My dreamy take on the last supper

Moving to smaller digs means drastically scaling down, especially getting rid of heavy furniture.

Like the eight-chair dining room table, under-utilised, thanks to corona. Also, no buyers. We’re saddled with a wooden monster, adding to stress levels.

That’s probably why the table entered one of my umpteen dreams featuring unlikely celebs. Like the inimitable Helen Zille. Evidently I decide, just before moving, to have an “octagonal last supper” – not to be confused with the last historic one.

Mine calls for eight ordinary beings, not a dozen ardent followers, and is more political than religious. But the latter category inevitably crops up, especially when wine is poured and the infamous water to wine wedding is recalled by the imbiber of a Jakkelsfontein red.

Who to invite? And why countenance such a daft idea during this disruptive period? Even in a dream? Call it serious concern. And the fear I won’t live long enough to see the rainbow.

I’m referring to my country going to pot with a desperately unhappy citizenry. So I send out invitations to folk with a solution to our country’s ills. As a hook, I promise to do my famous Weber chicken.

Unexpectedly, the first response comes from the office of the president, nogal.

“How dare you steal the president’s thunder? You are clouding his dream of a new dawn. Kindly cancel your lopsided imbizo.”

Then an e-mail from the Vryheidsfront. “We would have likely attended, but our manne only think intelligently standing next to an open braai with a can in hand.”

A red envelope from Juju carries a short note: “If Glenlivet poured in cut glass, count me in.”

I viciously pound the delete button on the “yes” RSVP e-mail from Carl Niehaus. Won’t have a Judas at my table. Space doesn’t allow listing the rest of the responses. But sadly, on the day, only one person pitches. A young Helen Zille, still a reporter on the Rand Daily Mail.

The shock of seeing the fearless anti-apartheid activist who had rubbed shoulders with us at strategic watering holes during a colourful past, forces me wide awake.

Pity, she would’ve added much value to my last supper.

Cliff Buchler