Time for SA to ask for divine intervention as we tackle Bufirifiri at the power utility

Only problem though is the government will have to dig deeper into designer bag at expense of taxpayers

In this week’s episode of Game of Bags: the camera gives us a panoramic shot of lunch-time crowds in downtown Johannesburg. Mouths gaping open, people are staring at the sky, pointing and shouting excitedly: “What is that?”

“It’s a man, he’s got a bag that shines like gold,” says a taxi driver, immediately jumping out of his vehicle while it is still in motion.

The kombi bumps into the car in front of it, comes to a halt. The owner of the car does not even notice, he is so excited, shouting: “It’s the Major One himself! He can walk on air!”

The apparition floating in the air swoops back to earth. And positions itself on top of a taxi parked alongside Smal Street. Indeed, it is the famous Prophet Bufirifiri. He says: “The Noord Taxi Rank Association still hasn’t delivered its bag!”

The rank manager rushes forward, hauling a bag which he delivers to the prophet, who then says: “There shall be no more taxi wars now that you’ve paid your dues.”

The taxi drivers whistle and ululate. Then the prophet speaks: “My followers, thank you for bailing me out of prison. I shall remember you as I drive my Porsche. Now, I have to deal with some xenophobic statements that have been made against me.”

The people lean forward, listening. He continues: “My people, I might have been born in Malawi, but I am a South African now. Thank you, Missus NoMo Gigabyte for sorting out the papers. You like your Louis Vuitton bag? Excellent.”

He clears his throat, then continues: “And I’ve paid my taxes. Directly to Mister Moyamoya. And thank you, comrade Mguptama and your Black Rand First, for making me politically relevant. Some of the jealous people cry that I am feathering my nest with money from poor people’s pockets. If a congregant at my church gives me his last savings of R60,000, do you want me to run away?

“Unlike Lady Mvula’iyana who collects braai packs and whiskies every month from Don Wazzoni for doing absolutely nothing, I, on the other hand, am a master of service delivery. If a person wants to imagine himself being rich and happily married, they only have to pay me – and their dreams become bigger and bigger.

“Look, people, I need every smallanyana contribution because my daughter has gotten bored with that Maserati that I bought her when she turned five.

“She says a car that sells for a measly R2m does not befit her status anymore. So, people, put your heads together so that by the time I come back next week, there shall be something in the bag for me.”

With those words, Major One flies off to Cape Town, arriving just in time to catch President Thuma Mina delivering his Sona: “Forget pit latrines, we’re going to give all school-going children tablets. From now on, our classrooms will be paperless,” he proclaims.

Then the room in which he is speaking is suddenly plunged into darkness. The unmistakable voice of KodwaKodwa, the national spokesman for the ruling party, is heard to be saying: “This load-shedding is economic sabotage by the counter-revolutionaries at [power utility] Eskom.”

By the time power is restored inside the hall, the People’s Poet Mzwakubo is already on the floor reciting, “Who is fooling who? Can a tablet work without internet? Can internet work without electricity? Can Thuma Mina make a McDonald’s burger without electricity? Can Preevin GoDown generate electricity from his fingers? Who is fooling who?”

Sitting in the public gallery, Prophet Bufirifiri whispers into his bag: “This place is boring. Eskom, switch off the lights.” The lights go out.