Tonight’s Presidential address is when we will learn if the lockdown is going to be extended again. The smart money is on yes, but really, no-one has any idea. Possibly not even Cyril himself. In fact, the only thing we can all agree on is that tonight’s speech will kick off a customary n minutes late (because if he’s on time, it’s a sign that he’s been kidnapped and replaced by a lookalike.) (Hopefully a lookalike with a bit more of a spine, but that’s another story).
To kill the time before our parole is postponed, I have been reading Ben Trovato’s latest column. You know: the one in which the author’s birthday trip to Costa Rica has been cancelled and he’s blaming everyone he can think of.
As a chronicle of the lockdown in SA, it’s so, so good:
My suburb is tightly locked down. There are snitches and curtain-twitchers in every second house. Nobody dare leave their home for fear of being named and shamed on one or other neofascist community WhatsApp group. Five kilometres down the road, the streets of the township are as busy and festive as ever. Fair play to them. I’d break a lot more than lockdown laws if I had to live in those conditions.
Life is turning into a cross between Survivor and The Hunger Games. On Survivor the tribes compete in challenges to win immunity. Here, we can’t get immunity unless we are infected with Covid-19. And we can’t get infected unless someone who already has the virus sneezes into our open mouths. But sneezing has been banned. We are also not allowed to show our mouths in public. Smoking, drinking and gambling is forbidden and police are flogging people in the streets. I think it’s safe to say that the Islamic State has accomplished at least some of its goals.
That’s all I’m sharing. Go and look at the whole thing yourself if you want more (there is plenty to go around).
Now, let’s see what this evening brings…
