My darling Toni

I am so sorry I had to cancel lunch the other day, but I received a frantic telephone call from my dear friend Jacob ‘Msholozi’ Zuma and I had to drop everything to be of assistance to him.

I have never seen Msholozi so frazzled. This senior job of his in the VIP Protection Unit must be really getting to him. He never tells me exactly what he does; merely throwing up his arms and laughing in that delightful way of his whenever I enquire. But it does appear that a lot of people want his job, and are prepared to do whatever to get it. For him it must be like being a wounded old lion that has been thrown out of the pride and is now being circled by a pack of slavering hyenas.

As an aside, and I sincerely hope this is not an offensive aside, I really think that what Msholozi needs is a new woman in his life. I have noticed over the years that his taste in maidens tends to the more buxom and my thoughts immediately turned to you. I know this is ever so forward, but I was thinking of organising a private candlelight dinner at my apartment where the two of you might explore possibilities. You never know where things could lead, and I can reveal he is a wizard with baby oil. My knees go weak. 

Anyway, enough of that and back to why I so rudely abandoned our lunch date. Msholozi recently returned from some conference in Durban and had hardly put his feet up when he was ordered to go overseas to lay his body on the line for a dignitary. The problem was that he is a wonderful father and had taken his favourite son, Julius, to observe the important deliberations taking place in that seaside hamlet. But things had gone seriously awry there and he just knew he could not take the boy with him again and called me to babysit. Well, he did not exactly say babysit, but something like ‘can the boy shadow you for a few days to see what it’s like in the real world’ – but we all know what he meant.

I always remember Julius as a thoughtful, creative child. If he was not sanding away at a woodwork project he had his nose deep in a book. He was always questioning, like why is the sky blue? And very occasionally would pop one of those questions us adults dread, such as why is there no word in the Sepedi dictionary for hermaphrodite? But it appears he has become quite wilful as an adolescent.

‘Trinity, this boy is more than a handful,’ sighed Msholozi when I got to his house. ‘It really came to a head in Durban and I’ve realised I can’t take him along anymore when I travel. Please say you’ll look after him while I’m away. Maybe if he could just trail you for a few days. I think it would do him the world of good to see how a real pro operates. But it’s OK if you can’t because his Aunt Helen is always delighted to have him.’

‘I’d be happy to spend some quality time with him,’ I replied. ‘But do tell what happened in Durban.’

It appears that when they arrived in Durban Julius and his friends began to run amok; among other things pestering the adults with a constant stream of ‘I wants’, as children are wont to do. It got so bad that one of the important delegates, Zwelizima Vavi, pulled Msholozi aside and told him to control the brat. Then, on the Thursday, Julius ran into the packed auditorium where serious discussions were taking place and plonked himself on the podium next to someone by the name of Gwede Mantashe.

Gwede leaned towards Julius and said, ‘Do you know that with one little wave of my hand I can make every person in this crowd and the country go wild with joy? This moment will live in their hearts and they'll forever speak of it and rejoice!’ 

Julius replied, ‘I seriously doubt that. Show me.’ 

So Gwede slapped him.

Julius was still smarting when he came into the room, put his plate of cream cake down and hugged me. I immediately sensed that part of the problem was that Msholozi indulges him. He was dressed in very fine clothes and was wearing a Rolex watch. I commented that he was wearing one red sock and a bright green one on the other foot.

‘Aren’t they cool,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got another pair exactly like that in my room.’

When we got outside with his little carry case I began to realise just what a long few days awaited me. He began bouncing up and down when he saw my pink Cadillac and shouted, ‘Daddy, daddy, I want it, I want it…’

Msholozi rolled his eyes to the heavens as we parted, ‘Trinity, I’ll forever be indebted to you.’

I began to believe that very quickly as I battled to control the child while driving. One moment he was in the back seat shouting insults at everyone passing us; the next in the passenger seat making as if he was steering while growling ‘brmmm, brmmm.’ I did what all adults do in similar situations and reached for my flask of gin and tonic.

When we got to Johannesburg it was time for his lunch and I suggested the delightful La Vie en Rose in Illovo, but he pouted and said he wanted Nando’s. When we found an outlet he said to the waitress that he wanted four quarters.

‘A whole chicken,’ confirmed the woman.

‘No, I said four quarters, you bloody agent!’ he screamed.

When we took a seat he was momentarily distracted by a woman’s 400m race being broadcast on the television. He seemed to recognise the fairly masculine looking girl who was winning by the proverbial mile because he stood on the seat and began cheering wildly, ‘Caster, she the man!’

I could barely take any more of this when I heard a father at a table behind pacifying his brood with a suggestion they write their letters to Father Christmas. It was a brilliant idea and I took a pad from my bag and gave it to Julius so he could do the same. That quietened him down for a while as he, with tongue stuck out the side of his mouth, scrawled his missive. As you know, I hate profanity, but in the interest of accuracy I reproduce his letter in its entirety:

Father Christmas

PO Box 1

North Pole

Dear Father Christmas

I’m sure you’ll be surprised to receive a letter from me in October, but there are a few things I must clear up about last Christmas.

I wrote to you asking for all the mines, a Mercedes Benz and a Bafana Bafana shirt. I did not think this request was unreasonable as I worked hard at school, helped my dad in the garden, ran errands for the neighbours and even helped a little old lady get a house.

So, you fat pig, what the fuck were you thinking when you left only a few tenders in my stocking? And if this is not enough you leave all the mines and goodies for the president’s little shit son across the road.

Don’t even think of climbing down my chimney this year. I’ll fuck you up. Then I’ll get my dad’s revolver and shoot all the fucken springbucks that pull your sleigh. I want to see how you like walking everywhere.

Fuck you Father Christmas.

Julius

Yours in complete exasperation

Trinity Crimp