I can imagine the comrades carrying her on their shoulders and singing: "Phakaaaama Nomvula, ixesha lisondele. Uniiiity maqabane, ixesha lisondele!" Singing and dancing and marching. Towards the stage they march in step, throwing their grinning cargo up in the air. And, with ease, they catch her, defying the force of gravity. In fact, in their seemingly effortless dance routine, the comrades defy the law of physics that dictates that what goes up must come down. "Phakaaaama Nomvula, ixesha lisondele!"
The rand has fallen. It needs someone to pick it up. In comes Nomvula Mokonyane to save the nation from the ruthless vagaries of inflation.
The comrades are carrying her towards the stage, where she is to perform her greatest act of patriotic duty. For such a task, a leader cannot be allowed to walk towards the podium like a mere mortal. Picking up the rand is honourable work reserved for the patriots among us. It is a matter of saving the nation from those faceless markets. The revolution cannot be left at the mercy of the counter-revolutionaries.
Saving the rand requires the greatest among our patriots. Among them are Edward Zuma, son of that gallant fighter and spy-spotter Jacob. To his left, lifting Mokonyane’s rear, is the fearless Tony Yengeni. Supra Mahumapelo is in front, carrying Mokonyane’s leg on his left shoulder. With his right hand he stabs the air, a finger pointed upwards towards the podium. Alongside him is Malusi Gigaba, a man so knowledgeable about finances that Zuma senior had no choice but to make him finance minister. His left hand, too, jabs the air. "Phakaaaama Nomvula, ixesha lifikile!
That great commissar Carl Niehaus hangs onto Mokonyane’s knees, while Bathabile Dlamini completes the vangua"
Mokonyane is no lightweight; this is a collective effort of the radical economic transformation brigade. That great commissar Carl Niehaus hangs onto Mokonyane’s knees, while Bathabile Dlamini completes the vanguard carrying her towards the stage, where master of ceremonies Ace Magashule awaits. David Des van Rooyen is keeping a close eye on Niehaus, whose dancing is threatening to trip up the whole crew.
For those non-Nguni speakers, who will soon be rounded up and sent to re-education camps for refusing to learn the language of revolution, the song they sing is: "Rise, Nomvula, the time has come."
Onward, Nomvula!
Conspicuous by their absence are those favourites of white monopoly capital, Cyril Ramaphosa and Pravin Gordhan. Tito Mboweni is nowhere to be seen. They found an exit when the crowd grew more passionate. Gwede Mantashe tried to join the singing but was ribbed sharply by his predecessor as mineral resources minister, Mosebenzi Zwane.
The counter-revolutionary ratings agencies have succumbed to their handlers and downgraded SA to junk status. But, fortunately for SA, Mokonyane is our guiding light. We will not get lost in the maze of junk. She’s going to pick up the rand. The revolution is too precious to be reversed by amorphous markets, their ratings agencies and their running dogs. We will not get lost. Mokonyane will pick up the rand; it can’t be left lying on the floor.
As the Bosasa delivery truck gathers speed, more packages will fall off — chicken, perhaps, or brown envelopes, or crates of whisky. Fear not — our Nomvula will mop them all up! We are not deterred.
Then the song changes. "On your marks. Get set. We are ready for Nomvula! Reeeeaaaaady!" The house roars and the crowd surges towards the stage. This is heavy lifting; Nomvula can’t be expected to do it alone. Together we pick up the rand. And together we will sing and dance SA back to a respectable investment-grade rating. "On your marks. Get set. We are ready for Nomvula! Reeeeaaaaady!"
Aloota!
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