True bras get fired, go to jail for you and even pay your bills
Thursday morning. The last day of Mampara Week. Where I come from, that’s the week before payday. I’m broke, bunsed, shoelaced, whatever you’d like to call it. There’s no beer money. The chronic got smoked out long ago.
I’m reduced to the street skunk. The plastic’s stretched so thin you could go trout fishing with it. It’s like that.
I’m pondering which of my members I can call for a seen right. The Croc’s out. Shooters are notorious when it comes to money. Even worse than politics writers. The Ghenginator’s in love so he’s blown all his cash on air tickets to Jozi. I’ve already tapped JahNoDead.
I hit the TV remote to take my mind off being broke. It’s that channel with the Absa-type logo. I wonder if they got something for that? Stranger things.
Philani Mavundla’s on the screen. Mavundla was mayor of Greytown. Until his council wanted to pass a vote of no confidence in him, despite his not taking a salary. Strange that. Mavundla’s not worried though.
Mavundla’s a construction larney of some note. And the cat credited with swinging the chiefs in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands away from the grumpy Chief from Mahlabathini and towards the ANC with the strategic deployment, as it were, of lots of tender cash and the odd tractor or 17. Or at least that’s how the story goes.
Mavundla also owns half of Greytown and is seriously loaded, despite his comrades giving the contract for the Moses Mabhida Stadium to the wit ous.
I’m scrolling through my iPhone looking for Mavundla’s digits. I stop. I’m wasting my time. Mavundla’s already got his hands full, having jumped to the head of the queue to offer to sort out the Commander in Chief’s part of the bill for the makeover of his Nxamalala possie.
And unlike the last lot of Muppetsled DJ Foot in Mouth, he had the money to deliver on his promises. Mavundla’s telling the Absa channel that he’s written to Thuli to ask her to send him the bill and he’ll settle it for the larney.
Straight EFT, no cheque in the post, no pledge at the fundraising dinner that gets forgotten by Monday morning. Hard cash, baby.
That must be really cool for the Commander in Chief, having bras like that. My members drink me out every chance they get. Number 1’s bras get fired for him, go to jail for him, want to kill for him and even want to pay his bills for him.
That’s what I call bras.
That must be really cool for the Commander in Chief, having bras like that