John’s cabinet and chair…

John sat in the back seat of the black BMW, knowing no-one could see in through the dark-tinted glass. He ran his hand lovingly over the supple leather. Boy, did this make you feel like you’d arrived.

It had been a long, tiring journey but now, in the underground VIP parking at the Union Buildings, his dreams were coming true at last. This was going to be a career-topper. A long way from his old faithful Subaru Forester…

He’d definitely have to cut down a bit on the escort vehicles in his blue light convoy… didn’t want to look like an ANC fatcat, after all.

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But, if the mayor of Joburg – from a three-votes and an IPad party – could have 15 bodyguards round the clock and three cars – there should be no reason why the country’s Number 2 couldn’t have at least that.

He came gently back to reality: he wasn’t quite in the runner-up presidential position, although logic made it plain that by getting 20% of the vote, his party deserved a position of serious authority. He was also comforted by the briefing by the civil servants at Union Buildings on how to conduct oneself as a member of the government of national unity (GNU).

First of all, he would have to attend some sessions at the School for Plausible Deniability, which the ruling party’s leaders attended regularly and where the cardinal rule was: “You don’t owe anybody an explanation.”

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And, if you were forced to comment, make your starting point the fact that ordinary South Africans are stupid. No problem, thought John, our federal chair has already done a bit of that herself. The party has lots of practice at mental gymnastics and word games – put into practice over Gaza and refined in the case of the racist MP.

Next thing the newbies were told by the old hands: bring in your friends and family – there’s plenty of taxpayer money to go round and everybody knows a Cabinet minister needs lots of support… One thing was worrying him, though… tea time.

In the mornings, the white-gloved Union Buildings butlers would serve cucumber sandwiches along with the Early Grey served from silver pots into bone chin cups. (The boss man, and those before him, too, were admirers of the very colonial inheritance our own federal chair loves…)

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Yet, thought John, this is South Africa and we need to chart our own course away from neo-colonialism. He would lobby as soon as possible for koeksisters (The Afrikaans version, not the Malay one, in case people think we’re Hamas supporters) to be on the teatime eats list. He would ensure that word of this would get out to his friends in the Afrikaans media.

That’ll sort out the Freedom Front Plus and maybe get back some of our voters from them… Good plan. The final part of the briefing did worry him, because, as a member of the GNU, he would be inside the tent pissing out, rather than the other way around. That would mean he would have to sing from the ruling party hymnbook.

The governing instructions were simple: never admit we were wrong. Blame colonialism. Blame apartheid. Blame Covid. And become familiar with how to use the word “challenges” in multiple ways to avoid accountability. John paused.

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He didn’t really know if he could go that far… after all, what about the people who voted for him? Didn’t they deserve better? Then he discovered the cocktail cabinet in the back of the BMW.

It was an omen: I am the minister in charge of this cabinet…