Mqanduli and Nqamakwe, bored out of their skulls and dying of thirst, are most welcome. In fact, they can use my party as an excuse for coming to the city – never to go back home again.
Because Cape Town is a city where possible misunderstandings lurk around the corner, I have emergency gear for my guests. I will supply every single one of them with John Steenhuisen and Helen Zille wigs and buckets of white paint.
When police show up, my guests might need to hastily paint their faces white, to avoid harassment and victimisation. White face always works. Being black, drinking and eating food on the beach tends to ruffle the feathers of authorities in the Republic of Cape Town.
I have it on good authority that my bosom buddy Bheki Cele will be there to ensure that we are costumed properly in Steenhuisen and Zille wigs, and that we limit our debauchery to the beach.
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