The day Ramaphosa and Trump meet

A Sunday paper reported that Donald Trump has agreed to meet Cyril Ramaphosa face to face. Here’s a preview of what to expect.

Ten minutes before the meeting, the two men discuss arrangements with their aides.

DT: How tall is this man? I need a bigger chair. Get me a bigger chair. The biggest chair. I must look down on him. He needs to feel my power. This guy, Cyril Ramawho? How am I meant to say that name? What’s it with Africans that they can’t have simple names? Like me. Trump. That’s it. One syllabus. Easy to remember, hard to forget. Never mind. I’ll call him Cyril. Now there’s a name a real American can understand.

CR: How do I look? How should I look? Do I smile and shake his hand? I have seen how he shakes hands. I don’t want to be jerked around. Do they all do that? Is that why they call them Yanks? Does my face look fat in this? Should I change shirts? Boy, I haven’t been this nervous meeting a white man since I negotiated the McDonald’s deal. Should I give him a Big Mac? No, this is not the time for gifts. I need to be tough.

It’s time for the meeting. CR is seated awkwardly on a yellow plastic chair designed for a child. DT’s chair, still empty, is the size of King Charles’ throne and made entirely from pillaged Ghanaian gold and studded with fake rubies and rhinestones.

Trumpets suddenly blare, startling CR. He laughs nervously, curses softly in Venda and wipes his glistening brow with a monogrammed handkerchief he received from his billionaire brother-in-law.

A gold-plated door engraved with the image of a dollar sign is flung open. Cyril makes several attempts to rise but his legs aren’t what they used to be.

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He remains seated, looking for all the world like a naughty child about to be punished. DT stiff-legs it across the room, his elevated corrective heels causing him to lean perilously forward.

DT: Cyril Ramadingdong, I presume. Don’t get up.

CR gives up and slumps back onto the child’s chair. The plastic makes a loud cracking sound. Two FBI agents leap forward and shield DT with their bodies. He pauses, strikes a noble pose and looks at the cameraman from Fox.

DT: Did you get that? Possible assassination attempt. I have no fear. We will make America great again!

An aide leads him to his gilded throne. He leans forward and grabs CR by the hand, pulling his little chair closer.

CR: Mr President, it is indeed an honour to…

DT: Yeah, yeah. Me too. It’s good to meet the leader of the flea world. But I gotta tell ya right upfront, this wasn’t my idea. Elon wasn’t keen. He said you’re smarter than you look and that you’d have me eating out of your hand. Well, buddy, unless your hand has a Big Mac in it, I won’t be eating nothing from it.

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CR glances at his aide, regretting not having gone with the Big Mac idea.

DT: So, Mr Ramakrishna. What can I do for you?

CR: Well, Mr President, I’d like to correct a few misconceptions that you…

DT: Biden tell you that? It’s a lie. I don’t miss anything. Every woman I’ve slept with has conceived. No problems at all. Best conceptions ever. Sperm like swordfish, I tell ya.

CR: Er, no. I mean the things you think are happening in my country…

DT: Right. The terrible things. Glad you brought it up. Why are your people killing the farmers? What did the Afrikaners ever do to you? You can’t just go around murdering innocent people. This isn’t Gaza. You shouldn’t be…

CR: If I could interrupt for a second… nobody is being deliberately targeted. Every South African, regardless of race, creed or political affiliation, has an equal opportunity to be murdered. When it comes to homicides, we don’t discriminate.

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DT: But you’re taking their land, right? Just going up and grabbing it faster than I can grab a p***y. That ain’t right.

CR: The Expropriation Act doesn’t…

DT: Circuses have acts. The law is an ass. I’m arresting the judges and suggest you do the same if you ever want to do business with us again. We don’t need your oil…

CR: Er, we don’t produce…

DT: Right there. That’s your problem. You don’t produce. All you want to do is take. Well, this is the new America, my chubby black buddy. And why the hell are you sucking up to Zelensky? This man is doing terrible things to Russia. Terrible. My friend Vladimir is not in a good place right now. And I don’t mean Moscow, although that is a terrible place.

CR: I don’t think…

DT: That’s your other problem. You let people do your thinking for you. Nobody thinks for me. I don’t even think for myself. The magic comes from somewhere else. You have to drill down. Go deep or go home. Bibi Netanyahu is a good man.

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CR: Anyway, could we talk about trade and tariffs? The thing is…

DT: What have you got that we want?

CR: Er, diamonds, gold, iron, steel, citrus, wine…

DT: Wrong! We want your women. Strong, hard-working women with good teeth. We’ve sent all the Mexicans home and our cotton’s not gonna pick itself. Swing low, sweet chariot. Know what I mean? Let’s trade. Our whisky for your women. Can’t get fairer than that. How about them Dodgers, hey? Six home runs in the first quarter. Got any Big Macs on you? Damn, I think I pooped my pants.

Elon Musk appears from behind a fake palm tree.

EM: C’mon, big daddy. Time for your nap.

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