Gauteng be damned - King Cyril smells a beheading in the WakaBanana future

King Cyril the Boneless, monarch of the realm of WakaBanana, was having a lovely break on his ranch out in the countryside.

He felt it was richly deserved. He’d spent months negotiating, arguing, pulling strings and stabbing backs in order to assemble the new King’s Council. Warring factions had to be brought to the table and persuaded to cooperate, at least minimally, even if they could not be ordered to be of one mind in the difficult task of running the country.

Their instinct, in fact – the instinct of all these politician types – was to lash out, to denigrate competitors, to insult constituencies, to bite the hands that fed them, and so forth, so King Cyril had to play the part of conciliator and general botty-wiping nanny, and it was exhausting.

The king was seated on his specially imported Shetland pony. He is not a large man, so he needed a not-so-large horse, and after much research it was decided the world-renowned Shetland pony would be ideal. Thus was one imported; it had been designated a special purpose vehicle.

So, seated on his pony, which he affectionately named Plod, the king looked out upon the vastness of his ranch. It stretched all the way to the horizon and beyond. He drew a deep breath of that fantastically healthy country air, exhaling with a satisfying whoosh.

It was good to be a cattle baron, at least. That was one thing that being king made possible, and the king was grateful for that, as he was for this pathetically short break from the Palace and its politics.

Unfortunately, there was no such thing as a complete break for the king. That’s the nature of being king: you’re never off-duty. So, coming over the aforementioned horizon and moving at a steady pace towards King Cyril was one of his most trusted advisers. This one was Cheryl, so named by ancient tradition, though of course in a meaningfully modern and non-gender-specific way.

When Cheryl got to Cyril, the adviser drew a deep breath of that health-giving, oxygen-rich country air and began. This was to be a brief briefing, just to keep His Majesty up to speed with matters pertaining to his kingdom of WakaBanana.

First, though, the international news.

“What’s happening with that civil war in the, er, Land of the Free?” he asked Cheryl.

“It will be concluded shortly,” said the adviser. “The final battle looms.”

“Ah. And who do we think will win? The nasty amoral warlord who cares naught for anyone else, or the rather good-looking, if I may say so without fear of moral retribution, lady in the stylish pant suit?”

“That, Your Majesty, we cannot know. There have been many forecasts, but they are all unreliable. So much can happen in the final days of this war. We will have to be patient, and we’ll have to keep assuring the diplomatic universe that we can work just as well with whoever wins.”

“Yes,” said the king, “got that. Though I really hope it’s the nice smiley lady in a pant suit. I suppose nice smiley ladies don’t usually win civil wars, but one must not cease to hope.”

“Your Majesty speaks words of great wisdom,” said Cheryl. They drew a small iPad from a conveniently located (and beautifully decorated with unspecific ethnic motifs) satchel and, by means of an almost invisible touch of the advisorly finger, they turned it on. “In fact, Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, I’d like to record that phrase — ‘one must not cease to hope’ — for possible use in a future address to the nation. I’m sure it will come in handy. If not for a speech, perhaps simply for the collection of your wisest sayings that will be hastily published after your much-lamented passing.”

“Ah, yes, thanks for that,” said the king, puffing himself up with permissible pride at his way with a neat phrase. “Good work, Cheryl!”

“And now, Your Majesty,” said the adviser as they strolled along beside the king’s ambling pony, “we have to pay some attention to what is happening in the richest city and province of this, our glorious realm...”

“Oh dear,” thought King Cyril, though he did not utter the words aloud. He shied away from talk of the richest city and province because he didn’t get on at all with the baron who ruled it, Baron Lesufi. Truth be told, not that it would be told, the king was somewhat intimidated by Baron Lesufi, who always had an answer for every question, and was such an expert at self-aggrandisement that King Cyril feared the baron might even have monarchic aspirations.

“They’ve been going through their numbers,” said Cheryl, “and it’s a disaster. Our richest, biggest city is on the brink of bankruptcy. Billions in revenue thrown away, billions in wasteful expenditure...”

“Does that include the BMWs that Baron Lesufi handed out to his teams of instant cops? The ones we found out about only when they’d crashed a few? In the interests of halting the crime wave, of course.”

“It assuredly does include the BMWs,” replied the adviser, “though I am not aware that all line items have been specified correctly. And Baron Lesufi did mention, in one of his recent speeches, that the crime rate in our largest and richest city is just increasing day by day — so much so that we will soon run out of suitable people to get robbed and murdered.”

“Oh dear.” This time the king said it aloud.

“I must add,” said Cheryl, “that this crime wave, this ever-increasing tsunami, was not connected in any way to the BMWs and the ‘crime wardens’, as Baron Lesufi likes to call them. Still, he admitted crime was at catastrophic levels in our richest, though possibly not for much longer, city and province.”

“Well, he’ll have to deal with that himself,” said the king. “Baron Lesufi does not like to be told what to do, even when it’s done in my trademark diplomatic, soft-talking manner that hides the iron fist in a very nicely embroidered velvet glove.”

“Well hidden, Your Majesty,” said Cheryl. “We’ll leave the fucking up of our richest, biggest city to the baron, then? No need for the monarchy to get involved? We don’t feel we need to forestall disaster in that area?”

“No, not at all,” cried the king. “Not at all! Lesufi has made that bed, now he must lie in it. I look forward to the whole thing going to shit! That’ll teach him a lesson. Then the Palace can intervene and have Lesufi beheaded!”

King Cyril spurred Plod into a trot and, waving his bespoke cowboy hat in the air joyfully, he disappeared into a thicket. 

Cheryl the adviser sighed and, to themselves only, spoke softly: “I need a drink.” DM

Shaun de Waal is a writer and editor.

This satirical column first appeared in our weekly Daily Maverick 168 newspaper, which is available countrywide for R35.

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