Quiet before the storm at Daddy’s pad
Monday. It’s only 10.30am, but the flaming ball of lava overhead has already scorched the hills surrounding President Jacob Zuma’s homestead at Nxamalala bare of any movement.
There’s a line of empty taxis at the rank near the turn-off to the Ntolwane Primary School. That’s where Daddy votes election time. It’s gonna be mad there in 2019’s general election, given that Daddy will be voting for his replacement as commander-in-chief.
Daddy must be nervous. If things don’t work out for him at the ANC conference in Nasrec in Johannesburg next month, current deputy president Cyril Ramaphosa’s head is going to be all over Nxamalala’s light poles, looking down on Daddy with a big cheesy grin.
That can’t be a comfortable scenario, given the potential for jail time that comes with a Ramaphosa presidency.
Then again, it could be Daddy’s former wife Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma gazing into his eyes from above. Daddy’s made it clear to the comrades that he favours that outcome when the branches go to the voting booth, despite the fact that she divorced him. Daddy’s a forgiving cat, it seems.
Casa Zuma comes into view. It’s spread across the hillside, more holiday resort than homestead. A onefamily Sun City. Rondavels and spy cameras. Thatched roofs and security fences. A fire pool and a helipad.
There’s a big field below that’s always ploughed. I have never seen anything grow on it.
But, that said, not bad at all, with retirement waiting around the corner.
There’s nobody visible at the main house. No local kiddies splashing in the fire pool. We’re boiling, despite the aircon in the car. A dip wouldn’t hurt.
We take the side road between the police houses and the AstroTurf football pitch and basketball court. There are a few cars outside the cops’ quarters, but no movement. The herd of cattle grazing at the sports facility gives us the eye. So do the spy cameras as we drive along the perimeter fence for a better view.
We leave the car and walk the fence. Mister Boats, the shooter I’m tour-guiding, is dressed for Gauteng, so he’s cringing in the heat. I’m in shorts and flip-flops and I’m melting.
We check out what we have come to check out. It turns out we have driven three hours from Durban for nothing. Win some, lose some.
Two of Daddy’s neighbours are at their gate when we get back to the car. They’re wrapped in towels and lathered in white ochre to keep the sun off. One woman has a bathrobe and slippers on.
The one wants cold-drink money. The other’s looking for a job. They both want to know when Nxamalala is getting a mall. With Edgars. And Jet. And Shoprite.
They’re happy with the electricity and tarred roads that have come with Daddy’s presidency. They dig having government offices on their doorstep, streetlights and stuff, but they want jobs. And they still have to travel to both Nkandla and Eshowe, more than 50km away, to go shopping.
The younger woman starts Sheila’ing me. Wants to know when I’m taking a second wife. Ignores my response that the one wife I have is more than enough, thank you very much.
I start getting flashbacks to Daddy’s inauguration party. And the afterparty at his nephew Khulubuse’s pink palace just across the hill.
Back in the day, when Nxamalala welcomed us with open arms, before the fences went up and the bunker got built. And the security detail grew into a small army.
The Sheila’ing continues. She asks for my number. I tell her my wife will kill her. She insists. I reel off my man Charles Bronson’s digits. They’re the first that come to mind. Bronson’s gonna be pissed when she calls him. The cellphone goes.
Lungisani Mnguni, a delegate to the ANC conference that will elect Daddy’s successor, had just been shot dead in Camperdown. He’s the third comrade to be murdered there since last December; the 11th in the ANC Moses Mabhida region.
This is insane. The wheels are coming off, 20-odd days before the ANC election.
Casa Zuma comes into view … more holiday resort than homestead. Not bad at all, with retirement waiting around the corner