I have a burning desire

Word has it that in Germany, when the train arrives five seconds late at the station, the driver gets almost suicidal for shaming the nation. In South Africa, such shoddy service delivery sees the commuters burn the train. The Germans have a thing or two to learn from us.

So, if this column sounds fiery, it is because it went through hellfire to get to you. On Sunday, the day I normally write my columns, I got home from golf and found that my wife had not prepared dinner. This non-delivery on our nuptial agreement made me livid. I burnt all the pots in the house and went to the nearest fast-food outlet.

The service there was not so fast and the customers started getting edgy. In the blink of an eye we were all fired up and torched the shop. We stood on the tables as we burnt everything and complained of the poor service that smacked of apartheid and racism. Fortunately, in the confusion caused by the conflagration, I managed to steal a charred burger patty, wrapped it in hot lettuce and downed it with warm juice. I managed to run out of the place before the police arrived to quell the angry mob.

Needless to say, I was no longer in a great mood to write, so I decided to watch the news on TV. Typically, the newscast was delayed because of a football match that went into extra time. I was disgusted. I called the broadcaster and was kept on hold listening to old music intermittently interrupted by an old white woman reminding me how important my call was. I burned the television set and the whole house caught fire.

My wife called the fire brigade and they took their time. When they finally arrived, I torched their truck, admonishing them for poor service delivery. I was even angrier when they told me they were late because they had gone to help a group of foreigners put out a veld fire. I sometimes wonder just what this government thinks, using our taxes to endear itself to foreigners when we South Africans are in dire need of services.

I booked into a hotel, keeping a box of matches ready while dealing with reception. Fortunately, they moved quickly and gave me their penthouse for the price of a single room because I told them I was traumatised after losing my house and, because I had a big family, a single room would not be sufficient.

Once we had settled down, I pulled out my laptop, now fired up and ready to dish out my column, when the lights went out. Load-shedding! Fortunately for them, it was too dark to reach for my jacket and find the matches, so the hotel survived. I cannot say the same for the Eskom vehicle that arrived later. I just flipped my cigarette stompie into the petrol tank and left.

As a result, I could not submit the column on time. The editor was not impressed. I had missed my very first deadline. She threatened to fire me. I told her not to use the word "fire" with me. We are where we are today thanks to one fire too many. So, if she really wants peace and friendship, she must cool down and allow me some time to finish writing this hot column.

As I sit here now, pondering my next installment, the burning question in my mind is: Where is this going to end? For how long will the poor, like me, be subjected to terrible service delivery, late bus and train arrivals, absent ticket salesmen, bad referees at soccer matches, and presidents who victimise our singing leaders? Why should the poor not be allowed to strike and loot and burn those who defy the strike? Why should angry metro police not be allowed to blockade busy highways without being disturbed by trigger-happy policemen? We are unhappy when they do their hard work and take bribes, but we also do not want them to strike.

I hear you say that fire won't solve our problems. What else should the disgruntled do? When they bare their bums, they are criticised for bringing our freedom into disrepute. I swear, if we continue like this, we may even have to set alight these submarines that we purchased in order to create jobs, because all they have done is to create jobs for the elite -- the investigative journalists, headline writers and faceless spooks who are leaking information to the sources close to the informants. - M&G