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Partners
“Bring back our money. Bring back our money.” Nasir Alli and Vusi Mona chanted in the small office they were using in the Parliamentary House.
Their PA looked up from her laptop. “Sir, are you sure this is what you would like me to put in the letters of demand?”
“Yes,” said the silver head Alli. “These people need to know, that I want my money. Who do they think they are? Driving on public roads and not wanting to pay for it.”
Just then, the door burst open and Jacob Zuma can sprinting in. He slammed the door behind him, locked it, then slinked down to the floor. Outside, they heard a crowd of people rushing past, also chanting, bring back our money, bring back our money.
Jacob looked up at them, sweat streaming from his forehead. “The last time I ran than fast,” he gasped, “was when that Intombizana came looking for child maintenance. Ahe, Ahe.”
“Mr President.” Vusi Mona rushed forward. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes Vusi.” The president got to his feet. “I am fine. Nothing I can’t handle. I have been doing laps in my fire pool for weeks now. I’m fitter than ever.”
“What is it that they want, Mr President?” Asked Nasir Alli.
The President shrugged. “That bloody rascal Julius. Always causing trouble.”
“Sjoe,” sighed Mona. “I thought someone was giving away fake qualifications and ANC members were hurrying to get some. I am hoping to get a good deal on a doctorate myself.”
“So, what are you two up to?” The President walked around the office. He then noticed that there was a female in the room. “Hey, how you doin’?” he said. “Are you married?”
“Mr President,” interjected Vusi Mona. “A little inappropriate, don’t you think? This is a place of work.”
The President looked to the floor, ashamed. “You’re right Vusi.” He turned to the PA. “Miss, I am so sorry to bother you at your place of work. If you don’t mind, go wait outside for me to bother you there.”
Just then, the song Our House, in the Middle of the Street by the group Madness, came from the President’s pocket. He fished out his cellular phone and looked at the name on the screen. “It is that mischief, Julius.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I’m hungry? I want that Brazilian Burger from McDonalds.”
“Er, Sir.” Alli said. “They no longer make that burger.”
“What!” Zuma’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going, Mr. President.” Asked Mona.
“To the nearest McDonalds. Bring back the Brazilian Burger,” he started chanting. “Bring Back the Brazilian Burger.”
