British Tribes of Africa

 

Scientists proclaim that mankind are the end of the evolutionary chain, due to barbaric human behaviour it looks like nature is about to pull the chain, the so called higher species of mankind cannot even agree about their own origins! Humans squabble about race and ethnics, they bicker over history and make outrageous claims, none more outrageous than the English. Who recently bragged that they were the original inventors of the tasty dish named haggis, the whole of Scotland went into terminal shock.

An earthquake beyond the range of the Richter scale has shaken Scotland, the Sassenach have boasted that they invented the haggis, when everybody knows the haggis originated in Africa. A 17^th century cookery book from Southern England, supposedly includes a recipe for something remarkably similar to haggis, this may be true but it’s also true that Africa is a lot older than England!

A showdown is looming between downtrodden Africans and their past colonial masters, there is fear on the face of a chubby Jock in London, which centres around the refusal  of Gordon Brown to recognize the existence of an African Haggis. Would you believe in the face of overwhelming scientific evidence, Scotland refutes the established anthropological fact, that the highland kilt was first worn by the e’Jock tribe of Zimbabwe.

The e’Jock were first residents of the world famous Zimbabwe Ruins. What a marvelous sight it must have been to watch the e’Jock warriors manning the ramparts, their dusky legs poking out colorful animal skin kilts. You’ve all seen the film Last King of Scotland, which proved conclusively that the Scottish are all related to Idi Amin. The film caused much Jockular controversy but it remains factually correct. Did life not begin in Africa, if this is true then the whole world is related to Idi Amin?

Scotland may continue to dispute well established science, but what the Sweatsox can never dare deny is the verifiable existence of an African Haggis, like any reputable scientist the author has confirmed this independently. On a recent drinking expedition around the Zimbabwe Ruins, the author witnessed two Highland Haggis attempting to have sex, and that was even more harrowing than watching Gordon Brown deliver a budget! Highland Haggis are a sub-species of the African Haggis, to understand their sexual difficulties you must first study their anatomy, then you’ll know why there are so few of them left? There’s a legend among the Jock that the Haggis is a bird, which immediately rules out Scotland as land of origin, because the Haggis is in fact a cute fury animal. Quite tasty too I might add, much like a well prepared Zululand cane rat, and a prime source of protein for the ever hungry e’Jock. Highland Haggis were once abundant around the Zimbabwe Ruins, their differently sized legs being perfectly adapted for clambering around the sloping walls.

“e’HAGGIS! e’HAGGIS!” The e’Jock would thunder and the hunt would be on, spears clutched in hungry hands and highland kilts billowing in the breeze. While the terrified Haggis scurried frantically around the walls, short legs on the left side clinging for purchase, while the long legs on the right pumped for more momentum. Right dandy for escaping from the ravenous e’Jock, but a painful handicap when having Haggis sex. Take into account that the short legs of the female are also opposite to the male, how on earth do the Haggis have sex you wonder, it’s no wonder the species is dying out. Today there are few Highland Haggis still in existence, their mating difficulties ensured their ultimate extinction, and under Laird Robert Mac RB the e’Jock appear to be going the same way.

 

I suppose the history of Laird Robert Mac RB began with the great war against the white wa’Smithy, we’ll call them that because Wilbur Smith wrote their history, but The Sunbird bombed so Wilbur gave up prophecy and returned to more lucrative adventure. Which is perhaps a good thing, because Wilbur took the chicken run while prophesying that Winnie Mandela will become president, today Winnie is in retirement being accorded the honor she is due. Winnie discovered that harboring hatred corrodes you, it impairs your judgment and leads to foolish actions, Winnie learned what Robert Mac RB once knew?

“How long have I got to leave,” wa’Smithy asked, for he had lost the war.

“Stay as long as you wish,” Robert Mac RB replied, for he had won.

“Thank you Laird, quite frankly I’m surprised,” wa’Smithy said.

“My pleasure,” Laird Robert Mac RB replied. “I’ll be in this chair as long as you live.”

A promise is a promise and one day the world would wait impatiently, for Laird Robert Mac RB to keep his promise and retire honorably to his farm like wa’Smithy had done, in fact one day the revered e’Jock elder Mac Dela would demand it.

Yet back then the magnanimity of Laird Robert Mac RB surprised everybody, he was widely applauded and showered with doctorates from great institutions of learning; he even got one from the world famous Jockburgh University. All the British Tribes of Africa were delighted with the new Laird of the e’Jock, Robert Mac RB had shown the entire planet, the African manners of the African British. Puffed with pride the Laird set about reconstructing Zimbabwe, it wasn’t yet the Zimbabwe ruins, the reconstruction process would see to that. The first problem was to readdress injustices of the past, when the selfish wa’Smithy had grabbed most of the land, so a period of affirmative action was called for. It was a time of rhythm n’ blues, when Laird Robert Mac RB lived up to his sexy acronym, because his people rhythm n’ blued in the streets.          

The e’Jock were delirious with happiness, as they watched the Laird’s henchmen receive shiny motor cars and large houses, they were sure their turn would come soon. The e’Jock were rapturous, as they watched productive land being handed over to the henchmen, they were sure one day it would come to them. The e’Jock were entranced, as they watched Laird Robert Mac RB thunder at the big bulldusters from over blue waters, everyone loves the little guy who stands up to the bullies. Then the e’Jock were shocked, as they watched the henchmen slaughter the Mac Abele tribe, then move against political opposition. The e’Jock mumbled but could do little, the army had sworn life allegiance, Robert Mac RB was the man and nothing else mattered.

 

Twenty years passed and the henchmen of the Laird began to have greater ambitions, than mere houses and land, for the henchmen now had henchmen over the blue waters even more greedy than themselves. Minerals were the name of the game, and the warring raids to steal precious metals brought famine and deprivation in their wake, while obscenely enriching the  Mac RB henchmen and their greedy friends over the waters. Yet it was possession of these metals that allowed the Laird to blow a bagpipe at mighty powers, causing other leaders of the British Tribes of Africa to childishly applaud, mineral corporate chiefs had no wish to rock the mineral gravy boat.  It was an unbreakable circle, the henchmen enriched themselves and propped up Robert Mac RB, while the Laird enriched himself and propped up his henchman. Laird Robert Mac RB was a real turn, he blew up opponent’s printing presses and confiscated their land, he chained old British farmers and paraded them on the British TV,  as an aperitif he had the opposition leader beaten and thrown into jail.

This was a bad mistake and the beginning of the end for the Laird, because the opposition leader was one doughty Jock, Mac Morgan he was named and a stouter heart never beat amongst the downtrodden e’Jock. Millions of these poor souls now backed the courageous Mac Morgan, and it was openly proclaimed that the RB in Robert Mac RB stood for ‘rotten b—,’ once beautiful Zimbabwe had now become the Zimbabwe Ruins. Gone were the days of rhythm n’ blues, people now only danced in the streets when the henchman paid them to dance, but they danced sadly and listlessly. Fortune began to turn for the Laird, soon came news that his doctorate had been removed by Jockburgh University. Other universities followed suit and then horror of horrors, his beloved old alma mater fell into line; it wounded the Laird deeply to see the University of Short Hair remove his last doctorate.

"I studied for that one!" He shrieked his anguish, and his attitude hardened, he would still show them all! It was a stand-off, a volcano waiting to erupt, something had to be done before the Laird and Mac Morgan tore one another apart. All the other leaders of the British Tribes of Africa now regretted their soft stance toward Laird Robert Mac RB, but it was far too late for regrets, the time for immediate action had at last arrived. Archeological excavations reveal that there were four British Tribes of Africa who got on reasonably well together, although the e’Jock and the Kwa Taffy hated each other. 

The Kwa Taffy tribe were almost dark as the Welsh, and shared other characteristics with their Welsh cousins, which gave rise to the mocking e’Jock praise-song.

 

Robert  is a Kwa Taffy, Robert  is a faggot.

Robert came to my hut, and stole a half a Haggis!

 

Singing these folk songs cheered the downtrodden e’Jock, who wilted under punitive taxes imposed by Laird Robert Mac RB, combined with ceaseless thieving raids from their darker cousins. In the dead of night the thieving Kwa Taffy would come, their sooty skins melding with the inky African blackness, while the e’Jock tried desperately to spot them. It was like trying to find a chimney sweep in a treacle factory. The only real defense the harassed e’Jock had was to force the dour Kwa Taffy to smile.

“Hey Kwa Taffy! The Dragon is going to meet the Springbok soon.” That would make any true forbear of Wales smile, and the Kwa Taffy half-moon white grins in the dark, would be greeted by a hail of sharp spears. The e’Jock were the deadliest of spear throwers, a skill honed by incessantly hunting the Haggis, where peerless throwing skills were needed to spear the head without splitting the body. The Kwa Taffy used soft mouth hounds for this purpose, who’d grip the Haggis in their pliable jaws, and crush the head with a paw while leaving the body untouched. Kwa Taffy Haggis hounds were not as adept as e’Jock spearmen, which led to a nagging Kwa Taffy craving for Haggis, and frequent raids on the long suffering e’Jock. Perhaps the reason for the Kwa Taffy lack of success in the hunt, was because Kwa Taffyland was not inhabited by the slow Highland Hill Haggis, but the quicksilver Plains Haggis of the lowlands. Lightning quick was the Plains Haggis, it was a rare day indeed that the Kwa Taffy soft mouth Haggis hounds, actually managed to catch a Plains Haggis.   

This sub-species of the African Haggis shared common characteristics, like its hillbilly relative a Plains Haggis also had differently sized legs, but not on opposite sides of the body. In this case back legs were longer than the front, which meant the Plains Haggis was always running downhill, which accounted for its phenomenal turn of speed. The aerodynamic oval body added to quickness, making the Plains Haggis tricky to hunt, which led to gnawing hunger among the Kwa Taffy and their Haggis hounds. Perhaps empty stomachs led to the cruel streak in the Kwa Taffy, and their barbaric treatment of e’Jock prisoners, no pansy Geneva Convention pussy footing here my friends!

You thought the Welsh were hard men, hunting Roman prisoners with packs of dogs, imagine being sucked to death by soft mouth Haggis hounds! Guffawing hysterically the Kwa Taffy strip you naked, smear you with rotten Haggis meat and drive you onto the plains, then the baying soft mouth hounds are released! Heart hammering you run like the wind, with hungry howls of Haggis hounds ringing in your petrified ears. You tire; then fall, and they are on you. Stinking toothless jaws slobbering away, spurred by terror you rise and scurry for your life! Only to collapse again and submit weakly to the sucking, the skin has peeled from much of your body, but a flickering spark makes you struggle away. Then the last vestige of sanity snaps and you begin shrieking, for the Kwa Taffy soft mouth Haggis hounds have started swallowing you alive! What horror can be worse than that, what breaks in a man when he hunts another with a Haggis hound, or a whole nation for that matter? When will the Sweatsox tire of the hunt, with the unveiling of Murphy’s Haggis, will Scotland then accept the existence of an African Haggis? How much pain can one recalcitrant nation take, why was it given to a black writer named Will Powers, to mete out this punishment to the Sweatsox? It was a writers right, Will had not forgotten the Famous Scottish Grouse.

 

The Ama Paddy were an unusual branch of the British Tribes of Africa, because they also wore kilts, but slung theirs around the shoulder and went bollock naked underneath? What a sight it must also have been, witnessing the African Ama Paddy wading through the bogs they inhabited, with bog fish nibbling at their tiny privates. Why they wore no trousers is anybody’s guess, the Ama Paddy were a prosperous tribe, because their homeland bogs teemed with easy to hunt Murphy’s Haggis. This Haggis is another interesting sub-specie of the African Haggis, because it shares the characteristics of the other two species, with regard to the unusually sized legs? Like the Plains Haggis it has one back leg longer than the front, and like the Hill Haggis one left leg longer than the right, now dwell on this disparity awhile? If these differences were diagonally opposed it would give Murphy’s Haggis a decidedly lopsided stance, and make it a truly pathetic runner. All the Ama Paddy had to do was drive Murphy’s Haggis out the swamps onto level ground, and there the panic stricken animal would be helpless. The lopsided body caused it to run in diminishing circles, the circles would become smaller and smaller, until the Haggis ran up its own backside. With its head stuck up its arse Murphy’s Haggis would be easy to finish off, without splitting the prized skin, for that is the whole object of Haggis hunting as you may have come to guess.

     The e’Jock used spearman who hit the head without splitting the body, the Kwa Taffy soft mouthed Haggis hounds were used for the same purpose, now you will discover why not splitting the body is so important. All the AfroBrit tribes were experts at hunting the Haggis, but the Ama Paddy were the champions at preparing a Haggis feast, even better than the e’Jock in fact. I’ll let you into a few secrets of Ama Paddy cuisine, reveal to you how they prepared a delicious Haggis, to the envy of their e’Jock neighbors. Insides of the Haggis are scrapped out and yucky bits discarded, then the meat is chopped and mixed with fragrant veldt herbs, stuffed back into the Haggis which is then steamed. This is why it’s so important not to split the body, the tender skin of the Haggis forms the sac in which its served, accompanied by a hullabaloo from Ama Paddy hagpipers. It is important to use only a fresh haggis, as the skin tends to go leathery if left too long, but while fresh it is succulent and tender.

The herbs used are also vitally important, the chief one being a beautiful seven-sided green leaf, which gives the Ama Paddy the sunny disposition they have. The solemn piping in of the Haggis was followed by frenzied tucking in, then drunken singing and liberal free-for-all defecation, because Haggis meat goes through one like castor oil on roller skates. Which could be why the Ama Paddy wear no trousers, and may well have given rise to the world famous Ama Paddy jerky-foot folk dancing, just think about it for a bit and you’ll see what I mean. You try walk around an Ama Paddy campsite after a Haggis feast, rest assured your feet will also jerk franticly, to shake off the stinky brown stuff deposited by the Ama Paddy gluttons!

Yet despite their lack of hygiene the Ama Paddy did have three good points, one was they never made war on other tribes, as they were too busy fighting amongst themselves. Two was they finally gave up fighting in favor of talking, and three was they intended to bring this experience to bear on dictatorial Laird Robert Mugabe. Who was long over due for retirement, so the AfroBrit tribes called an Indaba.

 

“I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all people live together in harmony and with equal opportunities.”

 

 Were the words of the legendary Mac Dela, the greatest leader the British Tribes of Africa ever produced. Southern Africa would no longer tolerate the tyrannical black domination of Laird Robert Mugabe, Mac Dela had spoken and the people of Southern Africa would listen. The green hills of the Eastern Highlands cried out for Laird Robert to go, the winding Zambezi River thundered for him to go, while the cries of the hungry children begged him. There was a sigh throughout the land, African winds of change were blowing, every hill and vale rang with songs of longing.

THE PEACE SONG OF THE AMA PADDY

Oh we’re off, to Durban with the greens, with the greens,

where the ganja glistens in the sun.

Where the hash pipes ash, and the slow boats flash,

to the echo of our sucking gums.

 

The Ama Paddy today are at peace, except for the occasional fists up in the pub, but you’ll never get that out of the Paddy. On their lovely green island they live in harmony, out of the tranquility springs music and literature, the Paddy are learning how to be animals.

 

Much of the scientific information you have absorbed here, has come as shock to established science, which proves that scientists don’t look in the right places. What our study has conclusively proved, is the British Africa Tribes we have thus far observed, were woefully incapable of solving the problem of Laird Robert Mugabe. The e’Jock would have to look elsewhere for a solution, the Kwa Taffy and the Ama Paddy couldn’t solve their own problems let alone the problems of others, so it was to the Uppapommy tribe of the Southern plains that the e’Jock in desperation turned.

The Uppapommy tribe was a very different African tribe, in that they were all vegetarians, so their lush acreage abounded with veggies. Yet the Uppapommy also hunted the Haggis, not for food you understand but merely as a thrilling sport, that’s the type of effect vegetarianism can have? The Uppapommy bred giant riding hounds for the Haggis hunt, that was a brave sight to behold, hardy hunters riding out on their huge hounds. Resplendent in bright red baggies, calabash riding caps on top, reedbuck horns blowing and ostrich feathers flowing. There was the fabled English courage; fifty grown men bestride fifty huge Haggis hounds, hot on the trail of one petrified little Haggis?

“TALLY HAGGIS! TALLY HAGGIS! The Uppapommy would thunder and accompanied by baying of hounds, the din would be terrifying to tiny Haggis ears; the poor little fellows were frightened out of their wits! The Haggis would run for its life then hide in a hedgerow, its huge eyes full of fear and bewilderment, while the baying increased and the tally Haggis hunters came ever closer. Then the Haggis would break cover and run frantically again, until it grew weary and the huge hounds and drunken Uppapommy were upon it, just agonized shrieks then as the hounds tore the Haggis apart. Cute chipmunk face ripped to shreds, cuddly little furry body lacerated and bloodied, all in the name of sport? Well pleased with their sport the Uppapommy would smear Haggis blood on their faces, down their dozenth or so cup for the stirrup, and begin the long inebriated ridehome. So the only good thing about Haggis hunting is the small consolation, that many drunken Uppapommy fell off their giant riding hounds and killed themselves, and jolly well serve the murdering bastards right!

Today such barbaric blood sports have been banned outright, yet there are still reports of undercover Lobster Boxing bouts in London, perhaps the cruelest sport of all? Imagine it in your mind, a beerhall packed with drunken London Uppapommy, while Cassius Claw and Southpaw Shellfish slug it out in the ring. Until the fateful day the claw cracks, then it's into the cauldron of boiling water for the cracked claw lobster, which led to the poignant song by lobster folk singer Simon Shellfish.     

 

In the cauldron lies a lobster and a fighter by his trade

and he carries the reminder, of every claw that cut him

Till he cried out, in his anger and his pain

I am boiling, I am boiling, but the lobster still remains

 

It seems laughable that the British Tribes of Africa asked the Uppapommy to solve the Zimbabwe problem, the Uppapommy were obviously not up to the task, yet solve the problem they must for there was no other alternative. The southern Uppapommy had to do something fast about Laird Robert Mac RB, or they would be overrun by northern e’Jock refugees. The British Tribes of Africa had mandated the Uppapommy to solve the problem, so solve it they would, the chief of the Uppapommy prepared to travel.

     Every bit a dashing Uppapommy he looked in his red baggies and calabash cap, ostrich feather flowing and British pipe glowing, as he rode out on his giant riding hound to faraway Zimbabwe. Bulldog Botha was the chief’s name, the Bulldog was given because of his legendary tenacity, and you’ll have to work out the anagram on Botha yourself. The journey from Uppapommyland to Jockland was a legendary tale in itself, every mile of the way the hard pressed Bulldog Botha, was waylaid by bandit liberal journalists and corporate robber barons. The way was hard and the going long, but Bulldog Botha plodded ever onward atop his giant riding hound, even although his big bum became very sore. The e’Jock greeted the arrival of the Uppapommy chief with much fanfare, there was an old fondness between Laird Robert and the Uppapommy chief, until Bulldog Botha began to negotiate.   

“We’re going to have fair and free elections Bob,” that is the British African way.

“No problem there,” the old man replied, he loved elections because he counted votes himself, just in case he miscounted he had reserved thirty special Laird Seats.

“There will be no special Laird Seats,” Bulldog Botha advised, the Laird glanced at the man seated opposite, he had known him in short pants but he was now a man.

“Alright, I’ll give up the Laird Seats, if I can count the votes,” Laird Mac RB was a canny old bugger, but the Uppapommy chief wasn’t called Bulldog Botha for nothing.

“The world will count the votes, Uncle Bob, the votes will be posted outside each polling station,” and that’s the way it went down. Election day arrived in Zimbabwe and the e’Jock gathered on two hills, the supporters of Mac Morgan on one hill and the supporters of Laird Robert Mac RB on the other, where as promised by mediator Bulldog Botha the whole world could see them. Election day wore on and the e’Jock assembled in their millions, it swung this way and that, then it began to turn.

“Where are they? What happened?” Laird Robert raged, as it became apparent Mac Morgan would beat him, then it became apparent where his missing voters were.

 “MAC e’BOERE!  MAC e’BOERE !” Came an e’Jock roar from the Mac e’Boere supporters, for a great crowd had gathered around Mac Morgan, they were the supporters of Clansman Arthur Mac e’Boere. The beleaguered Laird Robert Mugabe would now have to fight on two fronts, chief mediator Bulldog Botha had breeched the centre of power, Clansman Arthur Mac e’Boere had been carefully selected. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out why, Arthur Mac e’Boere had a nephew named Romeo, who was engaged to a certain Juliet Zuma? Bulldog Botha was a true visionary, a chess master who saw far into the future, who dreamed of an African Renaissance. Doughty Mac Morgan and wily Arthur Mac e’Boere would rule Zimbabwe together, while Laird Robert Mac RB had promised to soon announce his retirement, so Chief Bulldog Botha returned to his home in Uppapommyland to be honored for his magnificent achievement.

 

Bulldog Botha sat resplendent on his giant riding hound, as he rode through the main village of Uppapommyland, all around were the rapturous baying of his teeming supporters. The heart of Bulldog Botha was full, as his Uppapommy people showered him with praise, then they began to shower him with other things.

“Ouch! Ouch!” Cried the Uppapommy Chief, as he realized his people were not throwing flowers at him, but rather rotting vegetables. It has been mentioned before that the Uppapommy were vegetarians, so there was a plentiful supply of these, as Bulldog Botha now found out to his cost. The Uppapommy chief had discovered how quickly politics could turn in Africa, Bulldog Botha was out and a new Chief had been installed in Uppapommyland. The new leader was simply called Chief JZ, he was an unpretentious man hugely popular with the people, while Bulldog Botha had always been considered a bit aloof.

So the ousted chief retired to his hut and sulked, many months he brooded there in misery, and his lip became so long it sometimes dragged on the floor. Up and down Bulldog Botha paced and as he paced his rage grew larger, to be cruelly rejected like that was exceedingly hurtful, and it was all the fault of Laird Robert Mac RB. Because the Laird had not kept his promise and announced his retirement, indications were that he would still be the Laird when he hit one hundred, or maybe even two hundred?

“Blazes man!” The ex-chief swore, he could curse dreadfully when he was angry, and he was mad as a haggis hound.

“Zounds and balderdash!” The Uppapommy swearwords came tumbling out his mouth, and the whole hut seemed to go blue. Up and down he paced in fury, then he passed the haggis skin hanging from the rafter, and in his fury Bulldog Botha punched the skin.

As you know the skin of the haggis is tender, and is used to cook the tasty dish named Haggis, but this is only when it is freshly prepared. If you hang a haggis skin up for a month or so, it actually goes hard and leathery, and the Uppapommy make straps out of it for their kilts. In order to dry the skin out properly, they seal the ends then fill it with air, then hang the haggis skin in their huts. This is why when the infuriated chief punched at the haggis skin, it bounced off the rafter and hit the wall of the hut, then it bounced right back and hit Bulldog Botha full in the face. This made him even angrier, so he threw it against the wall, but it bounced back again. This time he hit the haggis skin with his head, and for some reason this soothed his anger, so Bulldog Botha pranced around the hut hitting the haggis skin with his head.

Bulldog Botha felt so good doing this that he then went outside, and began kicking the haggis skin against the hut, then hitting it with his head when it bounced back. Bulldog Botha is a squat little fellow, but he is extremely athletic, before too long he was doing overhead bicycle kicks. He was enjoying himself so much that he never noticed the large crowd that had gathered. Bulldog Botha was back in the popularity stakes, for he had bestowed a great gift on the Uppapommy, he had given them the beautiful game called football. So you see, not only did the haggis and the highland kilt originate in Africa, but so did the magical game of football. Yet this is not the end of the story, for the Uppapommy are an inventive people, and they soon refined football into what it is today. The Uppapommy women skillfully prepared haggis skins, made them smooth and round so they would be easier to control. An Uppapommy inventor came up with the idea of goalposts, and soon the scribes of the land began to write down the rules of the game, which included things like yellow and red cards. This infuriated Laird Robert Mac RB of faraway Jockland, because he had received a red card and was not allowed to travel to Uppapommyland, to watch any of the thrilling football games.

 

Things came to a head when new Chief JZ of the Uppapommy announced, that Uppapommyland was going the host a major football tournament, because it would be a whirl it would be called the Football Whirl Cup. The chiefs of the Ama Paddy and the Kwa Taffy would be invited to attend, but Laird Robert Mac RB of the e’Jock would not watch the enthralling event, because the Laird had received a big fat red card.

So in the end Bulldog Botha did win, Laird Robert Mac RB continued to rule Jockland, but daily his influence diminished. Doughty Mac Morgan and wily Arthur Mac e’Boere waited patiently in the wings, for the Laird to finally crack up, not been invited to the Whirl Cup had been the final straw. Everybody could see it, Laird Robert Mac RB would often break down in tears, for no reason at all. His hands shook with palsy and his gait was uncertain, he secretly suspected everyone was laughing at him, which indeed they were. All the leaders of the British Tribes of Africa would attend the prestigious Whirl Cup, except the recalcitrant Laird Robert Mac RB, for he had stubbornly refused to announce his retirement. Which was a great pity, because the Laird missed a wonderful tournament, which enthralled the whole world. Although I know who it is, I won’t tell you who won the Whirl Cup, because that would spoil it for you. Yet I can tell you that Bulldog Botha definitely won, because Laird Robert Mugabe could not last forever, and doughty Mac Morgan was nicely positioned to replace him.

   

There where the land ends in a tail that slides into the sea, cape of mist cloaking its shoulders, the tail thrashes restlessly between two great oceans. There in the green wilderness that fringes the blue ocean, where birds abound and elephant still roam, and sometimes watch the dolphins playing at sea. It was there that Thabo Mbeki sometimes walked on the beach, as he walked he thought about his beloved country, and about his beloved continent. He thought of the journalists and writers, the artists and singers, and the teeming majority who daily went about their work. Squabble and bicker all day long the quarrelsome South Africans did, for that is the South African way, straight talk breaks no friendship. Nelson Mandela had squabbled his way to 1994 South African elections, then Thabo Mbeki bickered a 2008 Zimbabwean settlement, this was the great legacy these men left their people. In South Africa the people balance the small mistakes a man makes, against the great achievements he accomplishes, and Thabo Mbeki had come out overwhelmingly on the plus side. Because he was part of a crazy people called South Africans, who either in sport or politics, did not know the meaning of quit. Thabo Mbeki was born of a people who bickered endlessly about politics, bickering is better than war, and squabbling is preferable to bloodshed. Thabo Mbeki was the leader of a stiff necked nation, who absolutely couldn’t agree on anything, except resoundingly on one certain truth. Lovelier than any singing of it is their Africa, as it will be again one day?