D minus 175
Presidential election			The Impossible
The light wood and yellowish leather that comprised the décor of the National Assembly looked cheap on television, and even though luxurious in real life, it still seemed like carnival plastic to Jo. It made everything that happened against its backdrop look somehow more frantic, with an edge of hysteria. I suppose restfulness was not the aim, she thought, but I somehow expected it to be more dignified.
How sections were allocated seemed to be a matter of tradition and seniority, in Jo’s head also known as willy-waving. Radical had taken the seats they were shown to, without comment, and people on the edges had calmly moved when an MP from a neighbour party had requested a swop. Looks like I’ll be sitting here for the next five years, Jo thought, and looked around.
MPs were moving around the benches like scurrying ants, sometimes in groups, and sometimes singly. Their brightly-coloured clothing, often in party colours, or technically disallowed logo prints, clashed with the yellow and grey of the room. Over there, a big contingent of yellow, black and green seemed to be keeping to their own area, with the occasional red or blue approaching them. The majority party was certainly not scuttling to other sections, they waited for sycophants to come to them.
There were many grey and navy suits too, though. Difficult to gauge who was propositioning who, in those cases.
Four hundred people rushing around. Cutting deals, right? The horse-trading I was warned about. Jo felt like a toddler at her first puppet show.
Well, not quite four hundred. Radical’s MPs were mostly sitting and talking quietly, watching the goings-on around them. In line with the party manifesto, they would vote their consciences. Radical had only one agenda, and it was unlikely that another party would act in the direction of a UBI. So their job would be to support motions they believed were for the good of the country.
They had, however, mostly agreed to support the Party for Economic Freedom’s nominee for Speaker, on the somewhat flippant assumption that an MP from their own party would be treated with more dignity and respect by his commotion-prone fellow party members. Especially those that formed the leadership. 
Julius, the leader of the PEF, caught her eye and nodded an unsmiling greeting. So he’s heard about our plan to support their candidate, then, Jo thought.
Jo was waiting to see what happened with the presidential election. She couldn’t quite choose the lesser of evils, between the staid Democratic Stability Party, and the rebellious PEF. As if our plan is any less controversial than the PEF’s, she chuckled to herself.
Jo caught Mosa’s eye as she looked around at her fellow party MPs. Mosa gave her an excited, but restrained smile, bouncing ever so slightly in her chair, arms crossed.
None of Radical’s MPs were wearing party purple and white. We did choose a particularly hideous purple, Jo thought. It makes a striking logo and it stands out, but I can’t imagine anyone over the age of five choosing to wear the colour. They were wearing predominantly navy, though, with white shirts. Navy wasn’t far from the deep purple.
Oh, someone was wearing the awful colour, but in a beautifully tailored long dress with white around the neckline and cuffs, and in skirt inserts that remained hidden unless she moved. Chantelle, Jo’s cousin, with her typical flamboyance and impudence, and arty background, had found a way to make something repellent much more palatable. In fact, she looked fabulous. She was in earnest discussion with her neighbour, Thapelo, but it couldn’t be terribly serious, they were both leaning back in their seats and smiling, even laughing occasionally. They both studied at Wits, Jo thought, they may have memories in common. Friends, even, if it was possible with a five-year age difference and the arts/sciences rivalry.
Or maybe it’s because they both live in Maboneng.
Nhlanhla was sitting across most of the floor of the Chamber, in his party’s much bigger and more prestigious area, but apart from the group of MPs sizing up everyone else. He was staring at Jo.
He was glaring at Jo. She gave him a big wave, accompanied by an idiot grin, but he just crossed his arms and looked away.
Not exactly dignified, girlfriend, Jo berated herself.
Kgethi, Praneet and Cormac were also having an amiable conversation. They were joined by Bridgette, and then Brian. Sally had not yet arrived. Neither had Ivo. Jo checked her watch: Fifteen minutes to go.
Jo was as surprised as anyone that her piss-widdly party had somehow gotten about an eighth of the vote. Her presidential nomination form had been completed and submitted, and now the fun was about to start.
Please give us a president that will keep at least some of his promises, she silently begged of all her fellow-MPs, many of whom were as newly-minted as she was.
The Chief Justice resettled his glasses and paged through some papers, then rang the bell which called for order. The ants rushed back to their own seats, to await the proceedings for the election of the Speaker.
For the first time since South Africa’s democracy, the African Congress, as the majority party, was not guaranteed to have their various candidates win. Jo’s party had won 55 seats, and the other opposition parties had picked up a few extra each. 
Radical’s support proved to be enough to edge the PEF speaker-nominee ahead of the DSP’s candidate, who dropped off the list for the re-vote. Evidently the DSP agreed that the PEF nominee was preferable, because after the second vote he narrowly beat the ruling party’s nominee, who was instead elected Deputy Speaker shortly afterwards.
The new Speaker called for the presidential nominations, and twelve speeches later, the six party leaders had accepted their nominations. It was strange to hear her own name listed among those of the career politicians who had been heading up their parties for years. 
It had also been a bit funny how carefully Bridgitte, in her nomination speech, and then Ivo, as second, had worded their statements. They disagreed strongly with Jo about many points, and with each other about even more.
Bridgitte had focused heavily on UBI and its implications for rural development and poverty alleviation. She studiously avoided mentioning the relaxation of labour law that Jo envisaged, her own biggest bugbear.
Ivo had, rather scathingly, pointed out that although Jo seemed to be a dyed-in-the-wool socialist, the Radical Charter promised to interfere less with the free market, and despite the huge ructions a UBI would cause, business would also benefit in the medium and long term. Ivo hated the concept of the UBI and Jo’s disdain for generational wealth, but was curious about a world-first country-wide experiment with a completely new and unnamed economic ideology.
Besides, Radical was too small and too weird. Both Ivo and Bridgitte had joined out of curiosity, and because Jo had nagged them until they agreed to flesh out the very short party lists.
The secret vote commenced. The tension in the air was palpable.
AC – 125. DSP – 101. PEF – 79. RAD – 59. Change Now – 22. United Democratic Party – 12. 
Incredible. Someone had given her three extra votes, four to the DSP, one to the PEF. But no majority winner, so a re-vote with the UDP dropping away.
125. 101. 80. 69. 23.
Ten UDP votes had swung to her, and one each to the PEF and CN. 
Re-vote without CN.
125. 102. 87. 87.
Most of the CN votes had swung to Jo. 
This was unprecedented. With the two losers equal, the house now had to have a mini-vote between those two to determine which one would be eliminated. The Chief Justice explained this looking gravely over his glasses. Another vote commenced.
RAD – 184. PEF – 179. Thirty-eight abstentions. No majority. New re-vote.
This was getting ridiculous. Nerve-wracking, yes, but almost absurd.
RAD – 201. PEF – 197. 
Holy cow. Jo was stunned.
Back to the presidential election. Vote again.
AC 142. RAD 130. DSP 102. The PEF had supported her in preference to their old nemeses. Jo realized she was holding her breath and let it out. Breathe. Breathe. Calm down.
No majority. Re-vote with the DSP left out.
RAD – 232. AC – 142.
Impossible. It was impossible. She had just been elected President of the Republic of South Africa.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…
As Jo hyperventilated, a roar rose from the house. Panicking, Jo couldn’t decide whether it was approval or outrage.

D-Day
Kagiso
Kagiso walked the kilometre or so to the closest ATM. Although tall and broad-shouldered, his geeky glasses, narrow waist and friendly smile made him seem skinny and approachable. Kagiso was not in the least intimidating. Dressed in his favourite jeans and even more favourite manky flip-flops, he was starting to sweat in the heat of the September morning.
No reason to dress up. There hadn’t been for five months now. His two good suits were at home, neatly pressed and stashed in plastic covers, in the RDP house he and Tshidi had inherited from their mother when she passed last year.
Mama had been very specific about taking care of what you have. She had also encouraged and supported him in achieving his certifications. She didn’t quite follow how he was able to get his qualifications by buying data and sitting in front of a computer for months, but had nodded enthusiastically every time he showed her his results.
He had been lucky enough to get a basic from a company that wanted him to complete his MCSD. He had done that, with flying colours, before being told that they were restructuring, and, unfortunately, last-in-first-out. So that was the end of his internship. If it wasn’t for Mama’s house and the money left over from the funeral policy, Kagiso and Tshidi would have stopped eating months ago. 
Today was D-day, the day the new president had promised that the first Citizen’s Dividend would be paid.
His sister and most of his friends had not believed that such a promise could be delivered, but some of them had voted with him just on the off-chance. The process, since her inauguration in April, had been explained across all media platforms, even community radio stations, but money talks and bullshit walks and Kagiso was going to see if he really had two thousand rand in his account. He hadn’t worked for it. He felt very guilty about that, but the president had explained again, just last night on SABC, that all citizens were shareholders in the company called the Republic of South Africa and the Dividend was just that – their dividend. Except that, in Kagiso’s experience, the world didn’t work that way.
Somehow enough people like Kagiso had believed her, and voted for her. But what the ATM said in a few minutes would show whether he had cast an idiot vote, for just another thief, who would stay in power for at least five years.
He got into line at the machine. The manicured mom currently busy at it seemed to be paying a hundred bills. Looking at her glittery, uncomfortable shoes, and imagining their price, made him wonder why she wasn’t doing the payments via internet transfers at home.
But some people just didn’t like the internet or mobile apps. Some people, like Kagiso’s own Gogo Marjorie, didn’t like anything to do with money that didn’t involve speaking to an actual person. 
Kagiso had tried, in vain, to convince her or any of the other elders to open PostBank accounts. He’d offered to drive them to an internet café in town to make copies, and then on to the closest branch. Because what if MmaPrez was for real? What if her plan for a universal basic income did come to fruition within six months as she’d said?
You had to have a PostBank account. If you did, you would get the Dividend from the month you turned sixteen, with no affidavits or proof of income or answering embarrassing questions about your struggles to find a job.
Kagiso waited his turn. The manicured mom walked away, almost tripping over one of her heels as she simultaneously tried to put her bag’s handles over her shoulder, and tuck her transaction slips and card into an inside pocket. 
Kagiso inserted his card, punched in his pin, and selected ‘Balance Enquiry’. Kind of hoping. Mostly already prepared for disappointment.
Balance: R2 079.42, said the screen. Kagiso stared.
He looked around, at the bank security man, at a woman walking into the cellphone shop next door, and then at the people in the queue behind him.
The labourer uncle next in line stared back at Kagiso. Eventually he raised his right hand, go on, please finish. Some impatience, but no malice.
At the back of the queue was a woman on her phone. She was speaking loudly, in Afrikaans.
“Ek weet nie, Ma, ek gaan nou kyk.” I don’t know, Ma, I’ll check soon. “I’m in the queue. I’m fourth, and the kid in front looks like he’s trying to draw money he knows he doesn’t have. Yes, Ma, I’ll buy you apples. Yes, even if your Dividend didn’t happen.”
Kagiso didn’t even notice the insult. He turned back to the ATM, and asked for two thousand. The machine stuttered and burped, and spat out two R200 notes and then sixteen R100’s.
Kagiso counted the money again, in disbelief. He waited for someone to run up and tell him there’d been a mistake.
There was a tap on his arm. He flinched, holding his cash to his chest, and looked over his shoulder.
“Usuqedile?” said the man behind him. Are you done? “You’ve been standing there doing nothing for a long time.”
“Sorry, Ntate,” said Kagiso. “Do you have a PostBank account? If you don’t, get one. Quick.”
Kagiso walked away.
_ _ _
Cherice
“Ma. Ma… yes, I know, just hold on for a moment. Daai outjie het nounet iemand gesê om ‘n PosBank rekening oop te maak…” That kid just told someone to open a PostBank account.
Cherice re-shouldered her handbag and tried to find her mother’s ATM card in her pocket. The pants were a particularly nice pair of Jenni Button cargo shorts that had cost most of her current grocery budget, back before she had kids. Sometimes she wished she could give the shorts back. Them, and the red Audi TT that made her feel like such an accomplished lawyer when she bought it immediately after she landed her first good job. Back before Ivan, back before the twins. Back when she thought buying a car on the maximum term was a good idea.
“Yes, Ma, I know you told me so. But I haven’t checked yet… Yes, I have your list. Yes, Ma, I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve checked your balance. Yes, Ma, I will open an account right after I bring your apples, but I have to go now, the woman in front of me is staring at me…”
_ _ _ 

Raveshni
Raveshni waited calmly. This time of the month, drawing cash was always an exercise in patience and forbearance. The young man at the ATM had turned around and looked dazed, but he was now finished. As he left the ATM, he had spoken to the old man behind him. Raveshni caught “Postbank” and “quick”.
She hated drawing cash, but she needed to renew her driver’s licence, and the branch of the licencing department that she had taken the day off to visit was apparently offline for card payments. 
She was already resigned to spending the day sweating, and smiling at people she’d never see again, and then dealing with at least three irate officials with petty delusions of power. So she dug up some patience by breathing deeply. 
Bored as hell, she looked at the people ahead of her in the queue.
The old man stepping up to the ATM was wearing a labourer’s blue Conti 2-piece, and took his time reading every screen the ATM proffered with attentive detail.
Raveshni wondered what he did for a living. But briefly, and without much interest.
Next was a khaki-clad, sunburnt, mouse-blonde man, with some ginger in his beard, who was practically dancing around in irritation at how slowly the queue was progressing. He threw his hands up in supplication to the security guard, who met his antics with a stoic gaze.
She turned around and looked at the Afrikaans woman behind her, who was speaking so loudly that it was hard not to be aware that apples were somehow very important to her mother. The woman blushed when their eyes met and ended the call. Raveshni smiled slightly and turned back.
_ _ _

Abel
Abel carefully put his cash in his wallet. Then he took out the old slip from his previous cash withdrawal to replace it with the new one, which would serve as his balance reference. As he crumpled the old one to throw it away, his eye caught a number on the new one. He stopped himself just before he dropped the old one in the overflowing waste paper receptacle, and started to smooth it out.
“Really?!” muttered the man behind him, cheek muscles bulging as he ground his teeth in irritation. Abel stepped away quickly and deferentially towards the security guard.
“Hey, you!” barked the man again. Abel looked back, inwardly groaning that there might be an altercation. The man pointed brusquely at the ATM. “Your card.”
“Thank you, boss,” said Abel, grabbing the card from the slot quickly and warily. He backed off again, and stepped towards the security guard.
“What time does the bank open?” Abel asked the guard, showing him the withdrawal slips. “There seems to be a problem with my account, I’m only supposed to have R500.00 left, but look here…”
“Today, only at nine,” replied the guard. “Staff meeting on Mondays.”
“Oh,” mused Abel. He had to get to work. Which meant he’d have to take time off or come back specially on Saturday to sort it out. Damn.
_ _ _

Karel
Karel was frantic.
Mia had somehow managed to drop the whole month’s insulin. Not a single vial remained intact. Maybe it was a bad batch or something, because he’d never heard of a vial breaking, and Marie had been reading everything she could find since their little girl was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes last year. Four months after they’d given up their medical aid until Marie could get a new job, which still hadn’t happened.
Worse was that they had broken before Mia could get her injection. 
He had found his old PostBank card for a savings account he hadn’t used in years, and was desperately hoping it might still have a few long-forgotten rands in it.
The old man in the blue overalls was taking his sweet time. Why did they always have to laboriously read everything? Hurry up, hurry up, Karel fumed to himself.
Finally, the old man took his cash. Now he was fumbling with his wallet. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Hurry up!
The old man froze, looking stunned. He started opening up his wrinkled ATM slip, and Karel snapped “Really?!” before he could stop himself. The old man stepped away, hands up, wallet in one hand and ATM slip in the other.
Karel noticed the card still in the machine. “Hey, you! Your card!” For fuck sake, wake up, come on!
“Thank you, boss,” responded the old man, seeming to try make himself smaller as he reached in to retrieve his card, and stepped away hurriedly.
Finally, Karel slid his card into the machine and typed in his PIN. Just R300 for now, he prayed. We don’t have a spare cent until payday, we can’t even skimp on groceries because we’ve already bought them.
Balance enquiry. Screen. R2 003.78. What? That much? How? 
Never mind, pharmacy, now.
_ _ _

Sibongile
Sibongile got to work late. As usual. Her manager at the elite little coffee shop in Centurion was sympathetic with the waiters who lived far away, but being even ten minutes late meant that she was rarely allocated the better tables.
She couldn’t move closer from Soshanguve, since that was where her auntie’s house was, and her little boy was in Grade Three at a nearby school. It had been a mission to find him a placement, and she’d had to move from Olieven in order to be able to get him a spot in a good school.
If she took taxis instead of waiting for the dubiously reliable buses, she would spend more than her daily basic pay just on transport.
When she walked into the shop, the mood among the staff was strange. Not strange bad, just not the usual bantering and bustling around getting table settings sorted out and rolling the forks and knives and refilling salt and pepper pots. These things were getting done, but absent-mindedly, while waiters sat in groups of two or three speaking excitedly. Hardly anyone responded to her forced-cheerful “Dumelang, bohle!” Hello, everyone.
No-one was busy in the aisles, so she headed to the cleaning room and grabbed a bucket and mop and one of the pre-measured containers of floor soap.
As she was filling the bucket at the only sink for non-food-related activities, she started eavesdropping on two of the kitchen staff.
“How long do you think it will last?” asked Mary, an older woman, who ran the kitchen activities with an iron hand and no patience for anything imperfect.
“If it lasts two months I can settle my loan. And get my bank card back. I didn’t know 28% interest would be so much…” mused Xoliswa, who’d been working on the cold starters station for a few months now. “But she said the country could afford it, if they make government smaller and do those tax changes…”
“Afford what?” asked Sibongile, closing the taps and setting the bucket down in the cleaning section. Mma Mary would kill her if she tried to put it anywhere near any of the spotless preparation surfaces.
“The Dividend,” answered Mary. “I got mine this morning, and so did Xoli. Many of the others did, too, everyone who has an account. The rest are trying to time their lunch breaks to get to the PostBank today, they didn’t even know there was a branch in the mall.”
Sibongile’s belly was suddenly hollow. She had done it, MmaPrez had done it. Not convincingly permanently maybe, but once would help.
When she got into the dining area, she dialled her auntie’s number. Eugene didn’t mind if they used their cellphones during prep, as long as they were safely stashed away before opening time. She clutched the phone between her shoulder and ear, and waited for the call to connect, while mopping the floor distractedly.
“Auntie, you need to go check the balance on your PostBank account right now.” She listened.
“No, that can wait, we might be able to sort it out in one go, tomorrow still… No, just go to the closest ATM, you know they said the PostBank doesn’t charge extra for transactions through other banks… Okay, send me a please call me as soon as you know... O se ke wa opela, ema.” Don’t ululate yet, wait. “Check first… Kay, bye.”
She switched her phone to vibrate and put it in her pants pocket. Today she would break the rule about cellphones during working hours. Eugene would understand if she got caught, he was already surrounded by an excited crowd of staff negotiating the earliest possible lunch breaks. 
_ _ _

Yvette
Yvette drove back home with the radio on. Her Buqisi-Ruux heels were (carefully) tossed on the passenger seat. They were Herman’s favourites, and the bright colours and bold design lifted her mood every time she put them on.
She’d paid the accounts at the ATM after dropping off the kids. She could do it via online banking at home, but then she’d never see anyone outside of her family and the occasional late lunches with friends. Now she just needed to stop for some groceries and something interesting for supper. 
Yvette prided herself on her cook book collection and her mastery of most of the celebrity chefs’ signature dishes, and hosted dinner parties as often as she could wheedle her husband into getting home from work early enough. Anything to fill the empty hours between dropping Alexandra and Callum off in the morning and carting them around all over town in the afternoon. 
The 702 host was taking a call from a sobbing woman who fostered some orphans in the semi-informal settlement a few kilometres from Yvette’s house. She had received her first Dividend that morning, as had two of her grown children who helped her take care of the orphans and run the lunchtime soup kitchen for poor kids at a nearby school.
Yvette had opened a PostBank account just for the hell of it. She wasn’t sure what she made of the strange woman who had inconceivably become the new president, but she didn’t see what harm it could do.
Once she had parked at the store, she checked the radio station’s website and found the soup kitchen woman’s contact details. Timorously, she dialled the number. She started strapping on her heels again, while waiting for the call to connect.
“Hello, Mrs Dabula, my name is Yvette Fuller-Watson and I heard you on 702 just now. I wanted to know if I could volunteer to help cook in your soup kitchen?” She calmly made soothing noises when the woman burst into tears again.
After confirming directions and ascertaining that about sixty children ate at the kitchen every day, Yvette headed into the store. She selected a few kilograms of soup meat and twenty litres of milk.
Walking back to the fruit and veg section, she felt ten feet tall, and didn’t misstep once, despite the tricky height of her heels, which Herman said sculpted her calves perfectly. She added some large packets of fresh mixed vegetables, and three bags of oranges, to her trolley. 
She would need to get to know Mrs Dabula and her challenges before she could be sure of what else was needed.
At the till, she realized she didn’t have her PostBank card with her, but her usual account had plenty in it and it probably wouldn’t matter.
She had paid, left, and driven most of the way to the soup kitchen before she realized she’d forgotten her own groceries.

Sibongile
Sibongile cashed up in a daze. Despite her preoccupation, she had earned great tips today. Possibly the relief of knowing that she and Auntie had a whole four thousand rand extra this month accounted for her smiling, attentive, immaculate service – absolutely nothing had gone wrong, or been sent back or spilled or broken. Actually, everyone had been at their best today, quick service, perfect food, clean-ups done in record time.
She could settle Sbu’s school fees for the first half of next year and get the substantial discount, instead of scraping for the minimum deposit required.
She shouldered her bag and headed towards the buses. Ten steps later, she stopped, and turned around towards the taxi rank. She might be home early enough to play with Sbu today.
_ _ _

Jo
Much later, Jo rubbed her eyes and looked at the numbers again. Nhlanhla would be happy about the saving, since she had not convinced him to put all the budgeted Dividend money into the PostBank, even if the uptake did not require it.
Only two million new ones. But almost half a million more voted for me. Were they all already in the SASSA system, or did they previously have PostBank accounts?
The first issue of the Dividend had been completely nerve-wracking. Did we manage to upgrade all the right rural post offices? Have we picked the right people from the former SASSA staff?
Will everyone who voted for us get their 2k this first time?
The Potfontein branch had run out of cash. She couldn’t believe that a town less than a hundred kilometres from Orania would turn out to have voted almost exclusively for her. Luckily, nearby De Aar had more cash than they needed, and the people in the tiny town had been smilingly, condescendingly patient until they were actually able to withdraw their own money. A number of other logistical issues had been competently, and mostly speedily, corrected. We have to learn fast, she thought, yet again.
The videos were going viral. It had become a bit of a joke to record people ahead of you in an ATM queue on the off-chance that they would have a reaction funny enough, or flabbergasted enough, to get likes and reposts. One, of an ecstatically dancing seventeen-year-old who had been awarded a bursary for tuition but couldn’t afford living expenses, was featured on the news. 
I should get some sleep, Jo thought. Nothing is going to change at this time of night.
She climbed into bed next to her sleeping husband and started her deep breathing exercise. She’d seldom struggled with insomnia, even after she had been elected, but tonight all her planning, all her sums, all her arguments and negotiations with experts of every sort, would shortly prove very wrong or hopefully, mostly right. The uptake had been slightly less than forty billion of the full eighty-six billion rand. Brain, off. I’m going to sleep now.
It almost worked. Right when she was about to drop off, with strange half-dream rogue images flitting across her mind, she shocked bolt upright. Give people a week and do another Dividend issue for this month, to anyone who hadn’t received the first one. Give them another chance to start living better as soon as possible.
She fell asleep running calculations through her mind, little columns of numbers and percentages that had to be twisted and dropped into place like a Tetris game.

 
D minus ten years
Thapelo meets Ntombi
Thapelo was nursing a beer at an off-campus dive. He had done very well during his first semester of a BCompt degree, but finances, as ever, were a problem.
Then they had walked in. 
Thapelo, and every other straight man in the place, sat up while the two women settled themselves at the bar. 
They oozed money. The taller of two accentuated her height with 4-inch heels. She was dressed in a slinky black and white wrap-around number, a knee-length that was simultaneously completely professional, and not. It hugged her curves and accentuated her ample breasts. Her short hair and big hoop earrings drew attention to the face of a Cleopatra. She had full lips and deep sensual brown eyes framed by long eyelashes and smoky lids. All in all, she looked and smelt like money. 
The shorter woman looked no less striking in navy blue; formal pants, silk blouse and heels. Also utterly professional at first glance, but her confident bearing injected an unmistakeable sensual insouciance. 
Thapelo wondered what women like those were doing in a place like this. 
Then the taller one languorously swivelled her barstool, leaning an elbow on the bar, and the change in posture made it impossible to look away. As if it was possible before she turned around, Thapelo inwardly groaned to himself. 
Incredibly, she made brief eye contact with him, and smiled. Then she leaned towards her friend and said something.
Thapelo didn’t notice the bartender approaching until a tall clear drink was set down on his table. He looked up, questioning.
“Long Island Iced Tea,” said the barman, “from the lady in black and white. I told her you were drinking beer when she asked, but she ordered this instead. She says her name is Ntombi.” 
The barman ambled back to his post.
Thunderstruck, Thapelo weighed up the situation. That was a come-on, clear enough, right? It would be rude not to go and thank her for the drink, and introduce himself, at least.
When he got up his legs were suddenly water. He picked up the new drink, deserting the remainder of his beer, and walked up to the two women.
“Hi, Ntombi, thanks for the drink,” he grinned awkwardly. “I’m Thapelo…”
“Hi Thapelo, pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand. When he shook it she subtly softened her grip so that the hand-shake ended with a caress of her fingers down his palm. Then she looked towards her friend and said, “And this is Roberta.”
They exchanged greetings.
“Business first,” said Roberta to them both, and then showed Thapelo a picture on her phone.
“Have you seen these guys?” she asked.
Thapelo knew of them, a campus band that was starting to get a lot of positive attention, but he didn’t know them personally. Roberta swivelled towards the bartender when Thapelo shook his head.
The bartender glanced at the picture and pointed to a booth in a corner of the bar.
“Thanks,” responded Roberta, taking a sheaf of papers that looked like a contract out of a large, but elegant, shoulder bag. She headed towards the three men in the booth.
By the time Roberta returned to the bar twenty minutes later, a stunned Thapelo was holding hands with Ntombi.
D minus a year and a half
Explaining the plan to Nhlanhla
Jo was led into the small but beautifully appointed office right on time, and offered a seat on a soft charcoal couch, next to an elegant rosewood coffee table. She nodded and smiled to an offer of coffee, and sat down to wait for her host to arrive. The carpet was light grey, complementing the décor, but of the sort that cleaned easily and didn’t trip up high heels.
Nhlahla walked in and smiled a greeting. “Good day, pleased to meet you,” he said, and Jo stood up to shake the hand he held out. She realised the reason for the big, comfortable single seater couches. He was a tall, imposing man, dressed in an immaculate dark blue suit. Jacket on, and buttoned, silvery tie still perfectly in place. 
“Hi, pleased to meet you, too.” Jo responded.
“Jerry said you have some intriguing but fanciful numbers you wanted to show me?” he said, returning the physical evaluation, quickly looking her over.
 “I do indeed. How much did he tell you?”
“Not a lot. He wanted my gut response, as free of prejudgments as possible. Can we sit here, or would you rather sit at the desk?” His expression was almost stern, but there was a tell-tale crinkling around his eyes, which Jo had come to associate with real smiles, and she relaxed a bit. 
“Here should be fine, thank you,” she said, showing him the slim red folder in her hand, and they sat down.
“I have requested advice in forming a political party with a universal basic income as its primary goal. A truly universal one, with no means testing. I have been studying and analysing government spend statistics from the last few years and I believe it is possible.”
Nhlanhla’s eyebrows jumped up. But it made his eyes somehow rounder and the smile crinkles more noticeable, behind his glasses.
“Really?” he said, drawing out the word. “How much do you think this will cost?”
“As at the population projected by StatsSA in 2018, less than a trillion rand per year. A little bit more if one continues child grants as a smaller UBI for children and keep the pensioners at a slightly higher amount.” 
“A little bit more?!” Nhlanhla replied, incredulously. “What exactly do you mean by a little bit more?”
At least he was listening, Jo thought.
“About R130 billion per year. From R920 billion to R1.05 trillion.”
“You’re kidding, right? That’s the entire National revenue for a financial year.”
“Yep, 85% of it, according to the preliminary numbers for 2017/2018.”
“You want me to endorse this nonsense?” he growled. 
Jo nodded.
“You have…” he looked at his watch, “twenty-four minutes left of your half-an-hour. You’re wasting your time, but show me how you think this is possible.”
“I’d have to start with a state bank. I think the PostBank would work admirably, if its mandate is changed to put service over profit,” Jo started.
“That old cliché,” he groaned.
I’m losing him, Jo thought, but bludgeon on.
“Two reasons. The first is that the kids are right, and the way capitalism has worked for the last hundred years is past its sell-by date. Radical economic transformation is necessary for civilization to advance to another step, instead of whole empires collapsing owing to the debasement of the value of money, and the revolt and suffering likely to follow such collapses.
“I’m not opposed to entrepreneurship and profit-taking when real value is created, but I am opposed to rent-seeking. And I believe that eternal return on capital is rent-seeking, once initial risk is recovered, and a healthy profit received.
“As part of this, banks have usurped the ability to create money from governments, world-wide,  through the mechanism of fractional reserve banking. Earning interest twenty times over while not paying any to the depositor is unconscionable, but legal, larceny.”
Nhlanhla sighed audibly. “And?”
“The second reason is that having a true state bank means that a UBI simply gets paid to everyone who has an account with the state bank, for the oldest account linked to each unique ID number. This removal of means-testing for paying of grants collapses a bunch of government mechanisms that are bloated, cost billions, and simply add in more and more middle-men to skim cream every step of the process. More than R200 billion of my trillion is sitting right there.”
“And the rest?” Nhlanhla’s expression was grimly sardonic.
“Looking at consolidated government spend stats for 2016/2017, National spends 1.3 trillion, including grants to provinces and municipalities. I believe there is at least 200 billion to be saved. Over a hundred billion a year for department expenses ‘not elsewhere classified’. As a bookkeeper, I believe that is purposeful obfuscation. For instance, Education has separate lines for each level of education, and another for ‘Education not definable by level’. But 16% of the department’s total spend is stuck under this ‘not elsewhere classified’ line.
“A moratorium on purchase of lifestyle assets and scrutiny of other construction and equipment should get about forty billion. 
“Halve the SOE grants of sixty billion. Kill those grants entirely, unless it can absolutely be proved that they cannot or should not break even, like landfills.
“And some of the four hundred billion spent on ‘Other goods and services’. Not fuel and bank charges and stationery and electricity, like every other firm or person must specify in detail. The spend can, and must, be better managed.”
 “I think you’ll find that you’re horribly optimistic. Cutting spend is obvious, and I don’t think you’ll get to two hundred.”
“I wonder what the average price per head for dinner at a government function is?” Jo challenged.
“So we’ll call it R200 billion. Only R600 billion to go,” Nhlanhla smirked.
“An exit tax of 15% on any money that leaves the country, or is used to buy foreign currency. Send as much as you want. Kill the Reserve Bank limits. Subject to international agreements that necessitated POCA, of course. That one’s hard to quantify, because who knows what’s happening on the sly. Reserve Bank stats make me think at least two hundred billion in exit tax.”
“No more untaxed profits to show up in Panama Papers, right?” He chuckled.
“And you could consider it paying custom duties in advance. The only way to get a third of the exit tax back would be to prove that you have imported goods priced fairly to the value of the original transaction, and they have been received at a port. The remaining ten percent could replace all import duties and tariffs.”
“R400 billion to go,” Nhlanhla said speculatively.
 “We increase the Securities Transfer Tax on all JSE transactions to 10%. It can’t be set off for refund,” Jo almost winced as she tried to predict his response. “If you have money to gamble with, pay your tax up front.” 
Nhlanhla burst into laughter. “From a quarter percent to 10%. You won’t be winning any popularity contests!”
“We could always just make them VATable instead,” Jo smirked back. “But we could then offer, in return, no tax on dividends and capital gains thereafter. Capital gains on shares are phantom anyway. If you’re investing for the long haul, great, you’ll only pay the tax once. If you want to speculate and cause ups and downs, just pay your tax every time.”
“And that is how much?” He looked at her speculatively.
“As near as I can tell, they trade or log between six and seventeen trillion per year. So six hundred billion minimum, but that would probably decrease over time if trading slows because of the increased tax, unless a growing economy affects the equilibrium positively.”
“Now you’re two hundred over?”
“I also want to remove personal income tax. Up to the middle class, anyway.”
“That’s more than a third of the National income!” Nhlanhla stood up halfway and sank back into his couch.
“30% less than the civil servant wage bill, though.”
“Really,” he said, looking at his watch again. “Why, pray?”
“Mostly, because every cent the state removes from the economy in taxes has a lag before it gets ‘reinvested’.” Jo made air quotes around the word. “And every step along the way to that ‘reinvestment’ is an opportunity for over-pricing, graft or downright theft.
“You’d also free companies from being the middle-men for PAYE,” she continued. “They’d no longer have to declare what they’ve ‘deducted’ and pay it over seven days later, if they pay it on time. Any money that goes directly into the pockets of actual people will churn the multiplier a few more times. Increase demand. Increase production. Maybe increase jobs.
“Then, if state employees’ salaries get reset at their previous cost-to-company less PAYE, we cut the State wage bill by 20%, which is almost what we need to get in line with international average ratios for public-to-private wages. That saves the state a hundred and thirty billion even before cutting down on bloat. We can encourage firms to do the same. With maybe a nice fat 8% inflation increase on employees’ previous take home pay. Labour gets an increase in real take-home, plus their Dividend, and companies’ wage bills decrease by 12% which frees up cash flow, or it hits the bottom line and becomes subject to company income tax. The Company Income Tax would be less than the PAYE reduction.”
He grunted. “You’re proposing an inflation nightmare.”
“The economy is suffering because the pool of customers keeps shrinking, because the companies keep retrenching them. With the safety net of a basic income, people will be buying food. With junk status and recession and recovering from drought, how many food producers are operating at capacity? I believe any food inflation will settle very quickly, if it happens at all. 
“Eventually, when those customers are no longer hungry and living in shit,” continued Jo, while Nhlanhla frowned at the expletive. “… they’ll start buying other, more expensive goods. That inflation will be high, but for no more than two years. If people know their neighbours have some cash, they’ll start businesses closer to where they live instead of trekking halfway across town to a mind-numbing, dead-end job that must feed themselves and 1.7 other people after using up a quarter of their earnings for transport.”
“You’re naïve. Amusing, but naïve.” Nhlanhla’s eyes weren’t crinkling any more.
“And uneducated, at least on paper. All I’m asking is that if you don’t get on your own party’s list, please, please, be on mine.”
His eyebrows flew up again. “That is what this is about?” His jaw was set, angry.
“A little bit,” Jo admitted. “I approached your corporation because I found it impossible to contact you directly. But since I did, I do hope that they will evaluate my proposal and consider contributing some funding. In Afrikaans, there’s an idiom, is dit oor die hondjie, of die halsband? It means are you after the puppy, or its collar? I…”
“I know what it means,” he glared at Jo.
She sighed inwardly. It’s a bust. One last entreaty.
“I don’t see how a government is somehow different to an ordinary household. Spend less than you earn. Earn it doing something you’re good at. And make sure everyone has food.”
 
D minus 14 months
Kgethi’s ideas – education
Jo arrived at reception fifteen minutes early.
“I’m here for a 10am meeting with Mrs Sibanda. I’m early, so I’ll sit down and behave myself until she’s ready,” she explained to the receptionist.
“I’ll let her know,” responded the young man, and made the phone call. “Please have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Besides the usual, we also have mango juice and sparkling grape today.”
“I’ve just had some coffee, thank you,” responded Jo, “but if I could have a glass of tap water with no ice?”
He smiled and exited through a door behind the counter, and returned a short while later. 
Jo had not even taken a second sip when Kgethi stepped into reception personally, ten minutes early.
“Hi, Jo, right?” she greeted, with a friendly smile. “Please come through. Pardon my walking ahead of you.”
“’Guest first’ only works when the guest knows where to go…” quipped Jo. It was an old joke for her, but it seemed to work, and gave people leeway to do what was sensible, instead of what they thought was suitably respectful.
Kgethi chuckled, and led the way, smart black heels clicking on the tiles.
They sat down in a small meeting room. Kgethi leaned back in her chair, hands clasped on her crossed knees, just below the hemline of her chic tailored dress, also in black. “You’ve mentioned that you’re preparing to launch a political party, based on a universal basic income. Do you really think that’s feasible?” Kgethi looked sceptical.
“I do believe so. With much more control over what the state spends money on, and paradoxically, a lot less interference into what people and firms get up to. If government focuses on health, education, and infrastructure, and the UBI, of course.”
“I admit I’m intrigued,” said Kgethi. “But nobody seems to be able to make the sums work.”
“Nobody is prepared to turn the status quo on its head in order to do what is right. Governments have been increasing their size and their power, as far as they can get away with, for decades. So elections become a lottery for career politicians to see who gets to pad their pockets next, and for how long. Even if they truly intend to do a good job, they still prioritise big firms over people. I can send you my calculations and the sources they’re based on, if you have time to look them over. You’re the mathematician. But that’s not why I requested some of your time.”
“Okay,” Kgethi acquiesced. “I would like to see the calculations. But go ahead.”
“I need a plan for education, one that makes sense and is feasible. But the only experience I have is being in school myself, and that was decades ago. The teachers among my family and acquaintances are all white, mostly Afrikaans, and retired or about to retire. I don’t think they have any idea how awful the true state of affairs is, apart from getting angry about decreasing pass marks and increasing kids per class. 
“I’m trying to imagine what it must be like to study for matric by candle light. I understand that’s the way the world worked, for almost everyone, seventy years ago. But I think it’s a lot easier to study by candle light if you’re not also hungry.
“My biggest worry, though, is that the education system we have is based on what factory owners; monopoly capital, if you will; were happy with two hundred years ago. Doing exactly the same today as you did yesterday, and hoping tomorrow will somehow be different, seems a bit stupid to me.” I’m talking too much again, thought Jo.
“And you want from me…? What exactly?” Kgethi frowned.
“Your experience and research in teaching mathematics, in mother tongue. In my ideal world, everyone would be comfortable with enough maths to say, that’s not my correct change. Or these payments look higher than what you said the interest rate would be. Or, god forbid, Mr Bank, why are you charging me a sixth of the debit order value for my R90 funeral plan?” Jo looked down and breathed deeply. She looked back up at Kgethi and waited.
“Did you know that in 2007, during a Grade Six maths test administered to four hundred maths teachers, only 23% of teachers correctly answered that a fence, raised from 60cm to 75cm, increased in height by 25%? Most said 15%,” said Kgethi quietly. “It’s a simple calculation, if you interpret the question correctly. It means that many maths teachers haven’t grasped the interrelationships in their subject material. Many people fail to understand that percentages are just another way of looking at decimals, which are just another kind of fraction. It breaks my heart.” Kgethi stared unseeingly at the door for a few moments.
Jo was horrified, but not as surprised as she should have been.
“If you could change the entire education system, to empower people to live in today’s world, what would you do?” Jo asked.
Kgethi was looking at Jo intently, one eyebrow raised.
“This would need to be something that could be implemented and show positive results, within one political term,” she said, questioning.
She’s way ahead of me, thought Jo. She’s been thinking about this for years. 
“Exactly.” Jo flexed her fingers, searching for the right words. “Otherwise it’ll just get overturned when the next party takes power. Or worse, we end up confusing things and making everything even more impossible, while spewing spurious assurances about how much better everything is, based on random KPI’s from our ill-considered plans.”
“Okay.” Kgethi nodded, and touched one fore-finger to the other. “The first thing I would do is split school stages differently. A foundational phase, incorporating early childhood development, up till Grade Three. Mother tongue. Required subjects to pass at Grade Three level are mother tongue, English, and Maths. Basic biology and science incorporated through play, but not examined specifically.”
“Jaaa…?” Jo wasn’t sure what she thought.
“Grades Four through Nine are middle school. You still have to pass mother tongue, English, and Maths, but you also have to pass one other national language. Only two other subjects, World Studies and Practical Studies. Whatever clever name marketers come up with.”
“And the two new ones would entail what, exactly?”
“World Studies would be based on some random theme. I was thinking a country of the world at a time. You study a country, its history, its achievements, its failures, its political structure. Its food, and animals, and exports. Its environmental challenges, geography and geology. Its famous people, its uprisings. You demonstrate scientific concepts, preferably with spectacular experiments, and explain who came up with this insight, and how it applies. You practice Maths by calculating exchange rates or working out how many of their widgets we can buy with our thingamabobs. Or how much older their oldest building, or tree, is, than someone else’s. It could be structured to tie in with the level of maths for that grade. Language classes could have a section where everyone relates a news story about the country we’re studying, and then the class discusses what they’ve just heard in context of what they’ve learned, or independently researched. Conspiracy theories welcome, to be peer-reviewed with Teacher as an occasional moderator. You could have them translate basic phrases, or practice explaining something to someone who speaks X language, or imagine how they would make a new friend from there feel welcome.”
“I’d love my children to have that kind of education, but wouldn’t it be impossible for teachers?” Jo had not imagined anything like this. She was still scribbling as she spoke.
“Not if they specialise in a subject angle, or a few countries, or a few grades. But the curriculum would need to be set and predictable. Best case scenario, we may develop teachers who care enough about a bunch of things to be able to contextualise.”
“How on earth would you test that?”
“A country-wide exam. For languages, and maths. World Studies would be easy, multiple choice, if you must. Possibly with an essay question for bonus marks. It doesn’t really matter that much, if the basic science and history and geography come through in contexts that show that they have been assimilated, and creative and independent thought are fostered.”
“And Practical Studies?” Jo was too shocked to think of anything except the earlier unanswered question. She held her pen ready for more scribbling, as fast as she could legibly manage.
“That would be a week or two on every trade we can think of, especially specialities of your region. Welding, sewing, car maintenance, growing beans, animal husbandry, viticulture, cooking, bricklaying, nails, hairdressing, budgeting, pool maintenance, whatever. You’re not expected to pass anything, just to try your best at everything. That way, when you need to choose grade ten subjects for academic high school, or trade subjects for practical high school, you’ll have a few ideas about what you’re good at and what you enjoy.”
“So two types of high school?” Jo was starting to understand.
“Don’t you think we have a shortage of skilled artisans because FET is not as esteemed as ‘high school’? A kid has been working hard, and is good at stuff, but will choose history and accounting because her mother wants her to get a matric, not an N6 in boiler-making. Our artisans are worth gold, and we need many, many more. Wouldn’t a first-year engineering student with maths and science and plumbing be preferable to one who has never gotten his hands dirty?”
“And artisans are better equipped to start own businesses than academic matriculants…” Jo’s mind raced. She’d gotten so much more than she’d hoped for.
“As much as I’m professionally focused on tertiary, we can’t fix that until foundation is sending up literate, numerate, curious youngsters, who have a penchant for reasoned debate. If their reasoning was nurtured in their mother tongue, a decade ago, even better,” commented Kgethi.
“There are numbers to be crunched and research to be taken into consideration. But how do you envision this to be possible in five years?”
“There’s been a lot of spend on Early Childhood Development Centres. Make them bigger, to accommodate an extra older grade, in increments, and find the good mother-language teachers. One school per province, initially, will get the point across and increase impetus for directing funding. Find the teachers who are excited about the idea. Let them share curricula, and upskill them, if necessary. Pay for their relocation, if you have to. Then bring in kids from the nearby bad primary schools, and upgrade those schools once they’re half empty. Private and existing good schools will follow suit on their own, as soon as the model yields results. Then prioritise the rest from worst to best.”
Jo’s mouth was hanging open. “Look, for someone’s who’s advocating turning the existing modus operandi upside-down, I had no idea. I’ll send you my numbers, and I want to evaluate your model in light of the available statistics. But I’m overwhelmed.” She chewed her lip for a moment.
“Would you consider joining my party, if I get it to that point?” she asked Kgethi. “If nothing else, every highly qualified and experienced MP available for the cabinet would help whoever wins power to do right by the people.” 
“Send me your numbers, and your manifesto. Once I’ve looked at them, I’ll let you know.”
Arthur
Jo had been waiting for quite a while in a coffee shop in Groenkloof. She hadn’t been given an exact time, so she wasn’t really annoyed. But she could have eaten breakfast by now, instead of just having three cups of coffee. Filter coffee. Sometimes she wished restaurants would offer her favourite cheap instant brand.
Finally, a man approached the table. The restaurant was half full, with a number of other women sitting alone. Hmmm. He knows what I look like, she thought. He looks like a cartoon of a caramel lollipop… Well, if you ignore the Michelin man body under the head. He was wearing a beige suit and cream shirt, which just enhanced her cheeky perception of caramel.
“Say your piece,” he said abruptly, as he sat down.
“I don’t trust you. For a list of reasons a mile long, all in the public domain. But I need your skills, from someone, somehow.”
“I don’t see why I should be listening to you,” said Arthur, the highly compromised and spendthrift former spymaster. “I am previously occupied, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
He actually looks more like a bouncer. No, like a nice guy from church, that isn’t very clever, Jo thought. Round face, big smile. Well, not today. But in all the pictures I’ve seen, he has a huge, honest smile.
“But you’re here. Which means you realize that there’s a good chance everything will change next year.” Jo glared back as hard as she could.
“I’m leaving.” He started to get up.
“Okay. I wanted to offer you a position. But I suppose we can have this conversation again later. If necessary.”
He paused for a split second. “I don’t think so. Goodbye.”
D minus a year
Campaign Bus Mbodleni
Jo was dancing on the roof of the bus, specially converted to be a stage. The vibe was incredible, the mob mood positive.
Tara, Jo’s daughter, seemed to be exchanging lollipops with a little boy she had met on the jumping castle, which was set up right next to the bus. Their cryptic toddler conversation survived all the bouncing from the older kids slamming into the walls of the air-supported fantasy castle.  The little boy probably speaks isiXhosa, thought Jo. Tara only knows seTswana. But they’re getting along fine, they’ll figure out what they need to communicate, the little ones always do.
One teenaged girl seemed to be a self-appointed guardian of babies; however rowdy the older kids got, she made sure that the littler children were taken into consideration.
Should we get another jumping castle? thought Jo. One for older kids, one for the little ones? But as she watched, two ten-year-old boys dived into the bouncy castle, effortlessly and skilfully sidestepping Tara and her new friend. Nah, Jo told herself. Let the children play. Tara and her friend fell over, unbalanced, but roaring with laughter.
The music was pumping, and almost everyone seemed to have a bit of spring in their step because of it. Only juice and biscuits were on offer. The campaign fund was tiny, and Roberta, Jo’s best friend and campaign manager, had postulated that getting the message about UBI across would be scuppered by even the slightest hint of unofficial bribes. There were no t-shirts, no food parcels. Only a lot of noisy music, the kid’s play castle, and a bunch of explanatory posters in purple and white.
Roberta was talking earnestly with a resident, at the small informational table set up as far as possible from the speakers. Roberta was somehow still pristine, in a white pants-suit and killer heels, despite the heat and mud, in this, the parking lot of a small cluster of shops in Mbodleni.
The older woman Roberta was speaking to shook her head dismissively and looked towards the horizon. Roberta put a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, and held out her other palm in supplication, while answering.
People still don’t believe we can pull off a UBI, Jo surmised, sadly. And they may be right. But that Gogo has hoped for, and believed in, so many promises that were broken, that I don’t blame her.
Suddenly, the Gogo and Roberta both looked up, towards the entrance of the tavern that was part of the little group of shops.
A man and a woman were exiting the tavern, the woman screaming at the man. The man ducked almost in time, hands protectively folded around his head, as the woman started punching him. He cowered down next to the door, looking up at her from under his arms, trying to explain something.
She looked down at him contemptuously, seemed to remember the quart bottle in her hand, and downed the contents. She staggered as she lowered the bottle and accidentally smashed it against the closing security gate. Shards of glass scattered.
Hansa, thought Jo, watching, unable to move, trying to understand.
Blearily the woman considered the broken bottle neck in her hand, before stepping towards the man, angrily waving it at him.
Something clicked in Jo, but Roberta was already running in her impossible high-heeled shoes.
Jo scrambled down from the stage as quickly as she could and ran after. 
Roberta had reached the woman, and touched her shoulder tentatively. The woman immediately swung around, waving her bottle-neck, and Roberta raised her hands placatingly.
Jo was now close enough to hear the man whimpering, terrified of the likely consequences, even though he wasn’t the current target. He was grey with fear.
“Hau, Mma,” Roberta tried. “What’s wrong?” She lowered her hands, palms down, slowly and carefully.
“That one, he comes to fetch me out the tavern. He says we don’t have money. But he has no job, he is useless dog!” shouted the woman, drunkenly, still waving her bottle-neck at Roberta.
“Do you have a job, Mma?” Roberta asked, softly.
“Why must I have job? I have husband! He must bring the money!” the woman yelled. 
“Jobs are hard to find, Mma,” Roberta tried. “Did he lose his job? Why are you so angry with him?”
“He is so cheeky to tell me I must go home. I will beat him. He must learn respect!”
Jo got into position, and cocked her head at Roberta. Roberta blinked, deliberately, after staring right into Jo’s eyes for an instant. 
“Is he a good father, a good husband?” asked Roberta, and hurriedly stepped back as the woman closed in on her, snarling and screaming. 
Jo dove at the woman, knocking her over. Please don’t land on the fucking bottle, you stupid, aggressive bitch, thought Jo paradoxically, as she managed to roll with the woman as they hit the ground. She scrambled to halt the motion and ended up sitting on the woman’s back, pinning the arm with her knee.
Roberta stepped up and wrestled the weapon away from her.
Then someone elbowed Jo out of the way and rolled the woman onto her back roughly. It was Jo’s husband.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted. Is he shouting at me or at her? Jo wondered distractedly, as her husband, more gently now, helped the woman sit up and quickly inspected a small cut on her upper arm.
“First aid kit,” he instructed Jo. “I don’t think we need to go to the clinic, but we should at least clean it up and put some tape on it.”
The woman looked at the wound quizzically, and started yelling at Gerdus in isiXhosa.
“Enough!” roared Gerdus, grabbing her hands to hold them still. “I’m trying to help you. Even though you are a bully! Why do you hit people? Does he hit you?”
Eyes wide, the woman shook her head no.
“It’s okay, mister,” said a soft voice, and the woman’s husband rose to come and sit next to her. He took her hands into his own, and started speaking soothingly.
“Are you okay, love? Can I take you home so that you can eat something and go to sleep?”
She nodded slowly.
“How does your arm feel? Can I disinfect it for you?” said Gerdus, taking a cue from the husband, and speaking as calmly.
The woman looked at him suspiciously as Jo returned with the first aid kit.
“Look, only some Savlon and one of these plasters,” explained Gerdus, showing her the items.
“Okay,” she relented.
“I’m sorry, Mme. Are you hurt anywhere else? I didn’t want to do that, but you wanted to hurt my friend…” Jo floundered, trying to apologise.
The woman seemed similarly at a loss for words. Then she turned to her husband and spoke a few sentences.
“Some bruises from the fall. But she wants to go home now. She’s also sorry for trying to fight,” her husband translated.
“Would you like me to drive you home?” asked Gerdus, positioning the tape over the cut and gently smoothing it down with his thumb.
The couple looked at each other, evaluating.
“I will, if you want,” said Roberta. She pointed over her shoulder to where their vehicles were parked behind the campaign bus. “Gerdus forgets his bakkie is a bit short on seats!”
“Then yes, please, mama. I think Lindiwe got a big fright. It’s only a few blocks, but I want her to lie down for a bit.”
“As soon as you’re ready, then,” said Roberta, and then realised that there was quite a big crowd of on-lookers. “Way to go, Jo,” she said loudly. “Trying to win over voters by tackling them!” Some of the people in the crowd cracked a smile.
Jo thumped her hand to her forehead. “Eish. You’re going to have to train me better, my friend.” And then, to Lindiwe, “Please don’t fight with the people who love you the most. I am sorry I fought with you. I think you are a strong woman and I think it is very hard to have no work and no money. I also drink when I’m sad or angry and it’s difficult to stop. But that’s why I want this Dividend. I want you to have enough to eat. I want your husband to be able to start his own business without worrying about food so that he must take any job he can get. I want you to be proud that you are a good mother, that raising your children is the job you want.” 
“At least the kids are still enjoying the bouncy castle,” interrupted Roberta. “Ulungele?” Are you ready?
Lindiwe’s husband looked at his wife’s face, and then echoed her nod.
“Okay. Then woza,” said Roberta, beckoning towards her new-model grey Volvo. “Let’s get you home, sisi.” Next, to Jo and Gerdus, “We need to pack up in an hour or so. Mrs Buswayo has strict check-in times, and I don’t want to drive in the wrong direction to Kokstad to find us somewhere to sleep.”
“I am so going to get myself a beer,” grunted Gerdus. 
Jo went to herd the children out of the area Roberta needed to exit the parking lot, but except for two or three getting cool drinks, they were all still near or in the jumping castle. Little ones were yelling at bigger ones, and the bigger kids were increasingly refining their own battles to evade, bounce, and avoid hurting the babies. The inside walls of the castle were a virtual war-zone, but the toddlers, sitting in the middle of the steps at the front, loved getting bounced around and giggles rang out frequently. Roberta was right, and Jo was relieved that the children hadn’t really noticed the altercation.
Gerdus headed towards the bus, accompanied by some locals, and they sat down in a casual group. Gerdus and another man each had a beer. Jo decided to join them, and sat down in one of the remaining plastic chairs.
“Molweni,” she greeted, timidly. She hadn’t been practising isiXhosa for very long, they’d only been in the Eastern Cape for a few days.
“Jo, this is Sandile, and Fred, and Lerato,” introduced Gerdus.
Jo shook each hand in turn, greeting them and repeating their names to help her remember.
Sandile was probably in his twenties, with a wide smile and a round face. Fred wore glasses, and seemed to be about Jo’s age. Lerato was young and pretty, with darker skin than the others. She seemed shy, and only nodded at Jo’s “Hi, please to meet you!”
“So, sisi, we want to hear about this Dividend,” said Fred. “We heard you talking to Lindiwe. We heard you when you were standing on the bus too, but you talked too fast and you talked a lot.”
Gerdus burst out laughing. Fred looked at him warily, surprised.
“Don’t worry,” smiled Jo. “He always tells me I talk too much and too fast. He agrees with you!”
Fred smiled too, relieved.
“Let me?” suggested Gerdus.
Jo nodded gratefully. She had been talking a lot, and it was a repetitive pitch.
“It’s like the grants,” said Gerdus, although he knew Jo hated the word. “Except everyone gets it if they have a PostBank account. And it’s enough for a family to live on. Two thousand for every grown-up and five hundred for every child under sixteen.”
“Rich people too?” asked Sandile, with a slight frown.
“Yes, if they have an account,” answered Gerdus. “Otherwise we must waste money and time trying to decide who is poor enough. But rich people can decide not to open an account. Or they can decide not to use the money. Then the bank can use that money to give people loans for homes or businesses or studying.”
“Banks don’t give poor people loans,” pointed out Fred, frustrated.
“Because banks that must make money need security. They need to know that you will be able to pay them back. And they must be sure that they are not lending you too much, so that you cannot pay,” Gerdus answered.
Fred scowled. “So how, then?”
“PostBank doesn’t need to make money. It must just not lose money. And if you get your Dividend, it knows that you will always be getting a little bit of money, so it can afford to lend you more, and with much less interest, than a bank who must give returns to shareholders too.”
“So that’s it. The Bank will take your Dividend money if you can’t pay your loan,” said Sandile, in disgust.
“Only up to R200 per month,” replied Gerdus, “and only if you haven’t paid back anything at all for six months in a row.”
“Then what if I don’t pay and I die? Only R200 per month will take forever to pay back. I would want to buy a bakkie so that I can take my cabbages to town. Will the bank lend me fifty thousand?” asked Fred, cynically.
“The bank will take out life insurance to cover your loan if you die. We don’t want your children to be stuck with your debt. We don’t want to have to lose money if we write off your loan instead. So we’ll insure your loan. We’ll also do a funeral policy for everyone.”
“Hayi. That will be too expensive. And why a funeral policy?” said Lerato, speaking for the first time.
“So that tsotsis don’t try to hide that someone has passed away to steal their Dividend. And Jo thinks the interest will be enough, so the bank won’t need to charge you for the insurance.”
Roberta arrived back, and walked over to the group. “Molweni,” she smiled, and once the greetings were done, she addressed Jo. “Shall we also have a beer with your new friends? We’ve got half an hour.”
“I’d love one,” grinned Jo, “and since we have work to do, it’ll stop at one…”
“I’ll get them,” offered Gerdus, shaking his bottle to indicate that it was almost empty.
“What were you talking about?” asked Roberta, taking a seat.
“About the PostBank and the loans,” replied Fred. “I can’t believe. Why only now? If it was easy, why did they not do it?”
“It won’t be easy,” answered Roberta, “and it’ll be expensive. But we think government wastes too much money. If it gave it directly to the citizens there would be less corruption.”
“So who must pay, if it is expensive?” asked Sandile.
“Only the very richest companies will pay a little bit more, unless they’ve been avoiding tax. It’ll be much harder to sneak money out of the country. Small companies and people will pay less. But we need to convince the rich companies that when more people can buy things, they’ll quickly make more money and they’ll be better off too,” said Roberta, and looked at Jo. “We don’t think we’ll get many votes this time, but we want people to think hard about how much better our country can be, for everyone, if nobody is hungry. Maybe one of the other parties will start looking at the laws we think should change.”
Fred and Sandile looked thoughtful. Lerato was toying with the plastic cup which had held her cold drink.
“Beer o’clock, guys,” Gerdus said as he approached. “Are we still on the shop talk?”
“It’s kind of the point of being here,” pointed out Roberta sarcastically.
“I must think about this,” said Fred, and Sandile nodded. 
“You’re staying with makhulu Buswayo?” asked Lerato, and Jo nodded. 
“She makes very good food,” said Fred, and conversation drifted to gossip about the town and its people.

D minus 174
Nhlanhla suggests Provtrans
Jo dialled the number and hoped nervously that he would answer. She was pathetically grateful when he did.
“Good morning, Nhlanhla,” she answered his greeting. “It’s Jo from Radical…”
“I was wondering whether I would hear from you,” Nhlanhla said. 
“Uhm, well…” Jo stuttered. “Would you consider being my Minister of Finance?”
“You’re moving fast,” he replied. “Are you sure you want a member of another party on your cabinet?”
“Yes, I am,” Jo said. “I’m inviting people from each of the other big parties, too.”
Nhlanhla chuckled wryly. “Radical, indeed,” he intoned. “Why me?” 
“Mostly, your track record and your credibility,” answered Jo. “But, also, the fact that you’ve already been in the cabinet and the ministry. I believe some institutional memory is vital. You know how things already work, and I’m sure you’ve seen opportunities for improvement over the years.”
“I also know that many things are easy to promise and hard to implement,” he pointed out.
“That, too, I guess,” said Jo, uncertainly. “Have you thought any more about the strategy I showed you a year ago? Could you, would you, help me make the Dividend a reality?”
“Would I? Maybe,” he said, to Jo’s relief, and she breathed out audibly.
“Could I? That’s harder, and your strategy needs work.” 
“Name it,” said Jo. “What do you want to change?”
“I want to add something. If you’re going to mess up all the taxes anyway, I have a proposal for a further ‘radical’ adjustment,” he replied.
“Yes…?” she asked softly, respectfully.
“I want to implement a provisional transaction tax, of 10%, payable on the day the transaction takes place,” said Nhlanhla. “Tax compliant companies could set it off later when they finalise their VAT and company tax returns, and receive a refund if necessary.
“VAT gets paid up to ninety days after the transaction takes place. Company income tax takes much longer. The cash cow employees paying income tax or SITE don’t get to leverage their contribution to the fiscus for even a minute, it’s taken before they receive their wages. And the state gets it in arrears, even if it’s paid on time according to law. 
“With my provisional tax, the sooner someone files your returns, the sooner they can get their refunds, plus interest from the date the return is filed, if all tax commitments are up to date. Any spare change from a particular period gets applied to overdue amounts first, until there are no overdue amounts left.”
“It would turn everything on its head, and completely mess with companies’ cash flow. Nobody would stand for it,” Jo argued.
“Tax season messes with their cash flow now,” he pointed out. “Plus you’re asking people to inform you that they should pay tax, instead of telling them they can get some of it back if they register and comply.”
“Oh…” said Jo, understanding suddenly. “Paying returns is a bulk amount at irregular times. Monthly or bi-monthly for VAT, twice a year for Company Income Tax…”
 “Yes. And very few pay on time, unless they’ve managed to save cleverly outside of their working funds. Only really big companies manage that. The smaller ones are permanently running to keep up, which I believe impedes innovation and growth and job creation.”
“How much is SARS owed?” asked Jo. “I have never been able to find any statistics about that.”
“Not on an unsecure line,” Nhlanhla said. “Later.” 
“Of course,” Jo said, chastised. “Do you mean you’ll consider taking the position?”
“There’s one more thing, first,” he replied. “Many smaller companies would probably be glad to simply pay the 10% instead of registering for VAT and Company Income Tax and the attendant red tape and audit costs. And we would be perfectly happy for them to do so.”
“Then how, exactly, do you plan to police this?” Jo was lost again.
“Your Dividend makes it possible,” he said, with a heavily sarcastic emphasis on Jo’s alternative word for ‘grant’. “Put simply, every transaction that is received in a non-UBI account gets its 10% deducted immediately and transferred to Treasury.”
“And if it is into a UBI account?”
“Then it only kicks in after the first million per year.”
“Why on earth?”
“Because you want to phase out personal income tax but I don’t believe you should, not entirely. This way, all we need to do to remove personal income tax, is to set the rebate threshold at a million per year.”
“I hadn’t even thought about that,” Jo said, “the mechanism or legislative changes. What other implications do you foresee?”
“To avoid the provisional transaction tax, people will get their salaries paid into their UBI accounts,” he said, and remained quiet, apparently waiting for her to connect the dots.
“Making the state bank more appealing to customers, and improved market share would give it the leverage to become a proper state bank run for the people, not purely for profit,” Jo said, almost a question.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “It’ll also become more lucrative to run a business in one’s own name, no matter what the turnover.” 
“And that makes it’s harder to run away from creditors and unpaid employees if a business folds. Sho.” She tsk-ed for a second, running scenarios through her mind. “Do have numbers?”
“I can give you some from what’s available in the public domain,” he replied. “The line isn’t secure, remember? 
“SARS puts 2017 turnover of VAT registered companies at about eleven trillion a year. From that, the VAT take was around three hundred billion, or 2.5% of turnover. Which means the average net value-added is about twenty per cent of turnover, if the losses are deducted from the profits. Declared net profit for Company Tax is generally about 5.5%, leading to assessed tax of 1.8% of turnover. Total income tax was 3.5% of turnover.
“The firms who are actually doing right by SARS are paying just over 4% of turnover in VAT and company tax after they have finished finagling and re-allocating and avoiding, about half a trillion in total.
“But. Almost half the companies in the country that submitted anything submitted nil returns. Another third or so declared losses almost as much as what the rest declared in profits. More than two million companies just didn’t submit anything.
“If all of these are getting, say, another four trillion in turnover altogether, the 10% provisional transaction tax nets the state one and a half trillion of which it may have to give back half eventually. If they bother to ask for it. For many small businesses, the accounting fees alone would probably swallow up any refunds. For particularly high net profit businesses, it’ll actually cost them more to register and jump through the tax hoops.”
“That’s another quarter trillion over old VAT and CIT,” Jo said. “It covers the amount I thought needs to be cut from state spend.”
“I think it’ll be a trillion in total,” said Nhlanhla, “especially when the Dividend is spent, increasing turnover. Dividend spend will make up for decreased government spend.”
“Some of the old PAYE would probably come back as increased company tax, too,” mused Jo. “That means it’s too much money. I want the state to take as little as possible.”
“Half a trillion of it is wishful thinking, right now,” pointed out Nhlanhla. “You can’t bet on anything until you see how the UBI affects the economy. If you still think it’s too much when things have settled, build more houses. Increase the UBI. Or, god forbid, decrease tax rates.”
Jo nodded, until Nhlanhla’s lack of response reminded her that he couldn’t see her over the telephone. “I understand,” she said. “Does that mean you’re on the team?”
“Yes, but only because it will be a challenge, and hopefully I can keep you from destroying the country,” he replied. “Sorry, sweetheart, that I don’t share your enthusiasm for giving people free money. Many people work hard for what they achieve.” He was terse.
“How many of those are sending money home? Why does it need to be so impossible, for so many, to attain excellence?” Jo asked, softly. “The middle class’s hard work is echoed over and over by millions of people that don’t achieve food security. There are half a million people in this country working to support between four and ten other people, at a wage not enough for two. Another five million who are working, but not earning enough to eat properly. While Vodacom declares more in dividends than wages and tax combined, and say they can’t make data cheaper.”
Nhlanhla grunted, whether in assent or negation, Jo couldn’t tell.
“Look, I’m setting up a meeting next Monday for the people I’m inviting onto the Cabinet. I wanted to present the strategy, but I think it would be better if you did. Your scepticism will be more useful than me and my crusade. And it may indicate to them that I trust you and think you’re vital.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Yes, I will. But I’ll want to sit with you beforehand to discuss some technicalities.”
“How about tomorrow, at your office?” Jo suggested. “I don’t have mine yet…”
“Yes, I suppose I’ll be keeping mine, right?” Nhlanhla guffawed. “Eight am?”
“Ten, please,” Jo requested. “It’s quite a drive to the Union Buildings from home, all of it in highway traffic.”
“All right, then, ten,” he agreed. “I hope I don’t regret this.”

Security at Jo’s house
“The security team is here,” announced Roberta. “They won’t all fit in your office, I suggest we grab some garden chairs and meet in the lounge.”
Jo came back to the present, tearing her attention away from pointlessly mulling over the discussion with Nhlanhla. 
“That’d be great, Rob. And then they won’t rearrange my paperwork accidentally…” Jo gestured around at the various disorderly piles that made sense only to her. Roberta didn’t comment, unless you knew what her sarcastically raised eyebrow meant.
A few minutes later, an imposing man and his team had inserted themselves into the available chairs. Two remained standing.
“We’re here about your security, Ma’am,” said the man.
“I know,” replied Jo. “Hi, I’m Jo. Can we get anyone some coffee? Or rooibos? I don’t think we have…”
“I’ll arrange that,” interrupted Roberta. “Would anyone like something, gentlemen?” She left to organize six glasses of water and two coffees, one black, neither with sugar.
“So what do you need to do? Give me the rundown. Actually, please tell me your names first,” Jo said, with her head tilted.
“I’m Mahlangu, Ma’am. Lucas, Xolo,” replied the scary man with the immaculate suit, as he pointed at the two men standing across from him. “The rest of the guys are from the assessment department. So first we need to explain some things and ask some questions, and then they’ll go and inspect the property.”
“Are there any women in the service?” asked Jo. “It may look funny if The Rock over there accompanies me to the ladies’.” Xolo looked as if he would struggle to fit into Jo’s bathroom if anyone else was already in it. 
“We’re working on that, Ma’am, and evaluating some outstanding officers for the VIP Unit as we speak. But this is how we work…”
Jo listened. Roberta commented. The assessment guys left, and returned much later looking exasperated. They explained their frustration tersely in a ten-minute discussion that contained terms that Jo had only previously read in spy novels.
“Look, I agree we need a fence. I see the point of accommodation for security, which is a substantial outlay. But surely a few extra beams and CCTV would cut it for the electronics. And I must have misheard your cost estimate.” Jo was gobsmacked.
“No, Ma’am, it’s based on the averages we’ve been paying for similar set-ups from the accredited suppliers on the procurement database.”
“Look, please call me Jo.” She frowned, thinking quickly.
“No, Ma’am, we’d rather not,” replied Mahlangu. He hadn’t even said if it was his first name or last. Ranks were a mystery to Jo. 
Guess that’s another thing I’ll have to learn, fast, she thought. “Calculator…” she waved at Roberta. One appeared in short order.
She added up her own estimations, doubled it just in case, and made a note of the total. She sat back and looked at the men one by one.
“Look, you guys give me a tender brief. Pick a team of three bodyguards for now, they can take turns sleeping in the spare room. I’ll get my armed response company to set up an external rota for the next few days.
“From the ministerial houses about to be vacated, find the one closest to the Union Buildings that you’d be happy with without extra expenditure. We’ll go there as soon as it’s vetted, with whichever team you think is necessary. We’ll argue about that later.
“I’ll get the upgrades to my home done, at my own expense, until you approve them.
“In the meantime, you’ll scout out my area. We’ll lobby to use your cost estimate to upgrade the closest police station or build a new one in the semi-formal settlement down the road. I’m not the only one living here. With that that amount of money, you can make all my neighbours safer, too. Does that cover your actual concerns?”
“The immediate ones, Ma’am, but…”
“Will it do for now?” Jo interrupted.
“Yes, Ma’am, but the Presidential Handbook says…”
“That left-over from apartheid monopoly capital? Everyone else must put up with what they can afford, but not ministers? I’ll pay my own bills, thank you, when I’m not on official business. And my official business will be showing up at the office and doing my job. Is security at the Union Buildings up to your muster, or not?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Mahlangu said, fatalistically.
“Then let us know when the detail will arrive. We’ll need to change the sheets.”

Roberta after security at Jo’s house
As the security detail left, Roberta shook her head in annoyance. Jo was being Jo, and that usually meant that wheels had to be re-invented, or even worse, someone had to come up with a flying car. Her ridiculous conviction that anything was possible, if one tried hard enough, applied to herself and everyone around her. Miracles were achieved, but then they became part of the job description.
Roberta would have to smooth over some ruffled feathers, and get Jo’s family moved as soon as possible, before she went off on another tangent and stubbornly refused to co-operate on even more critical things.
Roberta and Jo looked nothing alike, and were from completely different familial and educational backgrounds. Roberta had the tertiary qualifications, the private school education, and the professional parents, while Jo’s parents were sporadically successful estate agents that moved house every time they saw one they liked better. Jo had a very flexible value system, a holdover from having to survive as an adult while a child. Roberta, on the other hand, came from a conservative background based on strict moral, traditional, and religious principles. 
One would think that such opposites would clash regularly and acrimoniously, and they did. Especially in the beginning of their friendship, usually during a philosophical discussion of a favourite author’s new book, drinking loads of whisky and chain smoking at their favourite Café 41 in Eastwood Village. Quite often, though, they would eventually agree to disagree, hug it out, and have another drink. 
Both had, during the course of their careers, made and lost modest fortunes, but in the end Roberta had become financially savvy enough to hold on to hers. Jo, however, started giving everything away as soon as she thought she had more than she needed, or even when she thought someone else needed it more than her own family did. Roberta and Jo’s husband had been united in their disgust, one night in a shabby rural bar, when Jo had taken off her shoes and long warm socks to give them to a woman who had been working on a road construction site in winter weather.
“Sorry, I was drunk,” Jo justified the next day. “Those were my favourite socks, it was stupid. But her hands were freezing.”
Roberta understood not wanting to be judged, and tried to avoid being judgemental. But she hadn’t understood why Jo stayed in her disastrous first marriage for so long. Roberta worried that the incremental emotional, and she suspected physical, abuse had greatly multiplied her friend’s default response of obstinacy and defensiveness. 
Sometimes Roberta wondered if she enabled Jo’s neurosis by coddling her. But maybe everyone needed to be indulged occasionally and handed some tough love at other times.
Roberta started making a mental list of the lists she would need to make, to get the following two weeks organized with as few Jo-induced disasters as possible.
Holy crap, thought Roberta. I have to check what she’s planning to wear for the inauguration next week, or she’ll turn up in her Friday outfit from the road show.
D minus 168
Nhlanhla waits
Waiting alone in a random boardroom in Parliament, Nhlanhla felt like a traitor to his party. Despite the ups and downs in his earlier political career, he did believe in its principles. He had been at the helm of helping to build the future it envisioned. 
And now this woman, Jo. Wanting to upset the careful economic construction of decades, in order to give a grant to everyone.
So here he was, a member of the majority party, preparing to present ideas, that he didn’t exactly believe in himself, to a bunch of academic and business specialists who belonged to the fourth-largest party. Accompanied by a few from numbers two and three.
All because the bigger parties had refused to vote for a presidential nominee from either of their rivals.
Maybe that was the crux. Nobody had overwhelming power. And maybe, just maybe, democracy did need a balance which required co-operation and honest integration of opposing interests.
He double-clicked the icon for his presentation, and checked the time while waiting for it to open. Another half an hour.
For the umpteenth time, he clicked through the slides and tried to rehearse his explanations, but he wasn’t concentrating.
Eventually, he gave up. His hands clasped over his ample stomach, he stared down at his twiddling thumbs while he tried, again, to predict whether the UBI could possibly work.


Nhlanhla presents
 There had been a few minutes of half-smiles and some muted greetings, and everyone had helped themselves to a cup of something and a sandwich or a pastry. Papers were still rustling, and notebooks were arranged with pens close at hand. 
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” said Nhlanhla, looking around at his ten future colleagues. He knew three of them from other political parties, and Bridgitte as the wife of a former fellow minister from the previous administration. Kgethi was vaguely familiar, from academia. Nhlanhla wasn’t sure which one of the two bearded men was Ivo, best known as a journalist, but he would try to place him and the other four from the list of photographs and biographies tucked in the back cover of his diary. 
Eventually everyone was seated and settled. Only one tablet and one laptop, noticed Nhlanhla. The rest are sceptical indeed, leaning back in their boardroom chairs, waiting to pick holes.
“The president-in-waiting has asked me to present to a bit of background information, about the economic impact of a UBI. I’m going to start with the reasons for and against, and then a quick summary of experimental results from around the world, over a number of decades. Lastly, I’m going to give you my best prediction of whether it could be done.”
He tapped on a slim folder in front of him, a duplicate of which was at each place at the table. “I’ve given you a printout of the information, along with links. You’re welcome to use it for notes, or not, as you wish.”
“Why isn’t she telling us herself?” asked Julius, the leader of the PEF. “It’s her baby, after all, although I don’t think my electorate would mind terribly much if she manages it.”
“She says she’s too evangelical about it and is biased. She wanted someone sceptical,” Nhlanhla explained. “She wants you to have as balanced a view as possible in order for you to decide whether you want to join the cabinet.”
“Then why is she not here, at least?” asked Makhosi. Formerly a member of the ruling party, she had started her own party, which had won about half as many seats as Radical. 
“Security and moving logistics to be dealt with before the inauguration. And, in her words, she wouldn’t stop interrupting,” Nhlanhla’s mouth quirked and he looked down at his screen and activated the projector.
Some of the maybe-ministers exchanged quizzical glances.
“This is a graph of oil rig numbers versus jobs in the US oil industry for 2015 and 2016. The drop in the oil price caused jobs to be lost and mechanization to increase. When conditions improved, the belt-tightening had led to alternative means of production and the jobs didn’t come back.” He clicked to another slide.
“This is South Africa’s GDP growth every decade since 1960, as well as the increase in jobs and population. The jobs numbers for the 60s are a bit of a thumb-suck, extrapolated from a bunch of different sources. But increased production has on average led to a matching increase in jobs, with a lag of at least a decade. In the noughties, where growth was huge before the crash of 2008, jobs did increase. A huge worry is if, and when, that lag is going to bite us.

 
“This graph reinforces the hoary old clunker that to create jobs, production must increase. The population growth is bigger than the production growth, and there’s decades of backlog. And this is based on labour force statistics that say that 40% of the working-age population chooses not to be economically active.
“The upshot is that the president-elect does not think the jobs will ever ‘come back’. They were never there to begin with.” Nhlanhla repositioned his glasses, and waited a few moments to evaluate facial expressions.
“Doesn’t it also suggest that the population is growing too fast?” asked a young woman, drily. She was Phumzile, from the opposition party, Nhlanhla knew. She had been an MP since the previous election.
“Our fertility rates are lower than most of Africa, and were only a little higher than the world average, as at the 2011 Census,” disagreed one of the Radical party’s representatives, almost vehemently. He was a tall, greying man, with the clipped immaculacy of a successful businessman about him.
Professor Praneet, recalled Nhlanhla, Health. 
The man continued. “In fact, the CIA World Fact-book estimates that our fertility rate has dropped below the world average for 2017. And that is applicable across all population groups, and in surprisingly poor areas. Blaming the population growth-rate is a convenient, but it’s the wrong scape-goat. The fertility rate gets progressively lower when you empower women or give them affordable access to contraception.”
“Thank you, Praneet, I’d appreciate it if you would share your sources, later,” said Nhlanhla, into an uncomfortable silence. “I did check into the 2011 Census numbers, and they said that two-children-per-mother has become an accepted norm for women who can choose their options. Meaning, when education and healthcare are up to scratch.” 
Praneet nodded consensus, then looked at Phumzile, appraisingly.
“This next slide is GDP by industry. Please bear in mind that it says nothing about the quality of jobs, or the fairness of remuneration, but they all spend about 30% of gross profit on wages. Mining and Agriculture have increased jobs, despite decreasing production. Manufacturing jobs have tanked. Construction jobs have increased. But so have Civil and Utilities, and that is a problem. Almost a quarter of the utilities jobs in this country are funded for by the taxpayer. And they’re cushy jobs, up to 40% more lucrative than a similar position in the private sector.
“Construction has been coining it, probably also via the public purse, but at least they spend 40% of GP on wages, on average.”
 
Nhlanhla resettled his glasses and turned a page. “That’s it, really. We can produce more jobs, a decade after we increase production. We can’t increase production with a sluggish economy. We can’t increase production when no-one can afford to buy anything. We only have one job for every 3.55 people, and 1.25 of those are children.
“So let’s say we do give everyone a UBI. What is likely to happen?” asked one of the bearded men. Nhlanhla peeked at his bio sheet, pretending to rearrange his notes. Cormac. An attorney, here for Agriculture and Environmental protection.
“High inflation,” said Nhlanhla, fatalistically. “Currently, according to StatsSA, industries spend about R320 billion on wages every quarter, R1.28 trillion per year. This does not include Agriculture and Banking and Civil Service. Add R600 billion for Civil, a thumb-suck R200 billion for Banking and Insurance. So more than two trillion per year, of which 17.5% goes to personal income tax and doesn’t end up being spent by consumers. That leaves us with R1.7 trillion. Plus the R130 billion currently being disbursed as grants.
“If all fourteen million children and sixteen million adults living in poverty sign up for UBI immediately, it increases spendable money in the economy by R340 billion per annum. Which is 20%. That’ll likely match the inflation caused. 
“If everyone signs up, we might be facing fifty percent inflation.” He grimaced and looked around the room.
“How likely is that?” asked Cormac, quietly. A few of the others nodded too.
“We have to be ready for a 100% uptake, if we do UBI at all,” answered Nhlanhla.  “What nobody can predict is whether reduced state spending will mitigate inflation, and by how much. Also, if the bulk of that money is spent on food, and producers start climbing back to optimal production, it may not be nearly as bad. But seasonal shocks take up to two years to impact inflation, positively or negatively.
“I think probably about thirty percent, for at least a year.”
“Which dumps all those people right back under the poverty line,” commented Kgethi, an older woman with light pink lipstick. “Unless they also grow food or start new businesses in areas where there was no commerce because there was no money.”
“And there’s the rub,” Nhlanhla nodded to her, ruefully. “It’s never been done. We don’t know which effect will be dominant. We don’t even know if the same effect will dominate from month to month.” Kgethi, he remembered, was slated to head up Education. 
“We can, however, assume that increased disposable income will lead to growth. If production becomes efficient and optimal, in order to service the bigger market, growth should outstrip inflation,” Nhlanhla shrugged.
“Or it may not,” said the other bearded man, sardonically.
That would be Ivo, then, thought Nhlanhla. The one with the long hair. 
Just as Nhlanhla was about to agree, Ivo spoke again.
“But growth has not exactly been stellar, and retail spend by households correlates strongly with GDP growth.”
Nhlanhla nodded. There wasn’t much more to say. 
“You said you had some experimental results to share,” said Julius, dubiously.
“I do. And they look very positive. But the experiment methodologies vary so widely, and none of them exactly match what Jo wants to do.” Nhlanhla thumbed his glasses back up his nose as he clicked to the next slide and focused on it.
“Jo, is it now?” asked Julius sarcastically.
“Don’t ask. You’ll have to figure her out yourself, sooner or later, if you take the job…” said Bridgette, grinning at Julius. “The first one is my favourite,” she called everyone’s attention back to the projector screen. “In all the studies, the bulk of UBI money received was spent on food and school costs.”
“Exactly. It contradicts my biggest bugbear with the whole UBI concept,” concurred Nhlanhla. “Substance and alcohol use matched national averages. Fertility rate, which pretty much means number of babies per mother, stayed the same, except in one study, where it decreased.
“In only one study, likelihood to engage in drug and alcohol use, as well as criminal activity, declined. The term is ‘statistically significant’.” Nhlanhla stared at the ceiling for a moment. “But that was in a community where the starting status was pretty bad to begin with. None of the others saw any effect either better or worse.
“The next big surprise is that the only people that worked less were students and mothers, and some people started working part-time instead of full time. Job seekers spent longer looking for work, but they didn’t stop looking.”
“I like that new businesses formed,” said Makhosi, scribbling on her printed handout, which had a table to illustrate the point.
“Within a few months,” nodded Nhlanhla, “which makes sense. Selling a skill of yours when no one can afford to buy it is difficult.”
“And being able to afford travel to a place where you get a substantially better salary means people don’t have to settle for work they’re over-qualified for…” Julius scrolled on his phone. “My party members have huge Whatsapp groups in all the metros and towns, to inform people about jobs, and to share accommodation or resources, but every person with a job that justifies their qualification still ends up basically bailing out a bunch of friends or family who have taken what they can get.”
“And sending whatever they can afford to someone in a village.” Phumzile doodled in a margin. “I do well, but knowing my aunts and cousins have enough would mean that I don’t have to set aside a big part of my earnings to help family who struggle. If I’m not supporting three families with food, we could get some better facilities for them instead…”
“The other points to note are that crime decreased, hospitalization decreased, student performance increased. Birth weights improved and people ate more fresh fruit and vegetables.”
“And we already knew that poor children from households that receive grants are taller than those without them, which is indicative of better nutrition,” pointed out Praneet.
“From the numbers you’ve mentioned, I can’t figure out what the grant will be?” Ivo asked Nhlanhla. “Obviously not one rate for everyone. It works out to more than R10 000.00 per person, given your R340 billion for 30 million sub-poverty-line people.”
“That’s per year, less the existing grants. But you’re right. R2 000.00 per month for people over sixteen. R500.00 per child,” confirmed Nhlanhla.
“So a mother with three children, all with child grants, used to get…” Ivo scribbled.
“About twelve hundred a month. Now she’d get three five.” Nhlanhla shook his head. “But still, the inflation…”
“I see Argentina happening all over again.” Ivo was not impressed.
Nhlanhla almost smiled. “Jo asked me to pay attention to a piece you wrote about water, Ivo.”
 Ivo’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, pray tell?”
“The studies you cited led you to the conclusion that inflation on a resource brought to poor areas effectively increases prices only for the rich. The poor end up paying less, even for something that may previously have been free, because they do not need to spend resources or time to fetch it from somewhere else, or to buy it in more expensive portable packaging,” Nhlanhla said.
“That article pre-supposes that everything has a price where supply and demand match,” grumbled Ivo. “You need a true free market for that.”
“You know that deregulation will be a very big strategic focus, on an ad-hoc basis. No sweeping everything off the table and starting over. But that’s a discussion for a later date,” Nhlanhla answered.
Kgethi tapped a pen and frowned. “Are you implying that high inflation could effectively be like a wealth tax because the equilibrium price may end up lower than poor people previously paid, even if it’s higher for the rest?”
Nhlanhla grimaced. “I wouldn’t go that far. There’s no way to predict how inflation in poorer areas might be mitigated because new demand extends distribution networks, which in turn may improve efficiencies and decrease the total cost-to-citizen for basic goods.”

Nhlanhla PostBank
“Shall we move onto your feasibility, then?” asked Makhosi. “Unless someone else wants to keep waxing lyrical about the good parts, which I will be checking independently with a fine-tooth comb…”
“Not quite yet, please,” responded Nhlanhla. He cleared his throat and advanced to a new slide. “How we can achieve all of what I’m about to explain, is through the adoption of the PostBank as a State Bank. It’ll be subject to all the same legislation as commercial banks, while voluntarily accepting some additional constraints that need to be implemented nationally sooner rather than later.
“Firstly, all grants will be moved to the PostBank, which is expected to break even. Any natural-person customers it already has will have their oldest account converted to a UBI account. In order to register for the UBI, all you need is a PostBank account, duly FICAd every five years. No means-testing. The month that you turn sixteen, you start receiving your two thousand per month. You can withdraw cash, swipe, save, do EFTs, whatever. The PostBank’s existing reserve requirement will be bolstered by the state’s monthly bulk payment for UBI.” Nhlanhla looked around, but nobody seemed too perturbed by this, if they even understood, so he continued.
“The PostBank will then have wherewithal to issue loans, to anyone, even ‘reckless’ loans to the poorest. Because it has the unique guarantee that it will be receiving a small income on behalf of the borrower, in perpetuity. We aim to set the interest rates at half a percent on either side of repo. A person agrees to his loan repayment and period. But he or she can default entirely for six consecutive months. All new businesses have tough times. If the borrower has paid nothing, and made no arrangements, for six months, the PostBank will start clawing back the loan at a maximum of one-tenth of the UBI per month. Otherwise, the loan just extends in time.”
“How will you fund loans?” asked Praneet, sceptically.
“We’ll move all state accounts to the PostBank. All unused UBI money. Some ring-fencing, for clarity’s sake, but we aim to be as transparent as possible.”
“If anyone can get a loan, why shouldn’t a rich farmer just get one from you, instead of the Land Bank?” asked Cormac.
“That’s pretty much the idea,” said Nhlanhla. “Development Bank. Land Bank. IDC. PIC. Each one that becomes unnecessary saves on salaries, red tape, complexity, upkeep. And in the long run, we hope to undercut the commercial banks far enough that their rent-seeking is tempered somewhat.”
Nhlanhla paused, and started opening a different powerpoint document.
 “If I could slot in here, please, Ntate?” Kgethi asked. 
Nhlanhla nodded, and waved a go-ahead. Kgethi removed the HDMI cable from Nhlanhla’s tablet, and plugged it into her own tiny, wafer-thin laptop.

Kgethi Long Term Education plan
“Hi, everyone,” grinned Kgethi. “At the risk of being arrogant, here are links to the things of which I’m proudest.” She handed out a one-pager. “Text or mail me if you want an electronic copy, or further information.”
No nods, she noted. Some reading her abbreviated bio intently, some completely ignoring the sheet and looking at her expectantly and sceptically.
“I don’t know whether you care or not, but our education system is deeply dysfunctional, even in the much-vaunted private schools and ‘Former Model C’ schools.”
A couple of nods this time, at least, she noticed. But a lot more bored stares.
“I’m from tertiary, but my research and expertise is in mother language maths instruction, in foundational phase. Apparently, our new president dug me out of google because she wanted that from someone who doesn’t speak Finnish.”
No reaction at all.
You’ve had tougher audiences, she told herself, and ploughed ahead.
“My bigger plans include modelling Finland in a much poorer country, but for now, to convince you to get on board, here’s my pitch.
“From a free tertiary perspective, that’s never going to happen, unless the UBI empowers the poorest, least valued person to send her (or his) kids to good schools. BUT…”
Julius, at least, was sitting up. Makhosi and Cormac looked more interested. Even Ivo stopped seeming completely bored.
“The UBI-backed state bank, with the low interest rates and indefinite payback period that Nhlanhla has described, means that any student can get a full loan for studies, as long as they meet entrance requirements and get admission.”
“That’s a loan,” said Julius belligerently.
“It’s a start,” argued Kgethi. “We’ve already set a date, to discuss what our next steps will be, right after all the opening of parliament protocols. Particularly, funding for tertiary education.”
“Wonderful. More promises,” Julius sneered.
“We’re hoping you’ll help, to be honest.” Kgethi matched Julius’s stare.
“Who is we?” Julius was ready to fight.
“The cabinet she’s trying to build, which I plan to be a part of,” Kgethi replied, patiently.
“I’m leaving,” declared Julius. “This is a complete waste of my time. How dare you come up with the same study loan cop-outs? That’s NSFAS and it isn’t good enough.” He gathered his papers, and shoved them in his Louis Vitton laptop bag. He stood up.
“Except you can’t get NSFAS without proving how poor you are. That adds admin costs which means less money goes towards actual education. Removing means-testing reduces costs drastically.” She towered over Julius, who had defensively sat down again.
Thank goodness he backed down, thought Roberta, sitting quietly in the corner, making notes. Kgethi looks seriously intimidating.
“If you weren’t in politics, how would you be earning your living? Degree and all?” Kgethi almost shouted. “We have two million young people, with degrees, that can’t find jobs. Either there are no jobs, or there are serious aspects of racism in how they get allocated, or there are more serious aspects relating to the inconsistency of qualifications. And it seems that people with degrees from Wits and UCT don’t struggle nearly as much. We need to figure out what the ‘right’ universities are doing right, and how to improve what the others are doing.” 
“What do you mean ‘right’?” sneered Julius.
Kgethi stood her ground.
“I mean that, for whatever reasons, some qualifications are valued higher than the same from a different university. However unfair that is, I would rather bring all the rest of them up to Wits level, than burn them down. Wouldn’t you?”
Kgethi still loomed, tiny as she was. Julius still sat.
After a long silence, Julius nodded grudgingly.
“There are obviously many things to be decided and evaluated,” Kgeth said, “but Jo has dared me to be able to implement a feasible plan by next January. I think I might just pull it off, with a lot of help from many of you.”
Kgethi made eye-contact with Julius, then Prof Praneet, before looking at everyone else in turn, with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“For schools, our immediate plan is to evaluate on-the-ground conditions and decide how to allocate capital and maintenance resources, so that we can get going with improvements.” Kgethi checked her notes for a few seconds, distractedly.
“That’s about all from me, for now,” she concluded. “I just wanted to show how the UBI can actually improve Education, too.”
“Any questions?” asked Nhlanhla.
“I need to think about some things,” said Phumzile, “and run a hell of a lot of this past my party executive.”
Some of the others nodded, but no-one said anything else.
“I’m with Kgethi,” said Bridgitte. “I’m not wholly convinced about a lot of what Jo wants. I’m pencilled in for Mining and Land. Apparently Jo thinks that combining competing portfolios means that the poor sucker in charge will be fairer to both sides. Bridgitte smiled grimly before she continued.
“But I believe I can add value, and will be heard when I feel I need to argue. And since I have no particular loyalty to her, I do want a diverse mix of opinions. In this, the seat of ultimate political power in our country.”
“Do you honestly believe that she’ll listen, and not just whip everyone into line by threatening to fire them?” Phumzile said, highly sceptical. Makhosi and Julius echoed her expression. Nhlanhla stared studiously at a ceiling light.
“I told her she was a blithering idiot,” commented Ivo. “She told me that my opinion and background would be valuable. I hate this portfolio. I told her that, too. She said that’s precisely why she wanted me to have it. I’m another one of those ‘handle both sides of a war’ portfolios.”
“What war would that be?” asked Makhosi. She was somehow simultaneously gentle and scrutinizing.
“Justice and Consumer Protection?!” Ivo protested. “All because I’m pro de-regulation. She wants me to get rid of as much legislation as I can, without sacrificing consumer rights. It’s bloody impossible, I promise you.”
“But you’re here because, just maybe, you can?” said Sally. She was the only blonde in the room, Nhlanhla didn’t even need to check further than her name and her portfolio, Armed Forces.
“Hell, I hope so,” Ivo said quietly and rubbed the fingers of his right hand across his forehead. “This is an insane opportunity, right? To change the way things work, in our country, at least?”
“The pay isn’t too shabby, either,” commented Brian. “Me, I used to be a rugby player. I’m here because she thinks that ‘big anything‘ needs someone to keep them in check and ask uncomfortable questions. Personally, I have athlete friends, from all sorts of sports. Seems to me, after I agreed to join her, that pretty much everything I find proves her point. The more I look, the more I’m coming to believe that I was just another wage-earner in a mega-corporation that paid me exactly as little as they could get away with, and the bulk of the profit went to interests that had nothing to do with me, or even the sport.” He sighed. “I’m also in. The workers are not seeing anything of the perpetual rise in profits.”
For a while, everyone was lost in thought.
“Anything else, before I continue?” prompted Nhlanhla, and saw shaking heads.

Nhlanhla Tax changes
“Well, then, to tax implications and feasibility.
“Company Income Tax stays the same. But no bonuses may be paid if a company makes a loss in a particular year, or if the bonuses will put the company into an accrued loss. Dividends paid from after-tax accrued profits may not exceed non-executive wages and bonuses paid for that period. Executive bonuses form part of the dividend limitation.” He looked around. “Does that seem fair enough? We have a legacy of protected oligopolies and monopolies that get away with exploitation. I’ve been on the boards of a few,” Nhlanhla said ruefully.
Bridgitte frowned as she thought. “Do you have an example of how it would affect a big company?”
“Well, Eskom, for starters…” guffawed Nhlanhla. When he got his laughter under control, he mopped his eyes with a handkerchief from a pocket inside his jacket. “Or the cellular networks. In 2016, one of them paid R5.5b to staff, R6b in income tax, and R12b in dividends. Also R71m in director and key person remuneration. R35m of that was short-term and long-term incentives. If management can get 100% bonuses, they can scrape the pot a bit more for employees, too.”
Some expressions tightened, but nobody said anything, so Nhlanhla continued.
“Now prepare yourselves for some Radical Economic Transformation. A frightening amount of money must come from somewhere.
“First, a fifteen percent tax on all monies leaving the country, including purchase of foreign currency or carrying suitcases full of money through customs. The sweeteners are, one, you’ll be allowed to carry suitcases full of money out of the country. Reserve Bank limitations on sending money out of the country will be removed. You can send as much as you want as long as you pay your fifteen and complete FICA and POCA procedures.
“Second sweetener is that the State stops caring about investments outside the country and whether they got there illegally. Amnesty all around.
“Third sweetener is that you can claim a third of the Exit Tax back if you prove fairly priced imports have been received into port. The other two thirds will replace all import duties, but is not refundable.” Nhlanhla looked at his notes. “Jo hoped for two hundred billion a year. From my numbers, I think it will be more, over double.
“There’s a list of implications in your notes. My favourite is that corrupt or smuggled money will still be taxed.”
“How?” said Julius, disdainfully.
“We’ll get to that,” said Nhlanhla, glancing up. “It pertains to the other RET tax as well, and is central to every part of this discussion.” Click, went his projector remote.
“This one will cause screaming world-wide. An 8% tax on all stock exchange transactions. Securities Transfer Tax is currently a quarter percent.”
“I’ll be the very first to scream, then,” Phumzile announced. “That’s insane. You’d kill the stock market.”
Ivo was also shaking his head. “It’s gone down then?” he queried. “Jo told me ten percent. I think she’s mad.”
“Thank your stars she only briefly considered putting VAT on stock exchange transactions. I shudder to think how she would have justified that value was added,” said Nhlanhla, with a chuckle.
He continued. “We’ve come up with a more efficient way to handle the other taxes, which helps. That’s the thing I told Julius I’m getting to.” Nhlanhla clicked to a new slide. “There’s sweeteners, again. But the underlying thinking is that long-term investors would not hurt. Speculators, who manipulate markets and cause currencies to crash might be unhappy. Jo seems to believe that playing the stock market is akin to gambling and if you have money to gamble, you have the financial means to carry a bit more of the tax burden. I think that stock market volatility negatively impacts investor and consumer confidence. I’m almost in agreement with this one.”
“I can’t wait for the sweeteners,” Makhosi commented sardonically, eyebrow raised.
“Me, neither,” said the Prof quietly. “I’m pretty happy with my portfolio, but I want to know what I’d have to put up with. And how it would apply to, say, unit trust investments and retirement annuities.”
“Sweetener one, it replaces the current Securities Transfer Tax and its hundreds of exceptions. Two, abolishment of Capital Gains on share price or derivative gains. Which, technically, nowadays must legally be valued on a yearly basis and a provisional tax paid. But it’s proving pretty complicated to implement and enforce, unless SARS starts combing through the share registers of every listed and private company in the country, one by one.” Nhlanhla said. “Third is that IPOs are exempt.“
“Are there more?” asked Bridgette. 
“Just one more,” said Nhlanhla. “No more Dividend Tax on companies. Once income tax is paid on company profit, the company is free to distribute it any way it likes, subject to the bonus and profit-share rules. No further tax implications, unless it wants to move profit off-shore, or buy more shares with it.”
“That does seem to be a sweetener,” pondered Bridgitte. “But I’d need to look at how it would impact my companies to decide whether it’s a good enough trade-off.”
“I’ll get to that, too,” promised Nhlanhla. “It all inter-relates, and the net effect is about equal, for businesses that don’t make abnormally high margins, and don’t have foreign interests. Small businesses and exporters actually win.”
“Okay, I’ll wait,” pouted Bridgitte.
“Last RET-type reform is 50% estate duty on all estates over ten million,” enunciated Nhlanhla, although he was visibly wincing.
“What…?” roared a bunch of voices.
“Give it away before you die. On this I completely agree with Jo. Generational wealth is the biggest contributor to a widening equality gap. There’s a link in your pack to some research titled ‘Extreme Wealth is not Merited.’ 
“Sweetener: no more donations tax, which complicates everything and gets creatively avoided anyway. Another sweetener: no estate duty on estates less than ten million.” Nhlanhla looked up over his glasses as that settled in. “But there’s a catch.”
“Of course there is,” said Makhosi. “I’m beginning to think our president-elect should be impeached before the inauguration.”
“And yet you’re sitting here, at her invitation, because she has requested your opinion and skill in the decisions she wants to implement,” pointed out Kgethi. “I’m pretty much convinced that if someone comes up with a different alternative, she’ll embrace it with just as much drive. But she wants informed, expert advice. And she thinks you can give it.”
Makhosi stared at Kgethi, angry, her jaw clenching. Then her eyes narrowed. She breathed out and turned to Nhlanhla. “So, what’s the catch?”
“Any money you donate to will be subject to a 10% deduction before it even hits the beneficiary’s account, if…”
Again, there was uproar. Rapid-fire comments were being hurled across the boardroom table. If Nhlanhla had time to inspect the groupings, he may have been able to make a few predictions. But the shouting was getting louder. “If…” he tried again, and was drowned out. He took a deep breath.
“IF…” he roared, and was rewarded with resentful silence and some sarcastic wide-eyed expressions. “If the recipient earns more than a million a year. She wants to abolish personal income tax, below a million a year.”
“Pull the other one,” said Ivo. “Punish the companies and kill the biggest portion of government income. If I wasn’t morbidly curious I’d be drafting my resignation now.”
“Well, then this should be right up your alley,” retorted Nhlanhla. “She… No, I believe that the state should do what it needs to do, in the most efficient and cost-effective way. She feels that that the state removing money, imaginary or otherwise, from the economy, imposes a time lag before it goes back in. It also provides an opportunity for corruption during the state spending process. We spend one percent of tax revenue enforcing tax compliance. She says don’t take it in the first place, so that it gets spent and the multiplier has more time. The companies will increase sales. The production will improve to meet demand. At the end of it all, companies will pay more tax because they made more money. But until they have customers in sufficient quantities, they won’t grow. Until new companies or entrepreneurs start up to meet a new demand, our skills and our jobs won’t improve. Unemployed or retrenched people aren’t very good customers. Dividends on shares and returns on insurance products and annuities would also be tax free until a person reaches total income of a million per year.”
“That’s a lot of tax deregulation, which I support,” Ivo concurred. “Okay, I’m listening. But I’m also going to go through your sources with all the bloody-mindedness I can bring to bear. How exactly do you plan to police all these things?”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Nhlanhla, “I present to you the conceptual Provisional Transaction Tax, or provtrans, as we’ve started calling it.”

Nhlanhla ProvTrans
“Lastly, said Nhlanhla, ten minutes later, “It also simplifies the headaches relating to under-invoicing for physical export goods that miraculously get ten times more expensive when they arrive in a tax haven. Exporters could claim back the entire provtrans on foreign income if they log the export and prove that they invoiced at fair market value. That means that the only income in the country that can be considered untaxed is to individuals or to exporters.”
 Everyone mulled over the information on the screen.
“So all payments received into any account other than a UBI account have 10% deducted before the remainder reflects. And even in a UBI account, once receipts exceed a million rand per annum, am I understanding correctly?” asked Julius.
Nhlanhla nodded.
“And companies pay the Provisional Transaction Tax when they receive payment,” said Phumzile, requesting confirmation. “And set it off against later tax liabilities?”
“Only later because of tax legislation,” responded Ivo, glumly. “I get the point that Income Tax gets paid more than a year after most of the profit is made.”
“And VAT as long as ninety days later. ProvTrans smoothes cash flow, and rewards companies for submitting returns earlier,” reiterated Nhlanhla. “The cash flow burden would seem to shift to the producers, but on net, it doesn’t. It’s actually better for tax compliant companies, because they don’t have bi-annual provisional income taxes due, or large VAT returns because all the purchases input VAT was claimed in a previous period. They’re more likely to get refunds.”
“What are the tax burden implications for firms?” asked the Prof.
“The first implication is that you don’t need to be registered for any tax types at all if you’re happy to pay the provtrans. You can run a small business and never ever submit a tax return. You could even deregister if your historical accounts are paid,” said Nhlanhla.
“Sweeping away a lot of red tape and barriers to entry,” said Ivo, eyebrows raised. “And a huge dent for the auditing industry.”
Nhlanhla nodded. “Also, unbelievably, the average local firm’s tax bill will increase from a total of 9% of turnover in all taxes, to 10%, if they decide to deregister entirely. If they stay compliant, it’ll decrease to 6%, if they decrease wages by the PAYE component and it all drops to the bottom line, since the PAYE saving would only be taxed at the normal 28% CIT rate. If they spend the PAYE saving, on more employees, or better wages, or capacity investment, they’d drop to 5% of turnover.
“Stock market exposure would put a firm at 10% of turnover. Off-shore interests or payments would add more, up to about 13%.” Nhlanhla looked around, expecting disbelief, and seeing it.
“So we murder foreign investment. Is she insane?” asked Cormac. “Are you insane?”
“We’re not terribly worried about foreign investment,” answered Nhlanhla. “We’re looking for foreign direct investment. Exempting IPOs means that money that comes in to fund new businesses gets taxed when it leaves. If Mark Facebook buys over Mark Shuttleworth, he can’t ditch the shares and try to buy Nedbank instead, without paying some tax. He can’t even try to take it out, without leaving quite a bit behind.
“How much will you scream if your dividends and profits are higher, even after the Foreign Transfer tax?” Nhlanhla expounded, countering Cormac’s question with a question. “All it needs is for the business to grow. Which it will, if only in nominal terms, given the inflation we expect. After that, let the firms compete to service the citizens.”
“If spending the PAYE component decreases a firm’s taxes, they’ll be incentivised to create jobs.” Julius smirked. “This is voodoo economics. I’m getting my experts to go through this stuff.”
“Call it sangoma economics,” giggled Kgethi. “Even the informal sector will contribute to the tax base, once they get prosperous.”
“The fiscus actually has a problem if everyone creates more jobs instead of hogging their PAYE for shareholders,” Nhlanhla clarified, agreeing with Julius. “That’s the flaw in the plan, according to Jo. But I think the increased jobs and flow of money will increase production and innovation and entrepreneurship.”
“I’m following, but this is a lot to swallow,” said Thapelo. A young man, maybe mid-thirties, he’d been so quiet that Nhlanhla had barely registered his presence. 
Almost everyone nodded agreement. 
IT, said the portfolio description, under the picture, when Nhlanhla checked his cheat list.
“I think I’d rather go and read your sources and interrogate all of these spreadsheets,” continued Thapelo. “What’s the upshot? Is it possible?”
“The devil is in the timing, but yes, I think so,” said Nhlanhla, worriedly. “Shall we take half an hour for tea? Talk, ask me anything you want, then afterwards I’ll explain the calculation and estimate spreadsheets…” 
He was met by groans all around.
“Okay, then let’s turn tea into a working meal instead. Have a look at the details, and we can chat informally about any queries or concerns,” suggested Nhlanhla. “You may have to give me a few seconds to swallow…” There were a few soft chuckles. Nhlanhla was not a small man.
“If we’re careful and innovative, we can pull it off,” he confirmed. “And the only ones whose standard of living won’t improve are the ones who can afford a more expensive one anyway.”

D minus 165
Education idea - Kgethi
“Good morning, Jo,” said Kgethi, in annoyingly chirpy, and wakeful, voice.
“Kgethi, hi…” replied Jo, blearily. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven. Sorry,” Kgethi said, sounding alarmed, “did I wake you?”
“No problem,” Jo said quickly. “I just had a rough night, wondering about yesterday.”
“So you haven’t heard anything yet?” asked Kgethi.
“Makhosi is in. Sally has reservations. Still waiting to hear from Phumzile and Julius, but I expected them to want to speak with their party leaderships, first.” Jo rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn. “At least none of the Radicals have actually turned me down. Yet…”
“Well, this might cheer you up, then,” said Kgethi. “I couldn’t sleep either, because something Julius said kept bothering me…”
“What did he say?” asked Jo.
“That NSFAS isn’t good enough. So I’ve been up since three looking up everything I could find about their funding and spend,” said Kgethi. “I can’t find much detail yet about what they’re owed, but they get R12 billion rand a year from National.”
“And?” 
“That’s enough for forty thousand full bursaries every year, for expensive four-year degrees.” Kgethi waited for Jo to respond.
“There’s still all the admin in deciding who gets them, and paying them timeously, and not adding any accidental zeroes…” Jo said, wearily.
“A lot changes when all students can get a UBI loan,” Kgethi pointed out. “It means we don’t need NSFAS at all…” 

D minus 164
Inauguration Intro
The pomp and ceremony of the inauguration was overwhelming. Bunting, draping, banners, groupings of improbable plants in improbable places. The people. So many people.
The ones who didn’t vote for us elected people who elected me, thought Jo. Everyone here is my family.
She had questioned the need for having an inauguration at all, and was told that it had been planned for months. So it definitely could not be held in Bloemfontein, either. Jo thought that if so much money was going to be spent, it could just as well go to other towns occasionally. 
The Union Buildings were beautiful, but they had so much heartbreak in their history. 
At least she’d convinced them to hide the razor-wire barricades in trees and behind the terrace walls. Razor-wire felt wrong, but it would take more time than she’d had so far to make work of crime and honestly reassuring South Africans that their safety was truly a concern for government.
She held her husband’s hand and tried to pay attention. Occasionally Roberta would catch her eye and mime something to remind Jo to react appropriately.
The proceedings ambled onwards. 

Inaugural speech
“Thank you,” said Jo to the master of ceremonies and stepped up to the podium.
”My fellow South Africans, and our honoured guests.”
She took a deep breath and looked out over all the faces for a moment.
“For a human life to have meaning, it must contribute value. We all contribute love and caring to our family and friends and neighbours. We trust them, and accept their love and caring in return when we cannot be strong enough. We nurture our children when they are helpless and we take care of our infirm, whether infirmity be due to age, disability, or addictions. We get annoyed with them, yes, but we don’t let them go hungry.”
She paused.
“Some contribute by raising children and managing families. Some contribute by caring for others, often strangers, sometimes people they’ll never meet. 
“Some contribute by providing a product or service that is better, or cheaper, or more convenient for the customers they serve than would otherwise be available.
“Some contribute by using their voices and their time to improve the circumstances of a larger community than their immediate surroundings.
“Some contribute by having ideas and passion which together are so great that they need the help of others to turn them into reality, which, in turn, contributes more.
“We contribute our skills and our efforts to greater humanity when we accept employment and help create value as part of a team.”
Breathe first, I’ve always said the next bit too fast, Jo thought, before she continued.
 “Unfortunately, our world has come to define value in terms of share prices and shareholder returns, almost exclusively. In economies, value is portrayed through hundreds of abbreviations that completely ignore actual contribution when it isn’t part of some corporation’s bottom line.
“I argue that value is only created when it improves the wealth, and by wealth, I mean well-being, of more than just a selfish circle.”
Jo paused and breathed in, deeply. Now for the lecture. Easy, slowly.
“True value is destroyed when a company, or a country, makes a loss. 
“True value is destroyed when customers are forced to pay exorbitant prices to maximise dividends or ludicrous executive bonuses for a select few. 
“True value is destroyed when anything is purposely over-priced to line the pockets of a small group.
“True value is destroyed when someone is lost through lack of decent medical care, or left behind through lack of educational opportunities.
“True value is destroyed when people with skills aren’t able to contribute them.
“True value is destroyed when a worker uses more material, or more time, than his skill requires him to use.
“True value is destroyed when people with jobs don’t do them, or do them as badly as they can get away with.
“True value is destroyed when people break something that could have been of continued use to themselves and those around them.
 “True value is destroyed when a government regulates or controls or interferes with anything that doesn’t directly improve the well-being of its people. It is destroyed when a huge, bloated, poisonous octopus of state bleeds losses and irregular expenditure and downright corruptions.
“True value is destroyed when you grab so many sweets that they make you sick, while, if they were shared, more people would enjoy some sweetness and you wouldn’t feel ill.
“True value is destroyed when you do not care, and care deeply, about your customer. Every other person is a potential customer.
“When true value is destroyed, well-being is destroyed.
“I challenge you to join me in my commitment to weigh every act, every interaction, every decision, in light of whether it makes a contribution. And then to consider whether the contribution could be even greater if I learned more, thought more, worked harder, or acted with more fairness and kindness.
“Those who prefer the way things have always been say it cannot be done. I say it must be done.
“We each nurture our family, our community, our tribe. I beg you to make your tribe bigger. Include more and more of humanity in your thoughts and actions and prayers.
“Let our country be the beacon again. The one who shows the world that it can be done, and how to do it.”

D minus 160
Mosa in Parliament / Manifesto
Mosa was in Parliament, for only the second time. She had done a lot of reading, but she still felt bewildered and completely unprepared. I’m barely twenty-five years old, she argued with… with whom? God?
She had gotten a weave for the first time in her life, in honour of the inauguration. She liked the way it looked, but she had yet to decide whether it was worth all the effort when it started looking scruffy in a few weeks’ time.
The beautifully arranged long bob made her look like a duskier young Jackie Kennedy.
Mosa was utterly classy, even though she would be confused if anyone told her so. Her grace and carriage were natural and unconscious, an almost haughty balance and poise. She was curvy in proportion to her rather short frame, not stick-thin, but not an ounce out of place.
Demure, if not shy, Mosa still smiled most of the time, and laughed often. She tended to listen more than she talked, and she always considered her reply carefully and for as long as she needed to, when she was asked a direct question.
Jo’s idea had sounded nice, and so Mosa had laughingly agreed to sign a form:
 
 
Neither Mosa nor Jo had believed, for an instant, that Mosa’s new job would be here, in Cape Town, at a salary both of them together had not even dreamed of, before.
I don’t get to finish my CA(SA) articles for five more years, thought Mosa. After that, I head back into the job market with a CV that has a huge gap. But can’t I do well here, do good here, in the meantime? I was working towards a good life for me, and my mom, and my babies.
Mosa didn’t have any babies. She had been completing her honours, and David was finishing his electrical artisan certificate next month. They kinda knew they’d be together, but there were bigger priorities right now. Although David had started mentioning lobola, in an almost, but not quite, joking way.
That was a problem. Mosa was an only child, and had never met her father. Her family was a little unconventional, because although Mom was the quintessential obedient seTswana woman, who deferred correctly, in all ways, to the male elders, she was also the matriarch who unofficially made all the decisions. Not because she interfered, but because she considered carefully, and gave the best advice she could, when it was asked of her. It was asked of her often. Maybe even by the elders.
Last year, Mom had been part of the negotiations for lobola for Mosa’s cousin, Mpho. But Mpho had uncles on her mother’s side. Mom had been included for her wisdom, but mostly because she was the only elder left on Mpho’s father’s side.
I don’t have any elders, apart from Mom. Who would she ask, when it came to negotiations? When David stops joking, and asks for real, what can I say?
Mosa’s mother had been saving for decades. She had defied her own parents, back in the eighties, because they believed girls shouldn’t go to school or have bank accounts.
My mother completed standard two. Grade four, nowadays. But she saved up, as a domestic, enough money to pay for me to go to university for a year, and stay in res, and have some pocket money. I worked hard, too. She was so excited every time I did well. It helped me work harder.
Mosa loved her mother, but was a little embarrassed by her. All Mosa’s friends had a parent with a degree, or an acceptable job.
Acceptable by whose standards? Mosa suddenly realized. I’m here, pretending to be an MP. But I am one, for real. 
And I could only be friends with girls from those families because Mom saved every cent she could to allow me to go to those schools, and didn’t stop asking on my behalf. Mom isn’t embarrassed by her job. She takes great pride in doing it very well. 
All her former employers still call her to invite her to visit. Will I be able to say the same when my baby has graduated? 
I thought I understood her sacrifice, Mosa suddenly realised, but I really had no idea.
I can do the best I can with what I know. Look what my Mom achieved with that attitude.
Maybe I’ll tell David lobola negotiations will be with Mom, even if it means they’d probably include me…
Mosa’s attention came back to the National Assembly room, when the Speaker rang the bell to indicate that proceedings were about to commence. The hubbub quietened down. 
Jo’s opening address was first on the programme. Mosa could see her, flushed and smiling, alternately glancing at some notes and looking around at the rest of the room, finally ending with a questioning glance at the Speaker. At his nod, she stood up.
Jo started out too softly. She seemed to realize this, and started speaking much louder an instant before the sound people apparently adjusted the volume on the microphone.
“… decrease my salary to one million per year…” Jo’s voice suddenly boomed throughout the House before the volume was adjusted down again.
“… and any increases to be equal to the lower of the percentage increase in the Dividend, or the percentage increase in the income tax rebate amount.” Jo was now audible, but not too loud.  
“That’s ridiculous!” someone burst out.
Jo looked up at the heckler, and interrupted herself. “I am not imposing this on anyone except myself, although I hope others may follow my lead.” 
Jo had not told Mosa about this. Everything had been so hectic since Jo’s surprise election. They hadn’t really visited in months.
Apparently, Jo wanted the House to approve that her salary be decreased by more than seventy percent. That would put it at less than Mosa’s own. 
“First Citizens’ Dividend by December,” Jo was saying. Education and the land question would receive highest priority. She urged everyone to take seriously the huge responsibility that they had been entrusted with, and finished off with some oratory platitudes about using differences in priorities and opinions to forge better solutions instead of fuelling division.
As she sat down, there was uproar. 
Eventually, a majority party MP made his voice heard above the ruckus. “Mr Speaker, Mr Speaker! If I may?”
The Speaker acknowledged him and thundered an instruction for silence.
The MP began speaking before the noise had entirely died down.
“This is preposterous, Mr Speaker, Honourable Members. The president is making unilateral decisions that affect all of us. The majority party demands that the president answers questions, as required by the rules of the National Assembly, as soon as possible.”
The renewed roar was brought under submission by a prolonged glare from the Speaker, a gentle, eloquent man who seemed embarrassed by the lack of dignity displayed by some of the older members of the House.
“In accordance with Rule 140,” said the Speaker, “the president has sixteen days to prepare for questions, after they have been submitted by the Speaker. So the earliest I can set a question day is Friday, 10 May, if all questions are received today. Can you get all your questions to me by 3pm?” His raised eyebrow and pursed lips were definitely sarcastic.
Again, pandemonium broke out. The Speaker watched it, quietly, until eventually an opposition MP recovered enough to request the floor. The Speaker acknowledged, and waited for her to speak, with such pointed regard that the floor calmed within seconds and turned to look in the direction of his stare.
“The president is a maverick, and none of us can be sure of her plans…” Objections and catcalls rang out, but soon settled again.
“I agree with my esteemed colleague from the majority party, that a question day is required urgently. I submit that we be given one week to frame our questions, and that the question day be set for 17 May.” She resumed her seat amid muted nods and susurrating whispers.
“All in favour?” asked the Speaker, and waited for everyone to log their preference. He looked at the screen which reflected the vote.
“We will invite the president to answer questions on the 17th of May,” he confirmed a few minutes later. “All questions to be submitted to my office by no later than 12pm on 1 May.”
The Speaker gave Jo a querying look, and they had a muted exchange. He looked up and continued. “The first of May is a public holiday. The President has offered to waive a day, so questions are due at mid-day, 2 May. 
Jo nodded her assent. After a few more words, she nodded a greeting to the benches and left the Chamber.
The day’s schedule continued until lunch, and resumed afterwards with a much smaller complement of MPs.
As he was settling in, the Speaker read the top document on the pile on his desk.
“Honourable Members,” he started. “The president regrets that there will be a state visit from Ethiopia during the week of the 17th, and requests…” He halted as exasperated voices rose from the floor, before continuing, “that the question day be scheduled earlier, on Monday, 13 May, instead.”
Mosa shook her head with a slight smile as a new vote was called for. Typical Jo, she thought.
D minus 159
First Cabinet meeting
“Ladies, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. I believe that all of you had agendas when you accepted this position in the first place. But I also believe that our agendas essentially align on major points. The less important points that we don’t agree on are grey areas that require the application of real expertise, and constitute the reasons for my hand-picking each of you. I don’t expect us to be of one mind. I assume that there will be vociferous arguments. But the arguments will be backed by each of your individual knowledge, skills, and passion. If all goes well, we will be close colleagues for five years. 
“I’m the unqualified no-one from nowhere that accidentally got this job. I have a layman’s knowledge of all your fields of expertise. To make our country work, a layman’s knowledge won’t cut it. I am absolutely arrogant enough to believe that I can learn what I need to emulate your combined experience, but I probably don’t have the eight hundred years I’d need to do so.”
That got a few chuckles, at least.
“So allow me a short soliloquy to introduce myself.”
Roberta stifled a laugh. Jo frowned at her before continuing.
“I have never been expert in any field. I’ve been adequate in a few. My agenda is simple. Implementing a universal basic income, and paying for it without mortally wounding anything else. Making it possible for anyone who wants to learn to do so. Making it possible for anyone who wants to excel to do so. Hard work expected as par for the course, from all of them, and definitely from all of us.
“I do, and will, swear a lot. I’m a bean-counter, an atheist and a nudist. I have a very chequered past but I foreswore lying years ago. If you ask me a question, please be certain you want to hear the answer.
“I prefer using first names. I request and encourage you to use mine. 
“If I use a term or an idiom from one of my native languages that you consider offensive, please call me out immediately. I would rather learn on the spot and adjust my behaviour than unknowingly cause hurt over weeks or months.
“Just so you know, all of you scare me a bit. You’re phenomenal in some sphere or another and I am astounded and profoundly humbled at your presence.” Jo took a very deep breath. “But I’m also terrible at delegating. I want to understand everything, cross-check everything, and argue everything myself, preferably from first principles.
“You all know all know more or less how I wanted to deploy you, but for now that’s fluid. You each have varied skills that are greater than one portfolio. We need to hash out how we are going to divide up the tasks from the twenty ministries we’re canning, and which ones really should stand alone. Even the names of the ministries are up for discussion, but I do want to reach a decision today. I would also prefer that the Cabinet we settle on remains that way for the entire five years. No re-shuffles at all, if we can help it. So think carefully, think long-term, and weigh up where your expertise may be valuable in an advisory capacity to portfolios outside your own.
“There are up to four additional portfolios that I will fill should we feel we need to. If that happens, we need to decide who we will choose. We also need to pick a deputy president, preferably at the end, when we know who we have and how responsibilities will be divided.”
They looked around at each other with raised eyebrows. Did that surprise you? thought Jo to herself. Good.
Roberta was regarding the new cabinet members with a Mona Lisa smile.
“Do we need any introductions? Or shall we do the corporate team-building bullshit of going around the table and each saying, ‘Hi, I’m Jo and I like kittens and reading and apparently I’m Minister of… oh, I’m President’?”
Jo looked around at everyone, doing her best to fake a real smile.
“Hi, I’m Bridgette, and I like rocks and minerals and cool gadgets to get the latter out of the former.”
Real laughs at that. Thank you, Bridgette, thought Jo, still breathing as fast as she could without conspicuously hyperventilating. 
Any further takers? wondered Jo, but no-one else seemed inclined to follow suit.
“Okay, I’ll do the honours then.
“Bridgette is my pick for Mining. Possibly Land too, if you all don’t talk me out of that. She is a successful businesswoman in the mining industry, who is passionate about alleviating poverty and supports nationalisation of mines. If that really becomes an issue I wanted someone on the team who knowledgably opposes my view.”
A few nods, but no comments.
“Next is Prof Praneet, who I chose for Health. He has a stellar record in both academia and the corporate sector, and has developed models to measure the effectiveness of medical interventions. He’s worked with and for medical schemes and government. That’s the very short and understated version. He must like awards, because he gets so many of them. I think he likes kittens.”
The Prof half grimaced, half smiled.
“I don’t think Nhlanhla needs any introduction. As to what he likes, I don’t know… What do you like?” she asked him.
“Gardening.”
“Really? Flowers or vegetables?”
“Whatever isn’t already perfectly maintained when I have a weekend off.”
“What, we don’t get weekends off?” quipped Brian, fixing a mock frown on Jo.
Another chuckle or two. This isn’t about getting laughs, but is this ice ever going to break? thought Jo. We have a lot of meaningful discussion to get through.
“Brian is Sport, for obvious reasons. Also his passion for using sport as an upliftment tool. And having experience of being on the athletes’ side of a sport committee or union.”
“Kgethi for Education. Her research expertise, particularly in mathematics and mother tongue education, is impressive. She has more letters behind her name than I have in my whole name. And she also knows academia.”
“I don’t like kittens, though,” Kgethi piped up. “Allergies.”
Jo smiled back.
“Mme Makhosi for Internal Affairs, which I propose to combine with oversight of the PostBank. The datasets overlap almost completely, and her admin doctorate I think will come in eminently useful.”
“Julius for Special Interests. Women, students, military vets, disabled, etcetera.”
“Cormac is an environmental lawyer who has worked all over the world. He’s here for Agriculture and Environment.”
Cormac smiled and gave a half-wave. 
“Ivo is a polymath, a proponent of free markets, and a mythbuster. I want him to head up Justice and Consumer Protection, the combination of which I hijacked from Germany. He’s also completely anti-regulation, which is why I combined the two. On one hand, I want to remove as much red tape as possible, but I also want to be sure that consumers are not taken for a ride as a result of over-zealous or ill-considered deregulation.
“Phumzile for Social Welfare, incorporating the former grants which will be replaced by the Dividend, and also Housing and community facilities.
“Sally, for Armed Forces, including Police. She’s been the police spokesperson for years, and has lots of stripes that I’ll try hard to learn the meaning of.”
Sally smiled tersely.
“Thapelo is a youngster whom you probably won’t be able to google, but he’s one of the best I’ve ever met in terms of understanding, integrating and implementing software systems, particularly the common accounting and payroll ones. He’s also a compassionate and very efficient trainer, to users from all walks of life and levels of skill. I am creating a Ministry of IT. This country has been spending seven billion a year on systems and software, but many of them don’t work properly. None of them talk to each other. We don’t know how many people have been allocated multiple RDP houses in different jurisdictions. We can’t identify traffic offenders even a hundred kilometres from where they habitually transgress. We can’t identify wanted persons and people with outstanding warrants on the spot. We don’t know if everyone on the grants system is still alive. We don’t know if everyone on the payroll actually exists. And the financial reports from municipalities fluctuate from quarter to quarter.”
Thapelo looked ashen.
“I think we’d also need someone for Infrastructure and Transport. Arts and Culture I believe needs to be a stand-alone. But I’m not sure we need someone specific for Foreign Affairs, could we handle it by just sending whomever isn’t too busy with real work to do some schmoozing?”
Great, now they know I’m crazy, thought Jo, when she saw their expressions.
Everyone had been scribbling or making notes on devices or staring into the distance for ages now. It is a very uncomfortable situation, Jo admitted to herself. Although I hoped they’d get to know each a bit at Nhlanhla’s presentation last week. Decision time. Do I back off?
I can’t leave them alone to suss each other out just yet. We have decisions to make. So no running away for me.
“Right,” she said. “My immediate priorities are the UBI and Education. Everyone else is a step-child until we make some gains there. But we need to find ways to improve pretty much everything. 
“We can test things on a limited roll-out, but we can’t throw any systems on their heads until we’re ready and able to implement for real and on time. And sell it to the stakeholders concerned.”
She waved over to the organogram projected on the wall. She searched around for a moment, to find Roberta already presenting her with a laser pointer.
“These are the ministries I have in mind. These,” she said, pointing to the left of the screen, “are the previous ones that I consider superfluous or just plain idiotic. Then here,” the pointer moved to the bottom, “are SOE’s, in pink, and Directorates, in yellow, that somebody needs to oversee. Necessary ones, in my opinion, on the right.”
“This is the strangest cabinet I’ve ever heard of,” opined Julius. “You can’t even be certain that we’ll agree with you, never mind do what you want.”
“You elected me knowing that I will implement a UBI. Some of you accepted a spot on my party list as a joke. You don’t have to agree with me. People disagree, on social media, in companies, in families. What I want you to do, when you disagree, is convince the rest otherwise, or help find a compromise that works. Any two of your parties can probably pass a motion of no confidence, if you’re not truly committed to alleviating poverty and making lives better, or if you are committed and still think I’m fucking it up. 
“But that’s why I have all of you, so I don’t fuck up. The people who piss me off most will probably be the ones I most crucially need to listen to. I hope I’m clever enough to remember that when the going gets rough. Because it will.”
There was dead silence for what seemed, to Jo, like centuries.
Then Ivo started clapping, slowly. Was he being sarcastic? Jo tensed. No, his expression looked pensive, not sardonic.
Bridgette started clapping too, and Kgethi.
Then everyone else, except Thapelo, who still looked like a rabbit in the headlights. And Roberta, who was leaning back in her chair apparently deep in thought.

Thapelo remembers Ntombi
Thapelo felt nauseous. He couldn’t believe that he was sitting in the same room as the president and the cabinet. As a member of the cabinet. 
And it was because of Roberta, he was sure, although he was shocked.
Roberta had been deadpan, and not given away any hint that they knew each other. Extremely well.
About ten years ago, now, that they’d first met. Then, for three years, Thapelo had been a pampered, infatuated toy-boy to Ntombi. She was much older, but she was fun, and kind, and graceful. And spectacular in bed. She was also one the smartest people Thapelo had ever met.
She had paid his tuition fees for his bachelor’s and honours, and he was halfway through his master’s degree when tragedy struck.
All my fault, an older, wiser Thapelo grimly admitted to himself.
Once. One deeply regretted, stupid, stupid, stupid one night stand after a night out with the boys.
Ntombi was livid when she received a gloating text from the woman in question. She had tracked Thapelo down in the library at Wits School of Governance, screaming about humiliation and ungrateful sons of bitches. It was over, over, do you hear?!
No more school fees. No more pocket money. No more snazzy flat in downtown Maboneng.
The little white BMW 1 series. The expensive holidays. The research trip to Sweden for his dissertation, which had been booked but not yet paid for. Oh shit, oh shit, oh, my God…
He had tried to calm her down, placate her, apologised, pleaded.
She had snatched her arm out of his grasp and run down the stairs, out into the parking lot, with Thapelo close behind.
She didn’t even see the truck speeding out of the delivery entrance. Thapelo watched in horror as the world seemed to slow, forcing him to notice every single little detail to replay in his mind for eternity.
The bird that seemed to dip towards Ntombi’s head as she wheeled around to face him, still cursing and sobbing.
The driver looking for traffic in the lane he was about to merge with, which was in the other direction.
The way Ntombi’s hand covered the numbers on the registration plate right before ten tons of barrelling juggernaut hit her.
The sickening, crunching thud.
The screaming of the brakes, the skidding wheels, the last of which crushed a swathe across her torso.
He ran to her bleeding and broken body and cradled it into his arms, tears streaming down his face, rocking back and forth and apologising, over and over and over again.
Roberta had returned to South Africa to help with settling Ntombi’s estate, and to support a devastated Thapelo. Ntombi’s family had included the usual complement of vultures that refused to acknowledge Thapelo, and the acrimonious process dragged on for years.
Roberta had paid for Thapelo’s outstanding tuition and the research trip.
She was also saying something, now, Thapelo realized, dragging his attention back to the Cabinet Meeting. Some of the other ministers were clapping. Disoriented, Thapelo wondered why.
Cabinet meeting resumed
“So, shall we get to allocating jobs?” Roberta asked.
“First, I want to say something,” interrupted Ivo. “I think we have to prioritise safety, over everything else. Protecting consumers is pointless, giving them a UBI is pointless, if they’re going to get mugged in their homes because the police don’t respond.”
Phumzile nodded. “If there is a criminal network, or a gang, or even just a few powerful bullies in an area, the police sometimes refuse even to go there. I mean, Khayalitsha is a nightmare. What are the chances that the poorer people will be allowed to keep their cash, or their long-coveted two-ring stove, or their new shoes and warm jacket? Power depends on fear, so anyone whose quality of life improves will be randomly vandalised, at a minimum, just to perpetuate the fear. I agree that without safety, the UBI will make very little difference in people’s lives.”
“Even for the wealthier citizens, a credible and effective police force would go a long way towards ameliorating resentment about the new wealth taxes you want to implement,” said Nhlahla, speaking directly to Jo. 
She stayed silent. She hadn’t considered this, but Nhlanhla had her overwhelming respect. If he agreed with Ivo and Phumzile, she was about to exercise her best shutting-the-fuck-up skills, and then wait to see what happened.
“You’d raise quality of life immediately, if people aren’t afraid to walk to the corner shop or the shared toilets at night, or feel forced to take convoluted transport routes to avoid crime or taxi violence hotspots. Or if legal protesters don’t break and loot in the process. I’ve seen decent people, proud people, go a little bit crazy when mob mentality kicks in,” Thapelo added, not quite looking anyone in the eye.
The silence seemed to go on forever.
“A bunch of health system headaches would be much improved if people could get to hospitals safely, or be rescued sooner, when necessary, without additional brutality from mob justice, or police themselves,” Praneet weighed in.
“I stand corrected. Those are all compelling arguments. Could you all forward us any links or research you think pertains?” Jo asked, and received nods all around. “Sally, could we discuss in more depth on Monday morning?”
“Monday we’ve scheduled for Education,” corrected Roberta. “Afternoon, or Tuesday.”
“Tuesday morning works for me,” confirmed Sally, looking at her phone. “And it allows me to follow up on some things I’ve already started executing. I’d like Ivo and Thapelo to sit in, though?”
Thapelo nodded mutely, without checking his phone first, and then logged the new meeting in his calendar.
“Great, I’ll be there,” said Ivo. “The effectiveness of the police force depends in large part on the efficiency and credibility of the justice system. This cannot be handled in isolation, with departments working at cross-purposes because of diverging or even conflicting agendas.”
“I’d like to come, if it’s okay,” said Cormac. “If only out of curiosity. None of you are attorneys.”
“No problem,” replied Sally. “I don’t see why not.”
 “Then we’ll report back to the group Wednesday next if that works for everyone?” said Jo, nodding. 
“Speaking of Monday’s Education, Jo, I’d like to invite Julius,” said Kgethi, glancing slyly at Julius. 
There were a few muted chuckles, and Jo wondered why. “Fine, I don’t mind,” she said, bemused.
Julius nodded too.
“Oy,” Jo suddenly remembered, “did I mention to all of you that I’d like to schedule a regular Wednesday morning cabinet meeting? At least for the first few months, until we get the hang of inter-departmental priorities and strategic co-operation. Next week, I want to do some individual brainstorming sessions, but if we can book Wednesday the 8th at nine am?”
Everyone checked a diary, phone, tablet, or laptop.
“I’ll reschedule my appointment,” said Cormac, “I’d want to know what we’re working on here, before I have it, anyway.”
“Mine can be moved earlier,” said Julius. “For the opposite reason, I want to be able to give some feedback from it.”
“Could it possibly be at two instead?” Phumzile requested. “I’m meeting with the SASSA administration, and I’m getting a resentful vibe. I could bully them, but I’d rather win them over, and that was the earliest date they could give me.”
That seemed to work for everyone.
“So back to the structure of Cabinet and allocation of authority, then?” asked Jo.
“I have a nomination for Arts and Culture,” said Makhosi, “bearing in mind who you’ve already appointed, and that we must choose from the existing MP’s.”
“Yes?” prompted Roberta when nobody else said anything.
“Your cousin, Jo. Chantelle. She has her PhD in music, but has been active in artistic research across all art-forms in South Africa. Plus she had that fight with her university about the withdrawal of her doctorate. She’s in Parliament, on your list.”
“You investigated all of us…” Jo guessed, and laughed. “She’d be amazing, but she’d be just as useful on relevant committees. I could do without the immediate taint of nepotism, and I’d prefer not to complicate this forum with family. 
“I admit I am clueless about the challenges of such a ministry, I just feel it’s necessary, because it does create another avenue for empowerment.”
“I could I handle the ministry for a while,” said Brian. “I think many of those challenges you don’t know about are similar to the ones faced by Sport. Step-child career, and all that. Surely she’d be allowed to act as an advisor?”
“What about Mohale?” asked Julius. “She’s a writer and a singer, self-made and published.”
“From Twitter? She told me about her volunteer work, teaching kids to read, before she blocked me. Is she among your MPs?” Jo responded, momentarily star-struck and idiotic.
“No, but she might be on Phumzile’s benches.” Julius looked across to his new colleague.
“Pretty sure she’s not,” replied Phumzile. 
Roberta cleared her throat and glared at Jo.
“Confession time, it seems,” said Jo. “I’ve not used the two minister posts, and two deputy posts, that I’m allowed to fill from outside the National Assembly. I really want to avoid deputy ministers, but we do have some wild cards, if we need them.”
“Can I check out CV’s on our party list? Maybe we have a good option in Parliament already, that I just don’t know well,” suggested Phumzile. “Nhlanhla, Makhosi, and Julius should, too. Now that we know what this team is actually trying to achieve.”
Team, thought Jo. She called it a team. Maybe my dream isn’t that ludicrous…
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Jo replied. “Shall we have a twenty-minute bathroom and leg-stretching break, and everyone makes a few phone calls? Then I can sneak a quick cigarette…”
“Just before we do,” interrupted Julius. “You don’t have anyone on the organogram for trade and industry, and you haven’t mentioned it as a vacancy. Why?”
“I considered it, but I wanted to call it the Ministry of Growth. And then I mostly dropped it because I wanted growth to be a priority for everyone,” replied Jo. “What are you thinking?”
“You guys mentioned Twitter. Unathi is self-employed and very active in small business development. And vocally DSP. Isn’t she on your list, Phumzile?”
“Uhm, no, I don’t think so. If we’d known this was going to happen, maybe we’d have had chosen fewer career politicians. Although we do need people with experience in Parliament too. I might be able to reach her, if we’re going for that phone call break.” Phumzile turned to Jo. “If you concur?”
“I know of her, but I didn’t think of approaching her. You guys have a point.” Jo considered. “Can we have a quick vote? Do we need a ministry of growth or whatever? Thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no, no hands for don’t know or don’t care.”
Eight thumbs up, one down, the other three undecided.
“Any other nominations for whom we should try get?” Jo asked.
“I think someone for Infrastructure and Transport is vital. You haven’t said anything about that,” said Nhlanhla, staring at the organogram.
Most of the rest seemed to agree with him. Thapelo was frowning.
“But I can’t think of anyone, off-hand, that isn’t already in metros or Provincial,” grimaced Nhlanhla.
“Thumb vote, then, are we filling Infrastructure and Transport?” Jo asked, and got ten thumbs up and two abstentions.
“Well, then, please make some phone calls, everyone. I’ve exhausted my creativity getting all of you here in the first place. See you in twenty.”
Jo watched everyone file out. Strange that Thapelo is so quiet. I’ve seen him wow rooms full of strangers with his easy charm and confident expertise. Ah, well, maybe he’s just as intimidated as I am. This is an intimidating group of people.
“Robbie, come have a cigarette with me,” Jo asked her friend.
“You know I’ve quit.” Roberta frowned at her.
“I know. But I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. Would you call the little parties and hear if they have anyone that’ll suit? If you and I are together, we can evaluate any new options.”
“Fair enough,” said Roberta, and picked up her phone.
Cabinet meeting new nominations
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful or arrogant…” started Phumzile, once everyone had settled down again. “But I have someone on our benches that I think would be brilliant. At the job you gave me, Jo.” 
She breathed deeply. “So I want to be considered for Trade and Industry or Growth, or whatever we end up calling it, instead.” She looked around nervously.
“Who were you thinking for Social Welfare, then?” Jo drawled, caught unawares.
Phumzile handed her a CV, and looked around if anyone one else wanted a copy. The Prof nodded and leaned forward to accept it. Bridgitte read it over his shoulder. Kgethi also took one and shared it with Brian.
“Tsitsi. Social worker B degree. Recently completed her doctorate in Social Science, with research into informal women traders and their power to make their own decisions. Also conditions that lead to women choosing sex work. She worked for Gender Health and Justice Unit at university, on a project about schools-based violence.”
“She’s an intersex activist,” commented the Prof, without expression. He was reading the ‘Interests’ section.
Phumzile looked at him, waiting for him to continue his train of thought. 
Jo also wondered what his reaction would be. Please, don’t turn out to be typical, she thought to herself. All Jo knew about the implications was that intersex people tended to be lumped together with LGBQTI. Some of the others were also looking uncertain.
“Is that a problem?” asked Jo, trying to stop her voice from sounding icy.
“Quite the opposite,” answered the Prof. “For me, from a purely medical point of view. I think the standard practice of turning intersex babies into girls with surgery is akin to genital mutilation and I have been wondering how to introduce the topic. With an activist on the cabinet…”
“Wait, what?!” Jo sputtered. A number of the others were also expressing surprise, or wore horrified expressions. Julius shook his head slightly.
“An intersex individual is born with both male and female characteristics. For decades they’ve mostly been ‘fixed’ shortly after birth.” The Prof’s look was steely. “And it causes problems for many later, depending on the hormonal aspects that start kicking in during puberty.”
“I’ve been looking into all of that, since you told me what you meant by Special Interests,” said Julius, looking grimly at his notebook, tapping his pen on it. “The whole acronym is both loaded and inaccurate. As a heterosexual man, I don’t understand half of it. But the stuff I’ve been reading… Many of the communities have nothing in common, and their challenges are very different. Black traditions about homosexuality are extremely restrictive. Intersex children are still considered the result of witchcraft or a family curse in many places. But based on the memberships of the various groups, it seems there’s greater prevalence than…” He looked at the ceiling as he found the right word. “… than a ‘cisgender’ black male like me would ever have thought.  I’m not sure I’m cut out for the task.”
“Okay. I think that needs a serious discussion all its own. Soon.” Jo swallowed. “I had no idea, and I thought I’d been listening and trying to understand. Stick it on the priorities, please, Robbie?
“Holy fuck. Well, with that bombshell to process…” asked Jo. Nhlanhla and Makhozi still wince when I swear, noticed Jo. Try to tone it down. Let other people do the talking.
“Any comments about Phumzile as MinGrow?” asked Jo, looking around. Then she swivelled her gaze to Phumzile. “I mean, it’s not exactly in line with your qualifications or experience. I’m afraid we’re about to skinder about you to your face…” 
Phumzile waved an assent with a tilt of her head. “I want to be here. I think I can add value in that portfolio. But I’d like to hear what you all think and who else you’d like to consider.”
“Did you get hold of Unathi?” asked Bridgitte.
“Not yet. But she’s definitely not on our benches, and unless I hear from her, I’m going to assume she’s not interested or otherwise occupied,” responded Phumzile. “I left her a voicemail, and DM’d her on Twitter. A mutual friend is trying to contact her via Whatsapp.”
“I think that she’d be better suited as an adviser, or maybe heading up a specific programme,” intoned Nhlanhla. “I’d prefer Phumzile, who is used to high-level negotiations and placatory understanding. And politics, and spin.”
“I don’t want spin. I want us to speak truth, and deliver our promises,” Jo answered.
“You still want someone who can interpret your truth to diverging interests,” commented Cormac. “A lot of what you want to do, even in my sphere of influence, will need some clever, empathetic negotiation. I’m not saying I agree with everything you want,” he looked straight at Jo, “but Phumzile has my vote.”
Jo turned down her mouth, and raised her eyebrows, in an expression of ‘Okay…’
“I have an MP with an impressive CV in banking,” said Makhosi, when everyone else stayed silent for a while. “He also has forty years’ experience in various spheres.” She leaned over to give Jo some papers. 
“Not interested,” Jo replied automatically, but she did accept the three sheets. “The banking industry has gotten away with murder for too long. I refuse to have someone on the team to champion their causes. Unless one of you clever people can convince the rest of us that it furthers our strategy.” Jo did scan through the precis, though, before handing the sheets to Roberta. “Swanepoel. He’s seventy next year.” Jo frowned. “There are mentors who thrive on teaching, and there are elders who try to impose stupid rules from fifty years ago. Still not interested.”
“You’re being obstreperous,” Roberta said bluntly. She nodded to Makhosi. “I’ve made a note.”
“Well, then, I have a friend,” started Brian. “But she’d cost one of your wild cards. I didn’t think to get a CV though, you’ll have to google.”
“Name?” asked Roberta. 
“She calls herself Lady Skollie,” Brian told her, and Roberta started typing on her slim laptop. “She’s an artist who mostly paints and writes to rage against patriarchy and promote women’s rights.”
“Great, another social justice warrior,” groused Jo.
“Isn’t that exactly why I’m here?!” said Julius, exasperated. “That’s what you told me you want!”
“I want all of us to serve the people…” responded Jo. “Equal rights should be equal. I want everyone to stop worrying about how the other is different and start seeing similarities instead. And I want everyone happy and healthy and fed and educated. I sometimes feel that people scream so loudly for their cause that they forget that everyone else also has rights. Of course I want women’s circumstances improved. Just not to the exclusion of anyone else’s.”
“Initially classically trained, exhibitions all over the world, big social media following,” Roberta interrupted Jo’s diatribe. “Pretty much an entrepreneur artist, actually. That should appeal to you, Jo.” Roberta clicked a few times, almost squinting. “She’s also good. It’s not all my cup of tea, but there’s some pretty powerful images here, with unambiguous messages.” Roberta made another note.
“I did get hold of Mohale,” said Julius. “She doesn’t sound terribly keen, given her own careers and her work on the ground, but I convinced her that she could do more powerful work, and no reason she couldn’t keep writing. So she’ll talk to you, at least.”
“Also uses up a wild card, though.” Jo tsked and looked up. “Any more nominations?”
“I tried to get hold of Leonard,” said Cormac, “for infrastructure. But he didn’t take my call. Possibly because we are on opposite sides of the environmental arguments quite often…” He smiled self-deprecatingly and handed Roberta a printout from a website, before continuing. “He sits on a gazillion boards, has a Masters in urban planning, and has experience in mining, infrastructure and financial services.” 
Roberta burst out laughing as she looked at the short biography on the printout. “One of the ten richest black men in the country and you think he’ll come play politics?”
“Let me see?” asked Bridgitte, leaning over the table to take the sheet from Roberta. “Yes, it is Nkunku. I can text him, Jo, we’ve worked together for years. He might think it would be a kick, like I did.”
“Worth a try, especially if both of you vouch for him,” agreed Jo. Bridgitte picked up her phone and started typing.
“Is there any way I can get to meet all these people, as soon as possible?” Jo asked. “Skype, if it must, but in person if possible. How’s the schedule, Rob? Can I fly to Cape Town this week?”
“Might be doable,” said Roberta. “Could you all let your nominations know we’d like to schedule urgently and that I’ll be giving them a call? If you could let me know where they’ll be tomorrow and Friday, even the weekend, if possible, and their contact info.”
“Then let’s break for lunch, even if it’s a bit early. We still need to discuss the DP and the allocation of SOEs and directorates.” Jo received nods all around.
“Back at one-thirty?” More nods.
“Good stuff. See you soon.”

D minus 154
Education 1 – brainstorming
“Colleagues, please have a seat, and thank you for making time. I know you’re still getting to grips with your departments,” said Jo as Roberta ushered in Mamokgethi, Julius and Prof Praneet. 
“What am I doing here?” asked Julius, without preamble. He was dressed in a natty blue suit, cut in the way that had been popular for the last year or two. Tight stove-pipe pants, topped with a jacket that had only one button that, even when tied, left some shirt visible between the button and the belt. The fashion always made Jo suspect that the designer had run out of fabric. 
“I’m also curious,” admitted Jo, dismissing fashion and Julius’s abruptness to look questioningly at Kgethi.
“Julius’s constituency has a large proportion of students. They trust him to advocate for them. I think his insight will be valuable. If he disagrees, then it’s probably an issue that we will face later,” Kgethi explained.
“Oh, okay,” said Jo. Julius just nodded.
“Well, let’s get going, then,” Jo said. “We all know we have to improve the education system fast, but which bits of the elephant do we start chewing on first?”
“How about we list the challenges, as a starting point?” suggested Roberta, lifting a marker and pointing to the whiteboard.
“Facilities, and reach, obviously,” started Mamokgethi. She was looking sleekly formidable in a no-nonsense green pants-suit, despite her short stature. Her hair, softly natural, as it had been for years, was fluffed out into an afro today, but her signature smile was absent. Minimal makeup with the same soft pink lipstick that Jo had noticed every other time they’d met.
The new Minister of Education was so accomplished that she intimidated Jo. Her knowledge and research, particularly in maths education, meant that Jo had been prepared to literally beg her to join Radical’s party list. Fortunately, the chances of Radical getting anywhere had seemed so slim that Kgethi had decided it would be a bit of a lark to play politician for five years, on the off-chance. She was also a phenomenal leader with good teams, and didn’t need to worry that her own businesses would suffer while her attention was on trying to change the world. A genius to help me make maths sexy, thought Jo.
“Fees Must Fall,” added Praneet, glancing at Julius, who remained stoic. 
A tall, greying man, Praneet was dressed in a silver-grey suit and charcoal shirt, with a surprisingly subtle Radical Purple tie. The streaks of metal break the solid colour, Jo noticed absently. She had also glimpsed ostentatious snakeskin shoes as he walked in, but they complemented the rest of his outfit immaculately. Certainly nothing else about him was extravagant, just professional and very, very serious. 
He had been a much tougher sell as Minister of Health. He was in this meeting in an advisory capacity, since he too knew the workings, difficulties and politics of academia. Jo still had no idea why the Prof had changed his mind at the last minute, and hoped to tease it out of him somewhere in the next five years. But the formidable man had not warmed to her.
Doesn’t matter, she thought. Who he gets along with is his choice. I need his expertise and his excellence. 
“SADTU,” growled Roberta, whose own mother had been a teacher in an area rife with intimidation. The other two nodded.
“You do realize that you are vilifying people who are just standing up for themselves?” said Julius, irritably.
“They’re citizens too,” agreed Jo. “We’re trying to address their problems. But it would be fantastic if we can deliver on their grievances and improve the system without anyone resorting to hooliganism.”
“We still have to get rid of dead wood, while rewarding good teachers,” said Kgethi. “We need upskilling. We need to get morale and commitment from teachers improved. And we need to make sure all of them have all the tools they need.”
“I feel that we should fix the most inadequate schools first,” said Jo. “That’s not just my bleeding heart talking. From a PR perspective, the impact would be more visible in places where the existing conditions are worst.”
“Most research into education, and other public service institutions, agrees with that,” said Praneet. “Leave performers alone to do their thing, and support non-performers, with infrastructure, technology, training, whatever.”
“On finding the worst schools, we start by comparing the results,” Kgethi said. “Including the absenteeism numbers. We’ll find the right weighting and prioritise accordingly.
“For infrastructure spend, that should be enough for good analysis. Say a month to collect the data and then another month to do the necessary modelling to choose the best option.”
Yesss! thought Jo. The mathematician strikes.
“If your modelling and research can come up with a reasonably good starting option, we’ll keep working on refining it as we go along. Is there any way you could give me some answers this month? What resources would you need?” asked Jo. “We need to do something fast, and if we’re quick and prioritise the tender process, we could start upgrading schools during the December holiday.”
“I’ll need to evaluate the TVETs and FETs too, if we’re going to promote artisanal training,” Kgethi said. “But I’ll start with the school infrastructure first, and get some reports going so long. I’ll send you something during the course of tomorrow. I need to check some data and make projections.”
“You’re optimistic,” Roberta remarked, staring at Jo. “There’s only so much budget and contractors will definitely load prices when they’re tendering for a time-sensitive project during builders’ holiday.”
“I know a thing or two about building schools,” answered Jo. “It might be a good way to demonstrate the oversight that will be applied to tenders from now on. Also, things have been so rocky that I think many contractors, and their employees, would appreciate sanctioned work during builders’ holiday this year.”
“The bigger worry is teachers and their motives,” Kgethi continued. “I’m concerned that we’ll find that the struggling schools are staffed with people who couldn’t care less. There should be a way to incentivise working in the unpopular places, by means of pay or benefits. The balancing act would take some scrutiny, though. And choosing measures for evaluation is fraught with all kinds of headaches.”
 “I have a thought on that,” said Prof Praneet. “We pick a couple of anonymous independent schools with good results, and ask them for a random selection of their examination papers across subjects and grades, say, over the last ten years. We have a nation-wide teachers’ examination during the December break. Any subject you’re currently teaching, or want to be accredited to teach, you sit the exam for that grade in that subject. If you get 80%, and your learner results back that up, you’re accredited. We’ll issue proper certification.
“Being good at bluffing till you’re no longer bluffing should count for something. That’s exactly what the SETAs are trying to do, to help accredit people who have the experience, and can do the job, even if it’s not exactly what they’re qualified for.”
“And if someone doesn’t pass?” asked Julius.
 “Then they don’t get to teach that subject for that grade, and their remuneration is adjusted accordingly. We’ll offer mandatory refresher courses, and give them a second chance in a month or two. It would be a way to get Kgethi her data about who is dead wood,” replied the Prof, “and then we know how big the problem is.”
“What if that means we fire half our teachers? Or a quarter, or a tenth? What then? How do we open the affected schools in January without enough teachers?” Jo was worried, and rubbed her temple. “Not to mention how many people would be out of work.”
Julius looked surprised at Jo’s question, but stayed silent.
“Start by asking unemployed teachers to register on a database, and let them sit the exams too,” suggested Roberta. “We don’t know how many good ones aren’t on our payroll because of the buying jobs rubbish.”
“If we need to, we could give promising teaching students limited duration contracts and negotiate it as part of their practical training,” replied Kgethi. “And that’s a different discussion. We need to reopen specialised teacher training facilities. Being good at subject matter and useless at transferring it is futile.” She paused. “We need to find the people who are passionate about sharing their knowledge.”
“We need to convince everyone that sharing your knowledge, your resources, with someone who wants to learn is a legacy, not a bite out of your own share of the pie…” mused Jo. “Prof, I think your plan is doable. We could also bribe good teachers into a secondment at another school. That might actually aid in sharing best practice and enthusiasm. What do you think, Kgethi?”
“The unions will have a fit. Thanks, Prof, for dreaming up this particular hot potato for me.” She flashed a grim smile at her colleague. “But it does seem an achievable way to get real results fast. And buying or borrowing papers cuts costs. The schools we approach would not be giving away the IP on their whole archive of past papers, just a small selection. We would need to independently moderate them and get answer sheets ready for marking…” She paused. “Who would we get for marking? Before or after matric papers?”
“That’s operational. Your team probably knows that kind of thing backwards, I think they’ll be the best ones to ask. When do you think you’d be able to give me a feedback on feasibility and timeline?”
“We’re doing a proper brainstorm-cum-briefing later this week. I’ll put these on the agenda. I’ll get back to you next Monday, if not before,” answered Kgethi.
“Good stuff, I think that’s a start for Basic.”
“As for Higher, I’ve been refining the bursary/student loan intersection, now that I’ve been able to look at some real, un-fudged numbers,” said Kgethi. 
“And?” queried Jo.
“NSFAS currently costs the country R12 billion rand a year. That’s forty thousand complete four year bursaries per year. Accommodation included. Books included. Class fees covered as a matter of course.”
“Forty thousand full bursaries per year, for four years, covers more than a quarter of the current university intake per year.”
“And the rest?” said Julius, impatiently. 
“With the UBI, everyone can get a loan,” Kgethi reminded him.
“That will head us in America’s direction, everyone saddled with their student debt. Minimizing their choices in perpetuity.”
“If they don’t service it, they’ll start paying at most a tenth of the UBI, and only after they haven’t paid their loan at all for six months,” said Kgethi. “That’s lightyears ahead of the US setup, where student loans interest rates are creeping higher every year. A year’s tuition at a US state college costs almost half of GDP per capita. Here, a full bursary, including accommodation and extras, is about 40% of GDP per capita.”
“And you don’t think that’s too high?” said Julius, incredulously.
“You’re right,” Jo said to Julius. “We’re going to be looking into the fees and charges of everything government-related, down to individual universities and municipalities. I’m working on it, and you know I consider pretty much everything over-priced.”
Julius nodded, unconvinced. Then he looked back at Kgethi. “Okay.”
“I think those bursaries should be reserved for scarce skills, artisanal skills included,” continued Kgethi. “We don’t need more lawyers or BA Philosophy graduates. We do need maths teachers, doctors, nurses, plumbers, electricians, farmers…”
“So you want to tell people what to study,” groused Julius.
“No, I want to incentivise them to gain qualifications that will get them employed,” corrected Kgethi. “We use that R12 billion at the end of every year to pay off the student loans of performers…” 
“The people who passed everything.” Julius’s expression was fatalistic.
“Not necessarily,” answered Kgethi. “If we decide on, say, three thousand maths teachers, anyone studying that can apply for a bursary in the beginning of the year. At the end of the year, we pay the fees of the top performers first. If there’s anything left, we start paying for the highest marks in each subject. Even if someone fails a subject, it just means they’d have to pay back for that one subject when they start working. The students are free to study Eighteenth Century Romance Poets, if they want, they just won’t get a state bursary for it. But any matriculant can have free tertiary education. All they need to do is pass, in a discipline that the country actually needs.”
“So where do we start?” asked Praneet.
“The first priority is to quantify the skills shortages,” replied Kgethi. “I’m going to start by looking at current enrolments, and I need feedback from you, once you’ve evaluated your shortages.” 
“I’ll get onto that,” Praneet nodded. “Which medical qualifications and specializations to prioritize is my biggest headache at this point.”
“Me, too,” sighed Kgethi. She turned from Praneet towards Jo. “I need around six hundred thousand teachers, of which there are 425 thousand on the payroll. If we manage to attract back the ones who are not working as teachers, that would help. But I want at least six thousand of the bursaries, I think.”
Jo raised her eyebrows. “Is that all?”
“Nope. There’s the time lag. If someone starts studying now, they only enter the work-force in three to four years.”
“Give bursaries for a Master’s degree, to students who are finishing their degrees this year,” suggested Julius, gruffly.
Kgethi’s jaw dropped. Jo realized hers had, too.
“That’s brilliant,” said Kgethi. “What made you think of it?”
“You kept talking about Finland, that day Nhlanhla told us about the new taxes. I did some reading because I couldn’t figure out what Finland had to do with anything you said.” 
Jo nodded, thinking quickly. She chewed her lip.
“We must publicize that now, I think. Else the students may not plan on a Master’s at all. And specifically mother tongue foundation phase and maths…”
“It’s also a good way to roll out the concept of the UBI-backed loans, get people familiar with it,” commented Praneet. “I might find that useful, too.”
“My other worry is dismantling NSFAS,” said Kgethi. “I need to come up with a way to handle the students already in the system. I’ll brainstorm that with my team, too, and get some advice from Makhosi and Thapelo, after I’ve met with NSFAS later this week.”
“You need to get your legal guys on it, first,” commented Julius. “You’re not going to pull any of this stuff off unless you table the right draft legislation in Parliament.”
Jo burst out laughing. She leaned across the table to offer Julius a high-five.
He looked at her with narrowed eyes for a moment, and then grudgingly assented.
 “Thank you, Sir,” Jo said, seriously. “You’ve been doing this a long time. I have a lot to learn from you.”
The other three also smiled and nodded their thanks at Julius.
He nodded back, and seemed to relax slightly.
“Lastly,” continued Kgethi, “we need to do some due diligence at the time of the loans. Proof of enrolment, for instance. And possibly make it a requirement that only study-related costs are paid from a student loan account.”
“Why?” asked Jo. “They’ll still owe their loans even if they end up using it to go and live on the beach for a year. It’s more likely that they will choose to live in horrible cheap accommodation so that they can send some money home. Or buy second-hand books so that they can pay their electricity.”
Julius looked at Jo speculatively.
“Then how to allocate the bursary payments? How well must a student do to get their accommodation refunded? What if they don’t live in res? Do they then get a bursary that is less than that of a fellow student who does just as well? What is fair?”
“You could consider a model much like the medical aids,” ventured Praneet. “Define a standard amount for accommodation. That’s the limit the university can charge a loan student, they can take it or leave it. The best performers all get the same amount paid towards their loan, even if it means they score a little.”
“I like that,” said Kgethi. “I’ve been trying to figure out how, with demand for tertiary education bound to increase, we stop the fees from spiralling out of control like they’ve done in the US. If we evaluate and impose similar limits on tuition, the institutions who honour those limits will probably attract more students than those that don’t.” She spent almost a minute making notes.
“Is that it, everyone? Any other thoughts?” Jo asked.
“Yes,” said Julius. “You have to do something about the maintenance of facilities at a few of the universities. Some students have posted pictures on social media, some of the accommodation is shit.”
“In official, university-controlled residences?” asked Jo, surprised.
“It’s hard to tell, sometimes, but I think so,” replied Julius.
“We could put together inspection teams to go and evaluate each institution, maybe?” responded Kgethi. “We’d need to make sure we don’t get herded into the nicest places and away from the awful ones, but…”
“No,” interrupted Julius, in his characteristically blunt tone. “I’ll get the Twitterati onto it. They can send us proof, name and shame. We should get the worst covered quickly, that way.”
Kgethi shook her head slowly, smiling in admiration. “That would be great,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Feedback at CabMeet next week?” requested Jo.
“Yes,” said Kgethi, while Julius nodded.
“I’m starting to think we can do this,” groused Julius, his head tilted as he stared at Jo.
She nodded to him solemnly. He said we, she thought. Booyah!

D minus 153
Safety and Security 1
“Hey, everyone,” greeted Jo, with a smile. She was nauseous with fear about the topics they were going to address. From her reading in preparation for the meeting, the challenges were many and diverse. Roberta had dumped a whole extra bunch of articles, links, and research, and Jo hadn’t quite managed to read all of it, never mind with enough attention and thought.
“Hi, Jo,” answered Ivo. He grinned, maybe sarcastically, maybe ruefully, as he dumped five ring-bound documents on the table. They were fat.
Sally wasn’t even saying anything, as she pulled out another stack of five. Luckily Ivo’s are beige, and Sally’s are navy, Jo thought. They’re equally weighty. As Roberta walked in, Jo closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, and Roberta stuck their own purple-bound stack beneath her chair. We’ll bring them out if there’s something missed, they silently agreed.
“Hi Jo, Ivo, Rob,” Sally finally said, reaching for a still water. “I hope you have the guts for some unpleasant discussion.”
The door opened again, and Thapelo strode in, with Cormac close behind him. “Good morning, colleagues,” Thapelo said, and then spotted the reports on the table. “I didn’t bring anything,” he seemed to be compelled to explain. “Your departments are so alien to me that I need you to spoon-feed me your requirements. The Brains and I can’t even begin to prioritize the problems.”
Cormac, also empty-handed, greeted and waved before sitting down.
“Kinda where I started from,” agreed Sally. “Lack of professional pride, absenteeism, labour law, misallocation of resources, demilitarization, failing basic proficiency tests…? And, of course, everyone blaming the justice system,” she smiled grimly at Ivo.
“Ja, I’ve picked that up too,” Ivo responded. “Except, of course, my people say your people don’t deliver the requisite evidence.”
“Which is why we’re discussing this together,” said Jo, “Thanks, Sally, Ivo. Anyone want to start?”
“The justice system is overloaded,” Ivo said first. “There is so much petty crap, all of which needs its day in court. To be fair, Justice getting away with five-hour workdays, with three hours of tea and lunch breaks, exacerbates the problem. Not to mention their insistence on almost religious protocol.”
Cormac laughed and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Jo, do you know that the proper form of address for a magistrate is ‘Your Worship’?”
“I have been unfortunate enough to figure that out from the wrong side,” Jo smiled. “When I was still a Christian, that should have offended me even more than it does, now that I’m an atheist, but oddly, Christians seem okay with it.”
“But that’s the lowest ranking judge…! So our system starts from saying ‘Your Worship’ to someone that you have three more opportunities to overturn, by an ‘Your Honour’, at various levels of seniority.”
“Doesn’t strike me a terribly democratic, either,” added Sally. “But I agree, the courts are mostly working, despite their archaic terms of address and egos as big as continents. And they have valid qualms about capacity, because we’re prosecuting bullshit…”
“Traffic offences,” said Jo and Sally at the same time.
“Worse, I think…” started Ivo.
“Cannabis offences,” said Cormac, beating Sally and Ivo to the punch. They sat back, nodding.
“That was my overwhelming realization,” admitted Jo. “Any of you ever smoke weed?”
“Never,” answered Sally, immediately. “But I did buy my mother some medical oil every time I could, until she died last year.”
“I’m so sorry…” Jo’s father had died of cancer.
“By all prognoses, she lived at least two years longer. Would’ve helped if I could buy it from the pharmacy, instead of in Europe, on a stopover. But it’s not a panacea, some cancers respond better than others.” Sally looked sad, but resigned.
“At the risk of being an unfeeling bastard, Sally, Jo,” Ivo started. “That’s our biggest bottleneck. Worsened because these cannabis ‘transgressions’ actually get prosecuted to the full extent of the law, on the third strike.”
“Only for people who aren’t white.” Cormac said. 
Jo agreed. This was the glaring inconsistency she had spotted in legal systems around the world. Roberta had tracked down even more damning studies, outside of the huge interstitial that they had each found and evaluated independently before comparing notes. 
“Prosecuting possession or use is insane,” said Sally, nodding to Ivo in thanks for his careful words.
“I agree,” said Roberta. “Last time I smoked was at your house, what, three years ago?” she said, looking at Jo.
“Less, but not by much. You and G continued the debate while I put babies to bed, and I understood when my 18-month-old explained to me how hard she was trying not to hit when she meant to touch.”
“Mesdames, focus, please?” Ivo interrupted the reverie. “I last smoked on Sunday morning. Since it’s confession time. But it seems that a large proportion of our prison population is serving time for possessing or using dagga.” He handed them each a report. “Page eleven, graph.”
“My numbers agree,” Sally answered, after inspecting the page, “and you’d be surprised how frikkin impossible it is to get an accurate number out of the system, despite the fact that it only logs the worst crime for a particular prisoner.”
Sally was blonde, very tall for a woman, but somehow perfectly shapely, and the quintessential lady. She’d be a Hollywood hot blonde, Jo thought, if she was a quarter smaller. In all dimensions. She even looked good in her uniform. 
My choices are based on skill and experience. But, boy, if I was anyone except married me, I’d step back a meter or two and appreciate the way this woman carries herself.
Sally slouched, crumpling her uniform, and obscuring her brigadier general insignia. She had refused the rank of General unless the police administration felt she had earned it. It left Jo with a bit of a quandary, having a minister that was technically outranked by quite a few of her reports.
“As best I can establish, almost an eighth of our convicted prisoners are in jail for possession, use, or farming of cannabis. They cost us five times your envisaged UBI each, per month.
“And my data seem to imply that much of the police force is targeting cannabis, illegal immigrants, and traffic infractions. They’re easy arrests, good for hitting quotas based on something I can’t quite figure out. They’re not spending much time or resources on other aspects, like forensic investigation of violent crimes,” Sally said, with a fatalistic expression.
“Not to mention the conviction rate, relative to number of arrests,” Ivo pointed out. “It’s detailed in the blue tag of my report. And why are coloured populations over-represented in the prison population by a factor of two?”
“Black inmates, too,” said Sally. “The stats aren’t any less horrifying just because 80% of our country’s population is black.”
“You guys are forgetting that poor people live in smaller spaces,” opined Cormac. “I can smoke weed, at my house. Whenever I want.
“Not that I do, I admit that I also indulge occasionally. But bearing in mind Sally’s admission that it’s targeted, surely living next to someone who’s likely to bust you, given that she is trying to save her wards from this drug-scourge, adds a level of racial discrimination, prosecution-wise?”
Ivo looked down at his figures, and then looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his jaw.
Sally looked blonde-girl embarrassed. “You may have a point,” she acknowledged. “it’s way easier to prioritise minor crimes in areas where the police don’t fear to tread, to begin with.”
“Can we call a moratorium on prosecution until we manage to get legislation changed?” Jo asked Sally, Ivo and Cormac. “What are the implications from a legal perspective?”
“I’m fairly certain I can do that, if we gazette it,” said Sally. “My people have been working on it, but input from Ivo’s team would be invaluable. It would just piss off so many people. Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Shall we leave the High Court to make the decision in that on-going case? Back off on challenging it? Then we can dare parliament to come up with substantive medical arguments.” Jo asked.
“Can’t do that,” Cormac said. “Take a stance, or we’ll be seen to have bowed to force.”
“I agree, for different reasons,” said Sally. “Letting a case run its course doesn’t change the challenges on the ground. I need a valid excuse to tell the entire police force to stop prosecuting dagga use or possession. Whole areas of the Eastern Cape are still spending money on planes to kill crops that are the only income for some families.”
“And you need to look at the projections for what hemp could add to the economy.” Ivo looked around at them all. “You can make bricks with hemp. An easy crop, that is fantastically suited to the climate in many of our poorest provinces, and with which anyone with access to google can try to start a business. A bunch of businesses.”
“From what I’ve read, cannabis is only a gateway drug because it’s illegal,” added Roberta. “If you have to go to a black-market dealer anyway, you’re a captive audience for harder drugs.”
“I saw that too, but I disagree,” said Sally. “Misuse of drugs is a huge problem. Theft, addiction, violence under the influence, people going to rehab six or seven or eight times. It’s a huge drain, on the fiscus, and on the NGOs and non-profits.”
“That sounds like alcohol, to me.” Jo looked at Sally, deadpan. “Speaking as an occasional addict, with a mother who was in rehab for half of my primary school life. She died when I was in Standard Six. But that’s legal.”
Sally blushed to the limits of her peaches-and-cream complexion. “What do you mean, ‘occasional addict’?” she recovered, after swallowing.
“I mean that I was able to get over my own addiction, without outside intervention, every time my circumstances improved from whatever was causing the depression in the first place. I have drunk way too much for months or years, and when my self-esteem got an upgrade, through loving, caring family, or leaving a toxic workplace or relationship, or speaking to a good friend for the first time in two years…” Jo glanced at Roberta, who winked acknowledgment with a rueful smile, “I was able to simply stop drinking. Instead of nursing my addiction, there were interesting challenges, and work to be done, and people, who loved me, to talk to. 
“As a student, I was smoking too much doob. When I landed a good job, I stopped, overnight. Same with cocaine, years later. Except I was celebrating emancipation with a supportive and level-headed partner. We sat down and added up what we’d spent on coke in six weeks, and made some ground rules together, and those panned out maybe three times a year. Three times a year we shared a gram or two.” Jo shrugged. 
“Cocaine doesn’t seem to be physiologically addictive, from the research I’ve found, only psychologically,” added Cormac. 
“Remind me of the difference?” asked Sally.
“Physiologically means that you’re physically addicted. Psychologically means you’re depressed, and compensating through chemical highs,” said Roberta, glaring at Jo.
There was a long, pregnant pause.
Jo nodded again. “And from my experience, the psychology only kicks in when other aspects of your life are so crappy that you give up hope. I can’t say the same for cigarettes, though. Ooh, and they’re also legal!”
“I think there’s a case to be made for legalizing all drugs. Heroin from a pharmacy is probably less likely to kill you than illicit stuff cut with rat poison,” Ivo said. “But that’s a completely different train of thought for another day.
“Right now, Justice and Correctional seems to be spending at least two billion a year arresting, prosecuting, and jailing people for cannabis. I don’t think Health is spending as much, and what they’re spending is on rehab programmes that haven’t shown any results in the last thirty years.”
“How many people can we get out of jail, if they’re only there for possession, use, or growing?” Cormac asked.
“Twenty thousand?” Ivo said, looking at Sally for confirmation.
“Around there,” she nodded. “You’re only working on convicted prisoners. Awaiting trial detainees are probably half that again.”
“And the prisons are over-populated by how much?” Roberta interjected.
“150% population is the target. It’s higher than that now, on average,” Ivo responded, and looked down at his notes. “Yellow flag in my report, page 92.”
“A hundred thousand convicts and another 50k detainees…” Cormac read, just before Jo worded the same realization.
“So you’re telling me we could release up to thirty thousand people who cost us more than ten grand per month each…?” Jo asked, and poked at her ubiquitous calculator. It was very old and very shabby. “That’s three hundred million per month. Even if only a third of them don’t have other crimes among their charges, that’s still a hundred million per month that can go toward addiction support facilities and getting the prisons free of vermin, at least.”
“Page 77, in my report,” said Ivo. “Red flag. This is an addiction support NGO that guestimated the cost of arrest through imprisonment of cannabis-related infractions from statistics in Gauteng. They’re very specific that their amounts are very conservative, the lowest they thought was possible. In 2012, they came up with a figure of more than a hundred and twenty million per year for Gauteng alone.”
“So are we agreed that we’ll get it gazetted for now?” Jo asked, and received nods.
“We’ll also have to start some sort of early parole process or something for people already convicted. And what about their criminal records?” Cormac pointed out.
“Could we tell them to apply for a presidential pardon? Then we can do the research and decide whether we can or want to expunge their records.” Jo looked around. “That is within the presidency’s powers, isn’t it?”
“I’ll see which route would be the least circuitous and get back to you,” agreed Ivo.
“Then next, we need to get the police to pull up their socks.” Sally handed around her reports. “The first thing I want to do is make sure that disciplinary processes are properly followed. Employment contracts and codes of conduct have not necessarily been signed and processed efficiently in many instances, but the Basic Conditions of Employment Act gives us some teeth.
“I want final written warnings for absenteeism, and possibly for failing competency tests. That should fly under incapacity, where the BCE Act is concerned.”
“Rob, can we make a note of that, for Kgethi too?” interrupted Jo. “Sorry, Sal, please continue.”
“There’s about a thousand outstanding suspended-with-full-pay cases to be finalised, we’ve already started making fire under the responsible parties. Some of them have been dragging on for years.
“We’re also evaluating the code of conduct with the relevant structures, and we’re hoping to have it ready for discussion with the unions by the end of the month. When that’s done, we’ll start on getting all missing and flawed employment contracts signed.
“And this is why I wanted you here, Thapelo,” Sally continued. “I want some sort of app for citizens who interact with the police. Possibly they could even use it to call the police, I know somebody put together one a few years ago that showed some good results. Let people check in when they arrive at a police station or report something telephonically, and ask them some questions. Compliments, complaints, or comments. If we can get enough people to use it, we’ll have some data that should give us red flags to investigate, whether for competence or facilities or safety. We can match that to our own audit results and direct requests from the stations themselves.”
“Attachments…” said Cormac. “For pictures. With geo-location, if possible. What if people could also use it to report? The erratic bus, the speeding motorbike. The smash-and-grab into the car ahead of you at the traffic lights.”
“Geo-location would be easy enough, the app would just have to state that it needs permission to turn it on if necessary. What about a panic button?” Thapelo was pulling at his lip.
“I don’t want to make it too complicated,” said Sally. “I don’t want to put people off from using it.”
“People are getting savvier by the minute. If the interface is clean and uncluttered and intuitive, they’ll get the hang of it very quickly. Look at how quickly voice notes caught on,” Thapelo responded.
“If you’re sure…” said Sally, doubtfully.
“That’s our job, Sal,” reassured Thapelo. “Now that I know what you need, we’ll get started. I promise you your mother-in-law will be able to use it if you spend three minutes explaining.”
Sally burst out laughing and nodded. “Okay. How long? How much?”
“Hey, that’s my line…” said Jo, also chuckling.
“I’ll have projections ready for our first Wednesday meeting next week. We need to evaluate if and how it’ll tie in with existing systems, and there are serious data security issues to be considered,” Thapelo said, scribbling a note.
“I want some sort of tracking interface for cases between the police and the prosecutors,” added Ivo. “Possibly with an independent arbiter function, if necessary. When a case gets forwarded for prosecution, all the documents are electronically attached and logged. The system would then expect a response from the NPA within a certain time. If they decline to prosecute, they must state reasons, or list whatever else they need. Over time, it could build up a check-list at submission to ensure that all the usual docs for this type of crime are requested.”
“And we’d start getting data about where intervention may be necessary. Or which processes need attention,” nodded Sally. “Even better, if I have a station system that can talk to it, we can start doing something about missing dockets. The hardware would be expensive and buy-in on the ground might be a problem, though. How do you force someone to attach a scan? When do you need to?”
“On that note, I think archiving is a huge problem, at least at the station near my home,” Jo interrupted. “Literally they have two huge rooms with folders stacked everywhere, with no rhyme or reason in their organization. My husband and I needed a copy of a burglary he’d reported, and it had been archived as closed within five days, but nobody could track down the folder. We offered to help look. I went through piles that contained random case numbers stretching over years, but definitely not in date order. Backing things up electronically should have been happening for decades, surely?”
“More than 1 100 police stations in the country,” Sally replied. “And quite a bit of institutional arrogance about changing the way we do things. And again, how do we force people to upload documents electronically?”
“Make it a requirement for issuing a case number, to start with,” suggested Cormac.
“That’s easy,” agreed Thapelo. “And I’ll check out options for automatically capturing hand-written things, through a stylus and pressure pad, or something like that. There’s so many different input devices and biometric stuff, we must be able to come up with something.”
“I’ve also read that police are actually picking up on slack better dealt with by other parties,” Jo said. “This was in context of the need for a demilitarized police force, and the separation of defence and policing. The example mentioned was police intervention in domestic disputes, but I also thought of affidavits, and issuing case numbers purely for insurance purposes. Surely that increases the admin load to very little advantage?”
“The more balanced research seems to agree that police should be visible, prompt, and effective, and known to the communities they serve.” Sally tapped her pursed lips with a pen. “Admin certainly impedes that, even if it isn’t also used as an excuse. So what do we do?”
“NSFAS will fall away, when we get it through Parliament. The money can be better spent on full bursaries for scarce qualifications. All certification for means-testing purposes will become unnecessary. I’m not sure how much that would influence the workload, but surely it’ll help,” Jo suggested. 
“I’d like to add that we should be increasing the cohort of social workers. The NDP thought we needed fifty thousand by 2030. As best as I can find out, we had fewer than the fifteen thousand in 2011. And we seem to be paying pretty shitty salaries to the ones we have.” Roberta handed over some purple folders. “Third green tag.”
Jo made a mental note to ask about Roberta’s sources. Rob had never, in their entire acquaintance, been terribly worried about “lazy” people living “like rats in a warren”. Roberta felt that she had overcome all the apartheid challenges levelled at her, and that everyone else could do the same if they tried hard enough. She and Jo been rather scathing about social workers in the past.
Everyone paged for a few seconds and read for a bit.
“You’re right, Rob, this is precisely the kind of intervention we want,” mused Sally. “Social workers as reasoned, supportive mediators, prioritizing families, helping people understand their rights and what help they can get?” She glanced at Roberta, who nodded. “And no twenty-year-old policeman needs to try and make peace between forty-year-old spouses that are threatening each other with knives…”
“If we train and pay social workers well, they could also literally act as mystery shoppers, telling us where attention or direct interference is required. That would give internal verification for Sally’s citizens’ app, and maybe a lot of other similar initiatives.” Roberta said.
 “Wow…” mused Sally, “it doesn’t need to be limited to police, does it?”
“It could be for any public-private interface, couldn’t it?” Cormac looked at Thapelo, who nodded. “Health facilities, schools, municipalities, anywhere we need feedback.”
“Great, then we’ll wait for Thapelo to get back to us next week. Sally, do you have HR and payroll statistics in here?” Jo asked.
“Second section,” Sally nodded. “There’s also some geographical info and detail about shortages of stations or officers. We need to do some substantial reallocation, but I think we need to go through each other’s reports before we can really start on that.”
“Thanks, and agreed,” said Jo, scanning the first table in the indicated section. 
“I want you all to look at the section in my report about community policing forums and some other pretty innovative initiatives that have been implemented around the country,” said Ivo. “The taxi drivers and the farmers got together with SAPS to patrol sensitive areas in one case, can you believe it? The rural areas will need more attention, especially when people start withdrawing their UBIs.”
“Will do,” said Sally, and the others nodded.
“I have a suggestion,” said Cormac. “The reason I wanted to be here. You’ve touched on it, but you didn’t take it further.”
The others all looked at him quizzically.
“Go ahead?” replied Jo.
“Ivo pointed out that the justice system is over-loaded. It probably is, even if the three hours of lunch and tea that he mentioned fall away.”
“Ja…?” said Sally.
“Given Jo’s apparent mission to start witch-hunts…”
“Heeyyy!” yelled Jo. “What?”
“I’ll rephrase. Since you seem to want to prune needless complication, the justice system consists mostly of exactly that. I’ve been thinking about it since I signed on.” Cormac waited for a response.
When none was forthcoming, he continued. “Litigation and criminal prosecution are rife with elements that serve only to delay and obfuscate, and dis-incentivise efficiency and resolution. Since I’m currently not earning my living from said obfuscation and delay, which gets billed by the hour, I’ve come to realize how bad it is.”
Jo was frowning. She looked around, confused. Her expression was echoed by Ivo, Sally and Roberta.
“I’m not following,” Jo admitted eventually.
“I haven’t looked into it much, but I believe that our justice system can be substantially streamlined by removing the ability to postpone court cases.” Cormac waited for that to sink in.
Jo was still lost, but Ivo had a small, but growing, and evil, smile on his face.
“So what do you suggest?” Ivo asked.
“Any case on the court roll gets summarily thrown out if either party is not ready. If one party is ready, the other becomes immediately liable for the assessed costs to date of the party who is properly prepared.” Cormac looked smug.
“Hey?” said Jo. “Dumb it down, please, into words no longer than four letters?”
Sally did not seem to be confused anymore, either. She was looking up, almost smiling, and chewing her lip on one side.
“Cormac is saying that lawyers don’t get to place cases on the roll, and then endlessly postpone,” explained Ivo. “As I understand, there’s a hefty legal fee for each court appearance, even if it’s only five minutes to negotiate a postponement.”
“Attorneys, please,” corrected Cormac. “But yes, exactly that. Those clutter up the roll, because certain things need to be on the roll within certain time limits, or they’ll get thrown out anyway. Unless there’s another lengthy and expensive process to get condonation. More unnecessary rubber stamps. I’m beginning to think legislators designed it that way to protect their profession and invent their value.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” Jo pleaded, “and I even know what condonation means…”
“Cormac’s way means, don’t dare to waste the court’s time unless you’re willing to pay for it,” explained Sally. “I’m just not sure how we could apply the same to criminal cases.”
“I think,” said Ivo, looking at Sally, “that instead of costs awarded in civil cases, it comes down to the play-off between our departments. If we have our logging system, the prosecution being unable to continue, due to lack of evidence, is a black mark against your side. If my guys are not ready to go ahead, when all requirements are in place, that’s black mark against us. The results are not monetary, but serve to upgrade or downgrade an individual’s rating.”
“Ah. I think I get it…” responded Sally. “Come performance review and bonus time.”
“I think there’s a case to take it further,” opined Roberta. “Let’s quantify the cost of lost time, even in criminal cases. It’s imaginary money, but a prosecutor that was unprepared only once should get a better performance review than the one that was never ready.”
“Interesting,” replied Cormac. “Maybe. But reducing everything to rands and cents is not a good way to go. Some things just can’t be measured, objectively.”
“But if we get our logging system working, we certainly have a way to enforce time limits. X type of crime needs to be on the roll no sooner than a week and no later than a month, for example,” mused Ivo. “Then we also get the thousands of awaiting trial prisoners, who have been a-waiting for months or years, off our accommodation and sustenance tab.”
“Okay. I’m starting to understand now,” said Jo, into an uncomfortable silence. “What do you think, Ivo?”
“It’s certainly intriguing, even if it isn’t feasible.” Ivo looked at the ceiling, considering implications. “Let me see what we can come up with.”
Cormac smirked. Sally was googling something. Ivo typed something into his phone, distractedly.
“Thanks, everybody,” said Roberta, when she realized that Jo was still frowning and calculating. “See you all next week, then?” 
Nodding mutely, they packed up.
D minus 151
IT 1
Thapelo was worried. He’d been dreading this meeting ever since Roberta’s PA had set it up with his personal secretary. He was a bit freaked out by this ‘personal secretary’ stuff. She seemed to want to know everything about him, up to and including the size of his underwear. She was overwhelmingly solicitous.
As he walked into Jo’s office, Roberta grabbed his hand. 
“Jo, I have a confession to make,” Roberta said. “Thapelo and I are old friends. I was so pleased when I realized it really was him on the party list, and even more chuffed that you picked him for ITMin.” She gave him a huge hug and led him to a seat in front of Jo’s desk. “I didn’t say anything, because this is one decision that I couldn’t be seen to have influenced.”
“Really?“ responded Jo, with a raised eyebrow. “Thapelo and I met years ago, he was training a new accounting system implementation at a company I consulted to.”
Thapelo smiled as warmly as he could, although his insides were a freezing mush. The job he had taken after Ntombi’s death, when he felt so damaged and useless that he couldn’t imagine how to put his impressive qualifications to use.
“You broke my installation,” he answered, in mock accusation.
“No, I customised it for a unique business, after you tried to impose your company’s one-size-fits-all horse-shit,” Jo teased back. “But when you challenged me, and I explained my reasoning, you listened, and adapted the training you gave. They’re still using it, by the way. My friend Dudu is heading up the finance department now.”
“I remember her, I think,” he said doubtfully.
“Ah. Now I get it. I thought you’d just googled the best people you could find and then bullied one of them onto your party list, like you did with the rest,” quipped Roberta.
“I persuaded, I didn’t bully,” said Jo, archly.
“Whatever rocks your boat, sisi,” responded Roberta. “But reminiscences can be saved for a pointless state dinner that we can’t avoid. For now, we have work to do.” She handed Thapelo an agenda.
Thapelo was surprised at their camaraderie, and their off-hand interaction in his presence. Not now, he thought. I have to convince them I can do this job.
No, he realised, I have to let them convince me that I can…
“First point on the agenda,” started Rob, and Jo interrupted her.
“Screw the agenda. We’ll check what we haven’t ticked off before we finish up.
“Thapelo, there’s a fuck-load of systems. Many of them don’t work the way they were advertised…”
Thapelo started, but now that he thought about it, she had always been somewhat blunt in her choice of language, casually using expletives when other people may have spent seconds hunting through their vocabulary for an acceptable alternative.
“Like the treasury system,” continued Jo. “One point four billion rand later, the municipalities still get to submit complete crap and do a one-eighty in six months.
“I want them to talk to each other. I don’t want to capture the same thing more than once. I am banning any software or hardware investments that haven’t passed the muster of your department. Not payroll, not Aarto, not eNatis. Nothing will get implemented until you can sell me, in layman’s terms, why it is necessary, to cover a base not already covered elsewhere.”
“Uhm…” started Thapelo.
“Oh, don’t worry, they can mostly be read-queried with SQL, and some Oracle here and there. If they’re working well enough, we need to automate imports and exports among them, for now. We can cancel valueless SLA’s as we go along and get our own talent competent to do the customisation and finessing.
“Also very important, however, is you’re ten years my junior. Yes, I know my children are five and three, but I skipped a generation before I made babies…”
“What Jo is trying to say, in her usual jumping onto tangents style, is that we need someone that knows new tech, and what can be achieved with, say, android apps,” interrupted Roberta.
“Uhm… yes,” responded Jo. “That about covers it. Now, the agenda, please, Rob?”
“PostBank integration with home affairs; births, deaths, marriages; as a matter of extreme urgency,” started Rob.
“My personal bugbear, the integration of the provincial systems for RDP beneficiaries,” added Jo.
“And licencing versus fines systems, to be integrated country-wide,” said Roberta. “For now. From there, most of the rest should fall into place intuitively, with the necessary access control, of course.”
“That last is very important,” agreed Jo. “PostBank can only query home affairs on whether an ID number exists, and whether the person is still alive. And, is this ID number the mother/father/spouse of this ID number?
“Criminal records are public domain, or how would prospective employers check for criminal records? Surely if we can sell that information to some HR verification company, we can allow another government department to ask for the answer to a very specific yes/no question. I’m not saying awaiting trial prisoners, only convicted criminals, and the flag for UBI drops away when they have completed their sentence. 
“Ditto police/traffic police. Fingerprint/ID number query, any warrants, or no? If yes, forward pdf of warrant.”
Thapelo swallowed. That was a lot of very complicated systems.
“Also, though,” said Roberta, having checked her list, “we have an SOE called Infraco Broadband.”
“It eats a hundred and twenty million per year, minimum, but I’d never heard of it and it certainly doesn’t seem to be doing anything.” Jo paused, and then her expression changed to that of a naughty child about to inform a friend how babies are made.
“PRASA has a fibre network throughout Gauteng, and along most of the railway tracks outside. Redundancy covered, there’s an above-ground and a subterranean grid. The eTolls infrastructure has another one. Some investigation may reveal even more.
“I want Infraco to challenge the current service providers. Not in the metros, they’re getting covered already. I want fibre to every tiny hick town with one shop, one church, three liquor stores, and maybe a stop street.
“I want a reliable connection to every municipal office, every school, and every traffic cop in the country. I want to be able to give, say, half a gig per month to every single citizen. If they need more, they can buy it at twenty cents per meg. The private service providers will pick up the slack on better prices for bigger up-front purchases. We could even let people buy airtime and bandwidth from other providers to use on our sim cards. You could get the best special available without having to swop your sim card, or caring about the quality of their coverage. We’ll bill them for services delivered on their behalf.
“As the network gets built, we can lease out bandwidth. Discount for ten years if someone puts up a tower where we agree it should be.”
“Thapelo,” said Roberta, without a smidgeon of humour, “we want you to set up affordable data connectivity for everyone in the country.”
Thapelo looked at his interlaced fingers, thinking.
At least he’s not grey, anymore, thought Jo.
Hey, he’s thinking about it, and I bet he has some ideas, thought Roberta.
“I want to get some people I respect on my team,” Thapelo hedged.
“How many?” asked Jo.
“Three… maybe four, for now, depending how complicated it gets. But I bet it will get very complicated.”
“Have you reviewed your human resources?” Roberta asked, stern, but still gentle.
“Holy fuck, ladies, I’ve had this job for precisely two weeks. Give me a gap. Please?” Thapelo begged. The president had, after all, said that she swore, too.
“Granted,” said Jo. “You have more bloat than anyone else. Tell me who you want and who you don’t need. Will the people you want work as consultants?”
“I don’t think they’ll work any other way,” Thapelo responded. “I’ll have to talk to them.”
Thapelo was silent, for a long time.
Roberta just kept staring at him. Jo was just sitting there. Whatever was going on in her head, Thapelo couldn’t guess.
“When can you give me feedback?” Jo asked, eventually.
“In two weeks?” Thapelo said, arching an eyebrow in query. “I need to investigate the architecture of all those systems and get the consultants in. Once we have that ball rolling I’ll turn to Infraco as a separate exercise.”
“Sounds good, thanks,” replied Jo, and Thapelo packed up, deep in thought.
D minus 150
Land with Bridgette and Julius
“Thanks for making time to stop by,” said Jo, as she and Bridgette air kissed three times. Jo wasn’t sure where Bridgette had picked up that particular West-African-French affectation, but it was kind of cute. And Bridgette knew mining people around the world, West Africa wasn’t a stretch.
Although Bridgette disagreed with much of what Jo tried to explain, she had, for Jo’s commitment to more representative government, agreed to be on Radical’s party list. Bridgitte’s husband was an esteemed member of the majority party. But he had been progressively side-lined over the last few years. It felt, to Bridgette, as if her influence over his priorities had gotten him kicked out of the inner circle. He was younger than the rest, and wanted real improvement in the standard of living of all voters, while the older, respected (mostly male, dare she say it?) leaders seemed to be most interested in feathering their nests before they got fed-up with the cut-and-thrust of spin and political priorities.
Roberta stepped inside with a tray, and setting it down, greeted Bridgitte. Then she settled in one of the comfortable armchairs with the flat, hard arm-rests, in order to make notes.
Bridgitte read the printout of the list of questions Jo had received the previous day.
“So, all the questions are about land, instead of cutting your salary?” asked Bridgitte with a chuckle.
Jo nodded ruefully. “I was hoping for more time to align deeds office info with state asset registers. The standard reports only detail changes, assets bought and sold, no evaluation of, or explanation for, anything that is still in use. We can only guess at what is long forgotten, given the land audits.” Jo was frustrated.
“I’ve been able to dig out quite a bit more, but I think we need to get Thapelo’s team into the mix. Frikkin individual spreadsheets for each department and sub-department,” said Bridgitte, with annoyance. “If we get hit by a strange accountant-only plague, we’ll have a zombie apocalypse. No-one will have any idea what the state actually owns.” Bridgitte regarded Jo stoically.
“Do you have any idea, yet, how much land under informal settlements is state-owned?” Jo asked. “We do need land distributed in the urban areas too, but the really high-end in-city stuff I want to retain for good quality rental housing, but at way more reasonable rents.”
Julius breezed into Jo’s office.
“Land, you said?” Julius interrupted, and looked around at the three women, belligerently. “Expropriate it all and let the state allocate it equitably.”
“Shush,” responded Bridgitte. “You’re late and the grown-ups are talking.”
Yoh, if I’d said that, I’d be going to jail, thought Jo. “I want Julius’s input,” she admonished Bridgitte. “Be nice.” After a short, loaded pause, she turned towards Julius. “And you, you want the state to control everyone, tell them what to do, and what to want, and what to say. I refuse to head up a nanny-state. Citizens must make their own decisions and choices and mistakes. They’re perfectly capable of doing so, if they have a fair chance.”
Bridgitte and Julius glared at Jo, and then at each other, for a few moments.
“Feminists,” said Julius, irritated.
“Your portfolio means you have to listen to them, as well,” commented Jo, trying to smooth the situation with a weak joke.
“Them? Aren’t you a feminist?” challenged Julius.
“Honestly? I don’t know,” admitted Jo, grudgingly. “I don’t think so. Men have had a bad rap, because some are abusers and cheaters. Ditto for women. I kinda think that people are different and shoving them into broad generalizations is stupid. Bridge, please continue?”
After another dirty look at Julius, Bridgitte complied.
“I share your concerns about getting real information about the status quo. And I do think it is important to continue with the steps we’ve already taken and the research we’ve commissioned,” said Bridgitte. “But you’re right, we need to come up with a concrete plan, to answer those questions.”
Jo sat down at the conference table, gesturing to a number of spreadsheet printouts fanned across the it. “I’ve come up with twenty ideas but they all go around in circles and eat each other’s tails. Losing agricultural land threatens food security. Poorer people live in awful areas far from work, and providing low cost housing in better places will cost a fortune because of land prices. Even if the political will is there, and the money can be found, you then contend with the well-off attitude that poor neighbours are welcome to live anywhere except next door to me. The only thing I’m certain about is that the deeds backlog must be cleared up.” Jo frowned and looked up at Bridgette, dispirited.
“To answer your earlier question, probably about a third of informal settlements are on state-owned land,” started Bridgette. “Another quarter or so on abandoned private land, with most of the rest on unused private land. Thankfully, not too many are on contested private land, where the owners are actively fighting for removal of squatters.”
“Then transferring ownership, where possible, should be a first priority, right?” said Jo. “Even if services and housing have to wait for a bit. At least then the occupants will know that any improvements they make won’t be taken away or bulldozed on a whim.”
“That’s no good,” argued Bridgitte. “Nobody wants to live in a squatter camp forever. If they start getting ahead, they’d want to upgrade to something nicer.”
“Of course they would, you’re right,” said Jo. “But isn’t that true for RDPs as well? When we get the Dividend implemented, everyone will be doing better.”
“I’ve been thinking along those lines,” said Bridgette. “Allocating RDPs to beneficiaries based on where they are already living is short-sighted. Nanny-state, if you will. Imagine you’ve been living in this terrible spot in an informal settlement in Tembisa for five years, and someone comes along to put down sewers to your tiny bit of land. Then they build you a house that looks exactly like the other three million the previous government allegedly built. 
“Then, there is the eight-year moratorium on selling a subsidised house. What if you magically get your dream job right after receiving your RDP house, and meet your soulmate? If you have kids, they may be going to school before your eight years run out. What then? You can’t move to a nicer school area even though you’ve worked hard and can afford better?
“At the other extreme, if you’re stuck and can’t survive, the state saying it’s naughty to sell your RDP before the eight years are up has resulted in RDPs being illegally sold at an unfairly low prices. What if we change that? Surely small starter homes that already exist in not-so-nice areas are a huge opportunity?” Bridgitte waited for some response.
“Ja…?” Jo prompted, looking at Bridgitte thoughtfully.
“So instead of building houses, let people have a state-sponsored deposit for buying the house, or land, of their choice. When they buy. Call it a first-home subsidy. 
“Who qualifies?” asked Julius, sceptically.
“If we leave means-testing out of it, every individual getting the adult UBI, for their first purchase…”
“You mean every household,” corrected Julius.
“No, that would entail a lot more admin, even if home affairs gets the population register squeaky clean and families linked correctly. It has to be per individual. And I think we should allow it to be pooled; by spouses, or families, or communities.”
“Holy fuck,” said Jo, at the same moment as Roberta said, “Holy cow…”
“Kids don’t qualify until they turn eighteen, with due regard for special circumstances, like child-headed households,” continued Bridgitte. “Anyone who has already owned property on the deeds register doesn’t qualify. Anyone who has already received an RDP house doesn’t qualify. But people are welcome to save up their subsidy until they’re thirty-five and want to settle down.”
“A stable young family can buy a house to the value of twice the subsidy.” Roberta scratched her nose, thinking.
“Or a young farmer can buy the best land he can, and leave some of his subsidy for start-up costs, and live in a tent, if he wants,” Jo mused, “or Xolo from Nongoma can decide to take a home loan for a place in Sandton instead of getting an RDP in KZN…”
“Only if he gets his homeloan from the PostBank,” Bridgette corrected. “This wouldn’t be possible without your state bank and your UBI. You see my thinking?” She arched an eyebrow. “If Xolo studied agriculture, he could convince his parents and his two siblings to use their combined subsidy to buy a farm. He could run it, and everyone could work it for their own benefit.” 
Jo looked at Bridgette speculatively. “I love the concept of a ‘First Purchase Subsidy’. Do you have a number in mind?”
“We’re already spending R110k to R150k per RDP house, depending on what the land and services cost. Building houses in places where people live when they have no other choice. And averaging about a hundred and fifty thousand of those per year, according to the old Department of Housing records.”
“So about twenty billion a year for actual houses. Strange that the total department spend was almost seventy,” Jo said, after punching her always-present calculator.
“Focus, don’t get catty,” Roberta admonished. “How much, Bridge?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand. Existing beneficiaries on RDP waiting lists can say whether they want to wait for that spot, right there, but then we just transfer the land and secure the remainder of the subsidy for improvements. Choose your house, get it built yourself.”
“Unintended consequences,” said Roberta. “How do you stop people buying the cheapest land and then wasting the rest of the money?”
“Copy banks’ building loan structures. Only release funds when milestones have been met, and only for immovable property. If a person does well, they can save for the next one, knowing that their first one remains a one-fifty deposit, as long as they don’t sell down.” Jo said, grinning like a maniac at Bridgitte. 
Bridgitte laughed out loud, and nodded. “You don’t need to wait for an RDP house, because you can make an offer to purchase on something that suits your needs. There’ll be someone else who wants to buy it from you in five years’ time, because they want to live that conveniently located, without the hassle of hectic rates and taxes and worrying which taxi goes to their job.”
“How can people use the remaining subsidy for start-up costs if they have to buy immovable property?” asked Julius. “And what if someone wants to buy something cheaper? They get screwed over?”
Bridgette regarded Julius, considering his question thoughtfully.
“We can give a cash payout for the remainder, as long as the person is still a land owner in five years?” suggested Jo. “People could use the remaining First Purchase as collateral for loans, if they want to buy furniture or machinery or livestock, for instance. But that’s being a nanny-state.”
“Less nanny-state than an eight-year moratorium on resale of a property to which you have a title deed,” Roberta pointed out.
“Why would you need collateral for loans if you can get them from the PostBank?” asked Julius.
“Because even though the PostBank would be able to grant riskier loans, it wouldn’t be able to let everyone have a free-for-all with cheap debt,” replied Jo. “It wouldn’t be allowed to, either, according to the National Credit Act, which pretty much saved the country from the complete melt-down the rest of the world experienced in 2008.
“The bank would still have to assess affordability, which is limited if someone’s only income is the UBI, especially for goods that can be alienated before the debt is settled, like furniture or livestock.”
“I thought you campaigned that you would cover loans with life insurance?” challenged Julius.
“And we will. But what if the lender doesn’t die? If something goes wrong, the person could be paying the clawback for decades longer, during which they’ll be 10% worse off than everyone else. And the older they are when they take the loan, the more expensive the life insurance is likely to be.”
Julius half-shrugged, but said nothing further.
Find a solution to sell him, too, Jo said to herself, thinking quickly.
“I’d want a generational wealth limiter,” Jo said. “How about, if you’ve ever inherited more than four times the first purchase subsidy, you don’t qualify.”
“Unintended consequences,” argued Roberta. “What if all the nephews and nieces suddenly use their first purchase because they realise Uncle John is on his last legs?”
“Then Uncle John is probably the curmudgeonly old fuck that everyone only sucks up to so they might inherit. Nobody likes him anyway, and he’ll probably have fun spiting them by not leaving them anything. I don’t think that matters, and I think it’s really sad how many people still think that way,” said Jo. “But it’s worth analysing any information we can find.”
“But four times, or even six, mean that formerly poor families who managed to uplift themselves can leave their children something,” Roberta said. “Or the child that inherits Mommy and Daddy’s combined first purchase, much improved over the years, would not qualify. If the siblings all agree to sell the parents’ home, they might get a bigger inheritance each, and still qualify for their own first purchase. Much fairer for younger children, but still protecting the child that may want to continue with a family farm or business.
Julius looked pensive. “Would you include life insurance or pension payouts in the inheritance calculations?” 
“Good question…” Bridgitte frowned. “Probably, or it’ll just be another loophole for large generational wealth. Either or both would need serious evaluation. And then there is the huge catch.” Bridgitte took a deep breath before she continued.
“My biggest worry is the deluge of applications that would happen in the first years, until you can be reasonably certain that only the new eighteen-year olds are likely to take up their first purchase in the coming year. Those alone would cost a hundred and fifty bill a year, twice what’s currently being spent on housing.” Bridgette frowned. “I mean, I’m talking trillions for the backlog.”
Jo regarded Bridgitte, contemplatively, for a moment. “Okay, let’s crunch some numbers.”
Bridgitte shrugged. “Go ahead, I’ll argue if you say something I don’t agree with.”
Jo smiled, sceptical, and echoed Bridgitte’s shrug. “Okay.
“Let’s assume that half of the white and Indian over-thirties won’t qualify, and three fifths of the under-twenties won’t hit the system in the first year. Less the 2.4 million, maybe 3 million, people who have already been given an RDP house.” Jo checked a spreadsheet, and then grabbed a calculator. “Fuck, I studied engineering, but financials are never in scientific notation. I need help keeping track of the zeroes…
“1.9 million older people. 19m kids. 2.4m RDPs. That leaves us with 31 million people that may potentially get in the queue as soon the legislation gets passed.” One more calculation. “4.7 trillion rand if everyone asks for theirs right away.” Jo kept poking the calculator as if she was picking a fight with it.
Roberta was staring at the ceiling, lifting fingers as she silently counted.
“I told you I’m talking trillions,” said Bridgette. 
“You’re forgetting that many people have managed to buy their own properties. More than four million hectares,” Roberta added, contemplating a list of notes.
“Doesn’t help at all if it’s the same fifty people who bought all of it.” Jo was sulking. “And I feel it would be horribly unfair on the poor kids who worked hard, and somehow managed to buy their own land before now, to not be eligible for the subsidy, especially if they’re still living in, and paying off, that hard-won first house.”
“They’re probably doing okay,” said Roberta, sardonically.
Jo lifted an eyebrow at her.
“Let’s try a different tack,” Jo continued. She liked the idea, and wanted to find a way. “Seventy going into housing already… Then maybe five or ten billion a month unclaimed UBI, let’s say five… That’s one-thirty billion that could be in the state’s PostBank account after one year. “If the state meets current delivery, and increases both the subsidy and the number of people receiving it by ten percent per year, that’s still only four million people by the end of a political term.
“How many people are likely to make a first purchase bigger than their subsidy? Additional interest income, although low, might help.” Jo was thinking hard, rubbing an ear.
“Tribal land,” growled Julius.
“The obvious one. But it’s a hot potato that I’d rather not play with,” said Jo, tiredly.
“If you won’t do it my way, then it makes no sense to leave your way half done,” Julius argued. “You’d leave the authority over millions of hectares in the hands of people who aren’t even elected.”
“South Africa can’t stay in this half-democratic, half-tribal limbo,” Roberta agreed, to Jo’s surprise.
“How about you let people who want a headman donate something from their UBI on a monthly or yearly basis?” Bridgitte suggested.
“The entire current budget spent on traditional leaders, with a generous increase, is about a billion rand per year,” offered Julius, reluctantly.
“Come again?” Jo asked him, bewildered.
Bridgitte looked at Julius appraisingly. “Are you sure? How do you know that off the top of your head?”
“Special Interests, remember?” Julius answered, with a strange half smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Bridgitte nodded at him with a similar smile, and searched for a document on her tablet. “Just a moment, please?”
“There are 17 million loyal or intimidated subjects living in tribal areas,” she said. That’s R90 per adult per year. Let the people vote with their money, they get to anonymously say ‘R50 per year to my headman, another R50 per year to my chief, and another R50 per year to my king. Here are their names, and this is how much I want to donate.”
“Yoh, that would cause huge ructions…” Jo was beginning to get a headache.
“Of course it will,” said Roberta, “from exactly the kind of people we’d want to expose. True leaders would surely want a better life for all their people? It’s a Catch-22 for them to whine about having to finesse or bribe or intimidate, when it means they are acting at the expense of the people who trust them.”
“Could you get us some better intel by next week’s CabMeet?” Jo asked Bridgitte. “The others might have comments or suggestions. Rob,” Jo turned to her friend, “stick in on the agenda, won’t you?” Roberta nodded.
“I’ll be ready to present First Purchase,” said Bridgette, “but I need to do some digging before we mention voluntary support of tribal leadership. Give me an extra week for that?” 
“That’s after Question Day,” argued Jo. “But… I suppose First Purchase as a concept should cover most of the specific questions.”
Jo scanned the list again, scribbling quick notes in the margin next to each question.
“Deal,” she said. “If you have a viable strategy ready to sell to the team, I should be able to talk my way through ancillary questions. But we have to make work of it before the other parties start asking for specific and complicated details.”
Bridgitte nodded. Then, she looked at Julius in a much friendlier manner. “I’d appreciate your input during my preparation, if you have the time?”
“Let me know what you’re working on, and I’ll see,” Julius answered. “I’ve already compromised my party’s position as much as I’m comfortable with.”
“Fair enough,” replied Bridgitte. “I also want Ivo and Cormac’s input about unintended consequences, to borrow Roberta’s favourite phrase. Then we can start prioritising our actions.”
“Okay,” agreed Jo, and turned to Roberta again. “How much time can I spend researching this? I’m really nervous about Question Day, but we can get started on drafting answers to the specific questions before CabMeet, and run them by the cabinet?”
“All clear till question day, except for the Cabinet meeting. I planned your schedule that way,” Roberta said. “But you’ll have to fit in prep for the Ethiopian state visit somewhere, even though it’s mostly friendly PR.”
“Crap,” sighed Jo. “Please put that on the agenda too, I need any insights the crew might have…”
D minus 145
CabMeet 1
When Jo walked into the newly selected Cabinet Room, everyone was already there. After greetings all round, she turned to Bantu, who had walked with her.
“I would like to officially welcome our new Deputy President, whom I’m sure needs no introduction because you all chose him. Also Tsitsi, for Labour and Social Welfare. Next, Mohale grudgingly accepted a Deputy Ministership for Arts and Culture, under Brian. It probably means she’ll stop charging everyone performance fees, except us, if we ask her to sing at rallies. And lastly Nkunku, for Infrastructure and Transport. He’s so keen, and has so many plans, that he’s waived his ministerial salary. He has joined Radical officially, though, so he has signed our Manifesto.”
As everyone settled into their seats and arranged their folders, Jo continued. “They have all added points to the agenda, so this meeting may be a long one. I’d like to focus on Security. And Land, in preparation for Question Day next Monday, but we’ve got feedback on a bunch of things. There are a few issues which will affect everyone, but we’ve mostly discussed those privately so I hope we won’t be hitting anyone with nasty surprises.
“The first item on the agenda is Payroll?” asked Kgethi. “That’s a bit odd and vague?”
“That’s at my request,” replied Ivo. “Sally said she wanted to issue final written warnings en-masse for absenteeism and incapacity, and I thought it a good strategy for everyone to consider.”
Prof Praneet was nodding. “I’ve come to that conclusion too, but it’s easier for Sally, her departments are employed directly by National. Kgethi and I would have to get the provinces on board, too, and that’s going to take some serious negotiation. I have a disturbing number of junior employees who had no intention of staying in public health, they just used it as a stepping stone to get the basic qualification. Working for Health is apparently not a very popular long-term career for nurses.”
Tsitsi looked around nervously, before hesitantly clearing her throat. “The situation is similar for the social workers. Everyone is trying to get a job with an NGO, and the exploitation is rife, even there. We seem to be short of thousands.”
“There’s another worry,” said Sally, glumly. “There’s a discrepancy between Services members of the Government Employees Pension Fund and the number of services personnel the forces have declared in their Annual Reports. I think there are ghosts, more than 2% of the forces’ employees may not even exist. Or they do exist, but are receiving salaries after they’ve resigned or retired…”
Jo raised her eyebrows in shock, and made a note. “And how much does that cost?”
“If they’re all on the second-lowest salary band, more than R1.3 billion per year.” Sally grimaced.
“Ouch,” commiserated Tsitsi. “I’ve been looking at the grant recipient stats. I have a suspicion there’s ghosts, there, too.” She seemed a little more sure of herself.
“So send us all your info, and we’ll start matching it against the population register,” suggested Makhosi. “We’ll at least be able to point out ID numbers that are invalid, or deceased, or are too old or young to be employed. Or if the employee’s name and ID number combination differs from the register.”
“We’ve already started verifying SASSA recipients to move the accounts to the PostBank,” explained Thapelo. “Verifying your employee lists will be a simple process, and shouldn’t take long. We should probably check the employee data against GEPF too, since they’re more likely to know if someone passed or retired.”
“As Prof pointed out, getting my employee details will take some strong-arm tactics,” said Kgethi. “And we’d probably need to do an on-the-ground audit, or at least a comprehensive spot check. But that, too, I was going to do, since the most recent student-teacher-schools report is based on information from 2013. We need to do a proper analysis of the allocation of resources and which areas need more attention.”
“I can help with getting the basic info from the Provincial systems,” offered Thapelo. “But the civilian employees in municipalities will be a headache. They’re not necessarily on GEPF, as I understand. Maybe we should match the medical aid, too.”
“Good plan. Every ghost we unearth saves some money,” said Jo. “Even if we can’t get it all done in record time, it’ll be good to implement systems that will enable a periodic check. And centralized access to municipal data, read-only, if it must. But that we can make a requirement of the bottom-up budget process for next fiscal’s subsidy allocations to Provincial and Local.”
Thapelo nodded. “The integration is going to be hairy,” he said grimly.
“We expected that, though?” commented Roberta.
“We did, but I wish you had warned us that you were going to promise to start the Dividend this year,” Nhlanhla glared at Jo. “I said we might be able to. You don’t listen very well.”
“As a starting point, we do have the twelve odd a month that is currently going to grants. The Capex moratorium should give us another billion or two a month. We have to start as soon as possible, Ntate, the people have been suffering for too long,” Jo wheedled. Nhlanhla raised his eyebrows at the term of respect. 
“Then best you all get ghost-busting,” he grumbled. “I’m working on the savings from closing down the superfluous ministries, and we’ll redeploy who we can, but there’s going to be retrenchment implications.” He grimaced. Then he looked at Roberta. “As a sub-point to my section for next week’s meeting, everyone, please think about whether you’d like to poach anyone from the redundant ministries.
He looked down at his notes again, and continued. “We have the first sitting of the Special Committee for the UBI next Tuesday. We’ll start with the Foreign Transfer tax. The stock exchange tax is a bit more complicated because there a lot more things that need to be repealed, but it’s also on track.”
“And the Social Assistance Act?”
“Is confusing because of the simplicity of the replacement,” replied Ivo. “We’ve drafted a two pager that is mostly definitions, and that repeals the old act and the SASSA Act. The experts are debating whether we even need an Act. All we really need is the money, then we ask Parliament to approve a Social Relief in Distress grant according to the existing Act.”
“Every citizen in the country is in distress and needs social relief? That’s chutzpah!” laughed Cormac.
“Worth trying, if it makes the process shorter,” shrugged Ivo. “It’s not like we’re hiding what we want to achieve.”
“Timeline on getting to parliament?” Jo asked.
“We’ve allowed three months,” said Ivo, “but we’ll try to be faster. We’ve got a good mix of representatives from all the big parties on the committee, and I’m cautiously optimistic that they want the UBI, since they voted for you in the first place.”
“I don’t think my party will let it through until the RET taxes are approved,” said Phumzile. 
“I don’t blame them,” said Ivo. “That’s why we asked for the special committee to consider all the aspects as part of the same process. Right now, I’d vote against it if I didn’t promise to support it when I signed the manifesto.”
“You also promised to vote your conscience in the best interests of the citizens,” said Jo. “If you’re not happy that it’s feasible, then all I ask is that you help make it feasible until you can support it.”
Some of the ministers looked surprised, but no-one commented.
“Julius, Makhosi? How do your parties feel?” Jo asked, quietly.
“We’ll support it, if the debate makes sense,” shrugged Julius.
Makhosi looked troubled. “We’re with you in principal, but I’m not at all convinced that we can afford it yet, if ever. I’ll just wait and see, for now.”
“Thanks for your candour,” said Jo, with a rueful expression. “Anything else from you, Nhlanhla? Ivo?”
“Just that Sally and I should be able to gazette the non-prosecution of possession and growing of cannabis very soon,” replied Ivo. “The rest of the process will take time, although we are seeing how quickly we can get the convicts and detainees out of jail.”
The silence was leaden for a heartbeat.
“You’re joking, right?” snapped Tsitsi, incredulously. “Do you know how much more difficult a social worker’s job is because of substance abuse?” She became more timid towards the end of the statement, embarrassed at her outburst, aware that she was the new kid.
A number of the others also wore shocked expressions. Julius and Cormac, however, almost smiled.
“Alcohol is a substance, and the one you probably have the most trouble with,” Jo pointed out.
“I know it’s a surprise,” said Sally, gently, to Tsitsi. “We will evaluate decriminalization very carefully. But we arrest 160 000 people per year for possession. Of as little as one joint. Each arrest costs a grand and a half. Then we send fourteen thousand of them to jail for two years. That costs another R10k per month. If we gazette this, we save three and a half billion rand a year, which we feel could be better used cleaning up prisons and putting in place rehab facilities that actually produce results. Not to mention reducing the prison population from 150% to 120% of capacity.”
Tsitsi shrugged, and half-nodded, grudgingly.
“I really don’t want to harp on about that today,” Jo said. “We still have to run the land stuff past all of you. Kgethi, do you want to mention anything before Bridgitte speaks?”
Kgethi shook her head, no. “I don’t have anything concrete yet, we’re still collating data.”
Nhlanhla sighed at Jo. “Go ahead, terrify us about the land.”
“Not that terrifying, actually,” answered Bridgitte. 
“The land issue has been a huge political football for years, but none of the twenty or so pieces of legislation that have been implemented and un-implemented over the last two decades have made very much difference. 
“However, as we’ve all heard ad nauseum, there is a lot of state-owned land that is either not being used, or is just missing off the registers, with quite a few peccadilloes in between.
“Specifically, in the 2016 and 2017 financial years, almost 450 000 hectares of land was bought for redistribution. 385k of those hectares were allocated to smallholder farmers. Another 22k were allocated to ‘farm dwellers and labour tenants’, which in many cases means that the people who were living there are still living there but they have to re-apply to be tenants every so often, sometimes a short as three months, anecdotally. These people can immediately be deeded their parcel, it will cost next to nothing. The money has already been spent.
“More worrisome is the remaining 37 000 hectares that were bought and not allocated. So they’re just sitting there, somewhere, possibly with ‘squatters’ who have lived there for decades. Most worrisome is that’s from only two years, for a programme that has been running for twenty. Apparently, the Agricultural Land Holdings Account is sitting on R11.7b worth of agricultural land, farm buildings, and infrastructure.
“Then there’s the 500 000 RDPs that haven’t been deeded into the owner’s name. And who knows how many people who don’t have their title deed because they don’t realize how important it is.
“From what I’ve been able to track down, the state owns about 5 million hectares of agricultural or undeveloped land, and another 2.2 million residential. It’s using another 6 million for infrastructure and forestry and such-like. There’s also 5.5 million hectares that were unvested as at end 2015, mostly in Limpopo and the Eastern Cape, but whether those were included in the land audit is anyone’s guess.
“So we are going to find unused state land, value it, and then we’ll process claims from the people living there. Once all of them have their deeds, we put the rest on the open market. The proceeds of any sales will be ringfenced for further subsidies.
“I’ll have the details fleshed out for next week’s Cabmeet, once we’ve evaluated the real information that isn’t obfuscated in departmental annual reports. But we can, within a year, probably get around half a million people title deeds. I think it’ll be much more,” Bridgitte said.
“That much?” asked Bantu, eyes round.
Bridgitte nodded, lips pursed, and eyebrows raised. She continued.
“Furthermore, despite the extremists who scream the loudest, not everyone wants agricultural land. Not everyone wants to stay stuck where they already are, especially, maybe, in an allocated RDP house.
“What the state bank makes possible, much more simply and elegantly, is to subsidize the purchase of a home so that people can buy what they want. If only the current RDP budget and land reform budget goes towards such subsidies, we can do, at minimum, around 170 000 subsidies of R100 000.00 each year. We’ve dubbed it the ‘First Purchase’ subsidy.” Bridgitte looked around.
“People can choose to buy land valued at less than R100k. They can spend some, or all, of the remainder for purchases of immovable property. As long as they are still landowners in five years’ time, any change will be paid out to them. 
“They can choose to buy land valued at more than R100k, as long as their mortgage is with the state bank, and affordable. The other banks can improve their offering and take over the bonds, if they want, once a land-owner has a suitable credit record.”
“What about the people who do want agricultural land?” interrupted Cormac.
“As soon as the First Purchase legislation is passed, we can start getting labour tenants living on private land sorted out.” Bridgitte looked round at everyone. “The only catch is the Sub-division of Agricultural Land Act, but it was repealed in 1998 and awaits only the president’s signature. Jo has promised to sign it as soon as she can get her hands on it.”
“Then, we can start letting farmers offer to sell a part of the land to their employees. The farmer gets cash flow, and the workers become part owners. Any labour-tenant with a few years’ experience already knows many of the activities of the farm backwards. They could negotiate land under part of the crop, or land to grow whatever else they want. They could choose to stay where they are, or insist on another spot that is better serviced. But the subsidy would give them bargaining power, and respect during negotiations. And the outcomes would be mutually agreed, in a spirit of cooperation instead of animosity.” Bridgitte looked around at her colleagues. “It would be even better if this leads to the type of long-term mentor-farmer structures that the current redistribution legislation seems so keen to promote.” 
“And still the white farmer is the baas,” said Julius, bitterly.
“72% of agricultural land, as per the 2017 land audit,” agreed Bridgitte. “But that stupid law stopped them from selling smaller pieces. And with a Dividend, and a First Purchase subsidy, employees will be able to vote with their feet and desert the remaining bastard farmers. Nothing stops them from offering to purchase on a neighbouring farm they like better, or in the city, for that matter, if they’re only farm workers because they have to be.”
“That’s all good and well,” said Cormac, “but what about food security? We can’t just go around busting up big farms into small pieces.”
 “This first step will be on land that is pretty much already fallow, except for subsistence farmers or squatters,” said Bridgitte, “and they’re hardly contributing much to food security.”
Kgethi had been punching at her laptop for a while, but discreetly, not wanting to disturb.
“It really won’t affect productive big farms, I don’t think, from what I can find quickly,” she mentioned. “The Institute of Poverty, Land and Agrarian Studies seems to agree about the Subdivision of Land Act.”
Nkunku was frowning at Bridgitte. “How much subsidy did you say again?”
“R100k per citizen,” answered Bridgitte.
“Don’t you mean per household?” asked Nkunku.
“No, I mean per person. We want couples and family enterprises to be able to pool resources if that would work for them. Hell, we want five brilliant youngsters to save up their First Purchase and use it for loan collateral to start ground-breaking businesses, until they decide they want to settle down somewhere for a few years.” Bridgitte turned a page in her notes.
“We wanted it at R150k, but we have to see how the chips come down with the Dividend and wealth/monopoly taxes first. If we’re able to up it before the end of our term, we will. Retrospectively.”
Nhlanhla burst out laughing, but with horrified surprise, not mirth. “How much is all of this going to cost?”
“At current prices, the first purchase should be able to buy, on average, at least one hectare of undeveloped land with semi-rural services. Much less in a metro, much more in the Karoo.
“Depending on the qualifying criteria, as many as 31 million people might be immediately eligible. So, more than three trillion rand for the backlog. We’ll have to improve the queueing system,” said Bridgitte, brightly.
Nhlanhla seemed to have forgotten to breathe.
“Are you okay?” asked Bridgitte. “Remember, we might be able to sort up to 12 million of them, depending on the suitability of unused state land, but I’m only bargaining on five, for now. I think the rest might take longer, especially if we glut the market and property prices take a knock.”
“You want property prices to drop?” breathed Phumzile. Her disbelief was echoed on many other faces.
“Not particularly, but it seems that the price of agricultural land, especially, is artificially inflated, as a result of the Subdivision Act and a few other strange factors. And bear in mind that first purchase demand is likely to drive prices up. It’s going to be like playing football with no goal-keepers, while every player has his own ball, to try to time everything perfectly.”
Jo rubbed the bridge of her nose. Everyone looked as aghast as Nhlanhla, now. And they hadn’t even gotten to the worst part, yet.
“Look,” she interrupted, “we have an over-stock of luxury housing, and not nearly enough affordable accommodation. The smaller a house is, the more finishes add to the cost per square meter, and infringe on profits. Private developers don’t want to build decent affordable houses on cheaper land. They’d rather put in a mall and an eco park and one or two over-priced high-end developments. When those catch on, they can move in and erect the rest on land that they bought for a pittance, but which they’ve now managed to inflate for even bigger profits. And those have to be high-end, too.
“Spatial development is a serious topic for a different day. For now, I just want to get through Monday in one piece.” 
“I have a few more points to touch on?” Bridgitte said.
Nhlanhla, eyes closed, waved his assent fatalistically.
“Then there is, of course, the highly contentious issue of tribal land and tribal leadership,” said Bridgitte. “Julius dared us to go all the way, and came up with a plan…”
“No, I didn’t,” sniped Julius, curling his lip.
“You planted the seed. My people think the projections look convincing.” Bridgitte grinned at Julius as if they were partners in crime. He scowled.
Bridgitte continued. “It will be interesting to track what percentage of people living on tribal land choose to spend their first purchase elsewhere. It would be an implicit gesture of disapproval of tribal leadership. If they’re happy with the status quo, they would have no reason to use the subsidy. 
“It will be even more interesting to see the response, should they claim their title deed where they already live. If they get obstructed, they may change their minds. And if tribal leadership is happy to co-operate with direct deeding, that could be another 11 million hectares of first purchase sorted. So we’re simply going to let people’s actual claims for land or subsidies direct us for the first year or so.”
Bridgitte looked around. “You all look shocked. The upshot is that, if we manage first purchase carefully and frugally, we could get up to 23 million adults sorted out in this term.”
“Really.” Nhlanhla said, gravely. “The previous administration managed three million in decades.”
“Households, at least, not individuals,” Bridgitte reminded him. “My goal is to clear the whole backlog. But we need the integrated data that Makhosi is putting together, and some studies, before I can promise that it’s feasible.”
“If we make it work in our term, hopefully the next guys will keep doing it,” said Jo. “Not everyone wants agricultural land. Not everyone wants an RDP on the ass-end of Khayalitsha. If we take away their choice, we tell them that they’re stupid and need us to think for them.”
“It addresses a completely different concern of mine,” mused Phumzile. “My data keeps confirming that most rural areas are poverty-stricken, and that they pay much more for the same goods, whether in mark-up, distance travelled, or time. If people choose to buy rural land, and then plant crops to satisfy a local need, we start little mini-economies. Which may become big economies. What if some gogo in the Free State figures out a world-changing way to grow strawberries?”
“Additionally, the Dividend means that gogo’s neighbours have more money, and might actually support her business,” said Tsitsi, frowning. “Then hopefully she can start supplying a larger market with her innovation, and bring prices down. I’m specifically thinking about avos… they’re ridiculously expensive in the cities.”
Everyone burst out laughing. 
“You’re right, we need gogo to grow avocados instead of strawberries, if she can,” chuckled Phumzile.
“You’re laughing, but you have a very big point,” interrupted Cormac. “There’s an export opportunity for avocados. Many of our poorest regions are uniquely suited to grow them. But you’re wrong about strawberries, McKinsey pointed them out as a crop that could put the country streets ahead.”
“If we assist small producers to get them to market,” interjected Bridgitte.
“Ditto cannabis,” said Ivo. “Serious agricultural opportunities there, although the international trade negotiations may be sticky…”
“Enough countries have legalized cannabis,” smiled Nkunku. “It’s a worthy crop.” 
“I kind of hoped to be selling minerals and energy, not avocados and ganja, at Davos next year…” said Phumzile, gravely.
That brought another round of laughter.
“Speaking of Davos, does anyone have a compelling reason why they should go?” asked Jo. “I wanted Nhlanhla and Phumzile, and maybe Cormac, but does anyone else have experience of whether it’s worth anything?”
“I do,” said Bridgitte. “And you,” she looked at Jo archly, “would get the country crucified. Especially if you get the UBI going before then. They’ll be hanging around like vultures to spot the instant you fail.”
“Can you help us with any of that?” Jo asked quietly.
“Only if you don’t fail,” Bridgitte replied, also serious. “But if you have growth figures…” Bridgitte turned around to bat eyelashes at Nhlanhla.
“You want us to implement UBI quickly enough to show results at Davos?” Nhlanhla had gone grey.
Jo also batted her eyelashes at Nhlanhla. It was so incongruous, from this woman who wore no makeup, that everyone except Nhlanhla burst out laughing. 
“I think you can do it…” Jo simpered. Nhlanhla looked thunderous.
“I shouldn’t go,” interrupted Cormac. “If Phumzile will promote crops, along with our other resources, I’ll just mess things up with environmental concerns. There’s too much work to be done on the ground, I don’t want to face those people until we have a solid plan. Maybe send Bridgitte? If we need to?”
“Nope, our minerals sell themselves. And I want to sort stuff out so they contribute to the Citizens’ Wealth Fund. I don’t want to go to Davos with a half-baked idea. Anything I present needs to be debated, legislated, and cast in stone,” countered Bridgitte.
“Wait, what? What Citizens’ Wealth Fund?” interrupted Jo. She glanced at Nhlanhla, but he just shrugged his shoulders.
Bridgitte winked at Jo. “I’ll tell when I have it ready. I think you’ll like it. I know Julius will.”
“I’d like to go. To Davos, I mean,” said Bantu, quietly, looking at Jo. “I’m worried that, diplomatically, it might be seen as a snub if you don’t. Especially since we don’t have a Foreign Affairs ministry anymore.”
“Ouch, point taken,” said Jo. Nhlanhla, Makhozi and Julius were also nodding. 
“I think you should come too,” Nhlanhla said to Nkunku. “You know quite a few big shots personally, not just by reputation.”
“Thumb vote? Bantu, Nhlanhla, Phumzile and Nkunku?” asked Jo, with a grimace. She received twelve thumbs up. Full house of the people who knew what I was talking about. After looking around quizzically for a second or two, Bantu and Tsitsi also raised their thumbs.
“I’m in favour,” said Mohale, drily. “I just don’t know if I’m allowed to vote, as the only deputy.”
Brian grinned at her and raised his other hand, too.
“Okay, Davos sorted then,” said Jo. “Tell us next week what you need from us. And everyone figure out what your department needs to make us look good.” Nods all around.
“So are we done?” asked Jo.
“Not quite,” said Bridgitte. “We haven’t discussed restitution.” 
“Oh, yes,” sulked Jo.
“Don’t give me that look,” countered Bridgitte. “This is your baby. You tell them.”
Jo looked up and pursed her lips. The cabinet looked at her with expectant attention.
“At least three restitution processes I’ve followed had corporates and traditional leadership conspire to leave the citizens in no better position. I want some transparent mechanism to retract ‘once empowered, always empowered’. And I want to waste money auditing the results of every land restitution done to date.”
“The baKwena won’t like that,” ventured Thapelo.
“From what I’ve seen, they have used their power to make life better for their ordinary people. They should sail through an audit. I don’t think the mining company treated the baRalong that well.” Jo took a deep breath. “And there’s a north KZN community whose restituted land was left in the hands of the farmer who was compensated. They say they don’t even know what happened, but they certainly haven’t seen any benefits. Some of the CPAs are hotbeds of self-enrichment.”
“A bunch of studies from the universities’ land specialist institutes have come up with horrifying numbers like R1.8m spent per household, given the restitution and redistribution annual reports,” explained Bridgitte, glumly. “Even the ones that are working still have some ‘community’ organization in charge. The families are better off, but they still don’t have title deeds. I believe that an audit will enable us to put deeds into individual hands. Then, again, families are empowered with choice. They can leave a particular community or chief or headman if they’d rather go somewhere else.”
“At Bridgitte’s request, I’m reviewing title deeds legal processes,” interjected Ivo. “The current system is onerous and expensive. I feel that, at a the very least, we can substantially simplify the process for property valued, say, below half a million.”
“We’re still integrating all the information from the three former ministries and their obfuscatory reporting,” Bridgitte continued. “But if the money is well-spent instead of skimmed to enable graft, my preliminary calculations say we can give first purchase to more than half the adult population before our term ends.”
Several surprised expressions rose from the cabinet, including a soft whistle from Julius. 
Bridgitte cocked an eyebrow at them, and then pointed thumb towards Jo. “If that one can manage to dodge impeachment for the whole five years…”
“You’re assuming you’re likely to get impeached?” Julius asked Jo, speculatively.
Jo smiled back at him wryly. “The things I want to do have never been done before,” she said, and started chewing a nail. “If they don’t work, I need you lot to get that through my skull somehow. Impeachment, or a motion of no confidence, is a valid threat. I want this cabinet to last out the five years. We don’t agree on lots of things, so if we can find a solution that makes this group happy, hopefully that extends to the average citizen. If I’m the spanner in the works, I think I deserve to get fired.”
Both Bantu and Julius grunted disbelievingly.
“I’m fucking arrogant, Julius,” Jo continued. “The Dividend, and getting land under every citizen, are things that need someone who is almost idiot savant passionate about insisting that they’re possible. I think I’m as entitled to my opinion as anyone else. But I also worry there’s someone else that will do this job way better than I can. I’d rather find that person and put them in charge. I’ll vote for my own impeachment if y’all find us someone more competent and more effective, as long as they believe in the UBI and making sure every single citizen of this country has somewhere they can call home, and where no-one can throw them out.”
“That’s a big ask,” opined Bantu.
“Is it?” quarrelled Jo. “You’re all here because I gave you a way to hope, maybe to believe, that it’s possible. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, at least a bit, worry about the rural poor that aren’t related to you somehow. Or the families living in shacks in the back yards of RDP houses. Every ‘702 black’ or ‘clever black’ is supporting a whole extended family back in the village. They should be on my side, too, because the Dividend means that the people at home will have more than what the highly-qualified young people have been sending them.
“This country can feed everyone. The kids who have worked hard, on the backs of their parents that worked even harder, in an unfair dispensation… Do you think my dream of working towards your own prosperity is unreasonable? Why shouldn’t you be rich if you frikkin carved out that qualification by candle light, from Grade 1 to your B-degree, or H or M-degree? Why shouldn’t you then spend your money on whatever improves your life or makes you happier?
“I need money in the pockets of citizens, so that they can live well and spend it with whichever businesses serve them best. Then those businesses will grow, and the economy will grow, and new businesses will start up, and they’ll need workers. 
“The rural areas will be able to improve themselves, when they have customers with money and property. Leaving them alone to develop their own economies will be way more effective than all this interfering agripark rubbish.
“I want to minimise interference from the state, across the board. It spends too much, causes barriers to entry, and increases the cost of doing business. My job is getting rid of poverty, and making sure the rest of you have enough resources to do your jobs, which are much harder than mine. Safety, education, health, state bank, standard of living. Everything else, we’ll evaluate carefully if the market wouldn’t do it better if we just stopped meddling.”
“Radical indeed,” said Julius, arching his eyebrows.
“Hey, I stole the word from you,” grinned Jo.

D minus 139
Health
Jo was looking over the consolidated historical spend for Health. It still irked her immensely that almost all of the available information was fragmented, incomplete, and contradictory. Some of the hospitals could only deliver financial information in the form of a collection of excel spreadsheets that had been inexpertly exported from some woefully inadequate and inappropriate bookkeeping software. The bespoke systems were no better than the off-the-shelf one-size-fits-all alternatives.
Praneet had sounded grave when he had called to hear if she was available to speak to him. 
Fortunately, despite all the stress, Question Day had gone as well as could be expected, and she had even been able to plant some seeds that could lead to increased support for the processes that would enable the implementation of the UBI and the RET taxes. 
And after refusing to get a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, and go shopping for what Roberta considered “suitable” outfits for the state visit from the Ethiopian head of state, Jo had the rest of the day to herself to ponder and research possible ways to integrate the information systems that annoyed her so much.
Thapelo and his team will do a much better job, she chided herself. I still want to know what the questions are, herself chided back.
There was a staccato knock at the door to her office, which wasn’t closed.
“Hello, come on in,” she invited, when Praneet stuck his head around the door. “Have a seat. Couches, table, or desk?”
He considered her with his steely gaze, and then rubbed the back of his neck. “Couches,” he confirmed. He looked haggard, and didn’t smile.
“Something to drink?” asked Jo. “I only have water and kimchi, but Mzi’ll organize us some coffee if you don’t mind cheap instant.”
“I’m good, thanks,” he responded. “Where’s Roberta?”
“Organizing seven identical navy suits, two with skirts and five with pants,” replied Jo, and then thought for a moment. “Damn, I didn’t specify no high heels, I hope I won’t have to return seven pairs of shoes…”
“What…?” asked Praneet.
“My wardrobe is apparently not up to scratch for the state visit. I almost lost the argument until I said she could dress me however she wanted as long as I don’t have to decide what to wear. We settled on navy.” Jo gestured to Praneet’s impeccable suit, also navy, although the jacket wasn’t buttoned.
“Ah, I get it now,” he smiled. “You don’t like putting together a look for the day?”
“Hell, no. Nudist, remember? Lucky Barack Obama gave me an out. Apparently, he wore the exact same suit every day for most of his presidency,” Jo chuckled. “Obviously not the same one, but they all looked the same. What’s on your mind? You know so much about your portfolio I was kinda just going to let you get on with it…”
“The situation with the oncology departments in KZN hospitals. I get how the health component of the equitable share is calculated, and KZN has more healthcare visits per person of the uninsured population. So they get 23% of the national health spend although they only have 21% of the population. The weightings are meant to help poorer and sicker provinces.
“So how are they doing less with the money? The Auditor General reported that 25% of performance indicators couldn’t be evaluated because there was no credible information. In the 2015 and 2016 financial years they spent R2.4b on buildings, half of the rest of the provinces combined. But on machinery and equipment, they spent only a fifth as much as Gauteng, who gets a similar allocation. They spent less than the Eastern Cape on machinery and equipment, for heaven’s sake, and Eastern Cape receives only 60% as much money.”
“What do the annual reports say? Jo asked, alarmed.
“They blame slow progress on construction projects that led to delayed payments being made in the 2015/16 financial year. But then the same must have happened in 2014/15, which was even higher. And in the overspend section they blame increased housing allowances for everything. And they admit they underspent on machinery by a hundred million, as a ‘cost containment’ exercise.” Praneet sighed and massaged his forehead with one hand. “Oh, and…” he grinned scornfully, “the cost of a forensic investigation into ghost employees, and outsourcing of disciplinary procedures.” He laughed mirthlessly, staring at the ceiling.
“So what do you want to do?” Jo asked him.
Praneet sighed. “I’ve requested the same data for the other provinces, I hope they look better. But KZN has 37 hospitals, 180 mobile clinics, and more than 600 fixed clinics. I’m trying to decide where to start, and I was hoping you had an idea or two.”
“Are you rushed for time? I just want to look at the annual reports quickly,” said Jo.
“Please do. You probably focus on different things that I do. Maybe I’ve missed something,” requested Praneet, waving one hand, with a nod.
Jo found the correct documents, and the correct pages. Then she scribbled some numbers.
“Well, in 2017 the building expenditure dropped from R1.2b to R900m. But given the apparent cash constraints in 2016, I find it interesting that that the number of supervisor consultants increased from 80, earning R1.7m each, to 141 at R1.5m. Hmmm.
“And permanently employed top-level supervisory staff went from 956 at R1.5m per year each, to 1324 at R1.5m. That’s R566m extra in salaries to non-operational salary bands.
“Why do you think a cash-strapped department would employ almost 500 extra people at million-rand-plus salaries when they keep losing health-care professionals?” Jo concluded, sarcastically.
“I’ll have a closer look at that,” said Praneet, fatalistically.
“It’s too soon for us to make threats, I feel,” pondered Jo. “What if you set up meetings with the various provincial Health structures and get a feel for the extent of the rot? Surely there are still good people trying their best to keep things going, however demoralized they are.”
Praneet nodded in assent. “It just feels like so little, too late.” His frustration was unmistakeable.
“Possibly the gangrene needs amputation. But let’s do some tests first, so that we don’t chop off a healthy knee,” said Jo, half-jokingly. “I don’t want to consider putting a provincial department under administration, unless there are seriously compelling reasons.”
“I hear you,” he answered, but he didn’t seem convinced. “But I’ll arrange a meeting with KZN asap, and let you know when we’ve interrogated the other provinces.”
He was apparently too pre-occupied to say goodbye, and merely launched out of his chair and strode out of the office.

D minus 138
CabMeet 2 - Bridgitte / Deeds and labour tenants – land
Jo looked round at all her colleagues, when the Cabinet had settled down into their customary places.
Julius to her left, scowling as he leaned backwards in the tilting boardroom chair. His hands were clasped in his lap, and he was rocking the chair, fidgeting with impatience.
Next to him was Makhosi, stately in a perfectly tailored cherry-coloured dress, a new weave prissily tied up into a librarian’s bun.
Tsitsi was quietly and unobtrusively seated between Makhosi and Nhlanhla.
Nhlanhla in the middle of the table to the left, frowning seriously, as usual, all precise, efficient movements as he opened up his notebook. 
Then came Praneet, and Kgethi. They seemed to prefer to sit together ever since the first education brainstorm session, and they did share challenges, with their departments substantially working through the provincial legislatures.
Cormac, Thapelo, Mohale and Brian circled the bottom end of the table, leaving a gap for the projector between Thapelo and Mohale. They acted a bit like teenagers under gang leader Cormac, and Jo supposed they were technically the juniors, both in age, and how important their departments were considered, conventionally.
Coming back towards Jo, on the right-hand side of the table, sat Nkunku. Jo hadn’t spent much time with him since his interview, but he was incredibly energetic, charismatic, and charming. Even now, practically motionless, he radiated a sense that there was nowhere else he’d rather be, and he thought everyone else in the room was fabulous.
Next came Sally, Ivo, and Bridgitte. They had been working together on a quite a few things, and strategically, it made sense, to Jo, that they’d formed somewhat of a clique.
Then Phumzile, almost model-like in her graceful economy of movement. In a royal-blue pants suit with conspicuous silver buttons, she looked glamourous, but professional. The long scarf-like collar of her ivory silk shirt was tied into a blowsy bow, and softened the outfit perfectly.
Lastly, Bantu, to Jo’s right, with his standard demeanour of beatific calm, accompanied by a gentle, compassionate smile.
Did I purposely put the people from the other parties closest to me? wondered Jo. I don’t think so. Interesting that it ended up that way.
“Just Bridgitte and Ivo, today,” said Roberta, starting the recording of the meeting, and settling into her seat behind Jo and Bantu.
“Who wants to start?” asked Jo.
“Both of us, actually,” said Bridgitte. “And we need Cormac to weigh in. We have collated all the available information for RDPs and state land bought specifically for redistribution, and are pretty much done matching with the surveyor general’s records. So we can start transferring title on almost two million properties, but we will be redoing the deed searches first. The provinces and municipalities didn’t keep track of outside beneficiary lists; we’re expecting to find a number of people who have been allocated more than one RDP.”
“We’re also matching against Cormac’s registry of agricultural land,” added Ivo. “There’s good reason for a lot of the legislation, and Agriculture, Forestry and Fishing have a number of laws enacted to protect the environment and food security. Unravelling the tangle is going to take skill, finesse, and a lot of very careful analysis of repercussions. It won’t be quick.”
“So your investigations in terms of simplifying deeds transfer processes didn’t yield anything?” asked Jo, disappointed.
“It did,” replied Bridgitte, “but any sweeping bull-in-china shop changes will have cascading consequences. We’re commissioning evaluations from the various research institutes to assess the way forward, and Cormac will probably want to do the same. For now, even though I could issue a proclamation about deeds transfers, it’s simpler to get tenders from conveyancing firms. Or hire our own qualified conveyancers.”
“I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad news?” asked Bantu.
“It’s not bad,” replied Bridgitte, with a shrug. “But the notices in the Gazette about the First Purchase subsidy and repealing the moratorium on sale of subsidized housing will be published next week. Then 30 days for comment, and we can present to Parliament. I don’t want the repeal of the moratorium to be promulgated before the UBI kicks in, but I want First Purchase in Parliament asap, so that’s why I separated them.”
“Why?” asked Jo.
“To dissuade people from selling their houses for a pittance out of desperation. When First Purchase goes live, they’ll be able to get better prices if they really want to sell, but hopefully the UBI will mean that they’re not as desperate for cash. Then they’ll be able to consider holding on to their properties, or even upgrading.”
“Okay,” nodded Jo. “That makes sense, although I’m not sure I think it’s necessary. Can anyone else foresee a nightmare waiting to attack us?”
“I’ll have a look into a few things I think might,” said Cormac. “Bridge, can we set up a meeting when we’re done here?”
Bridgitte nodded, then continued. “Right, then, for now we’re working on deeding land bought specifically for redistribution. On restituted land, we’re dealing with the CPAs one by one. Not every community ‘leader’ wants to lose his position as the head honcho, so we’ll focus on educating the community members and weighing up the preferences of the various stakeholders.
“With Jo having signed the repeal of the Sub-division of Agricultural Land Act, we can start awareness campaigns among labour tenants as soon as First Purchase is approved. I’m even evaluating cutting a deal with the Land Bank, for farmers who would like to deed land to their labour tenants but don’t necessarily need the cash flow. We could settle part of their Land Bank or Development Bank loans, in that case.
“Lastly, we’ve started community meetings in the areas where the RDP waiting lists are the longest. We’re getting some qualitative information about how people feel about First Purchase, and have given the means to indicate their preference for First Purchase instead of an RDP, without losing their place on the RDP list. It’s early days, but the results look encouraging. Almost 40% are completing the preference forms before leaving the meeting venue.”
“Hang on, if you get First Purchase approved before the UBI comes in, what will you use as collateral for the home loans?” asked Nkunku, frowning.
“Remember, First Purchase doesn’t necessarily require a loan,” answered Bridgitte. “About 40% of this year’s housing budget has not been awarded to tenderers yet, so we’re preferentially facilitating in those municipalities. First Purchase is a lot less work for them, but of course the parties who were on the take don’t want simplicity, and are fighting against us. It’s helping us identify possible bad apples for investigation.
“But it means there is money for about 60 000 RDPs, which is 90 000 First Purchases. We’ll prioritising people who want less than First Purchase on existing state land, or on existing undeeded and un-claimed RDPs. We have to start somewhere. 
“I’m pleased to say we’ll definitely be able to get at least half of our citizens their own property, within our term,” Bridgitte said smugly. “But I’m still aiming for all.”
“What do you need to get to 100%?” asked Nkunku, “if you think it might be feasible?”
“I need tribal leaders to be leaders, instead of celebrity spendthrifts,” said Bridgitte. “The tribal leadership structure costs the country a billion rand per annum, but fewer than half the citizens consider themselves subjects, and even if they do, it’s of one particular tribe.
“We want to give people the option to make a monthly or yearly donation to their leaders. Voluntarily, and anonymously.”
“You want poor people to donate some of their UBI to their leaders?” asked Tsitsi, incredulously.
“It works out to about R90.00 per adult per year, if you count only the people who live on tribal land,” said Bridgitte. “If they choose to give R30.00 to each of the headman, chief and monarch they support, these are the results:
“Headman would need would need about 3 500 willing subjects to make up their present salaries. Chiefs, 8 250. Kings or queens would need about 40 000 people to like them and offer to contribute. Once a year. Except for Ntate Goodwill, he’d need R8 per year from every single adult Zulu to maintain his current government income, so if only a quarter of them like him enough, he’ll be fine.
“Never mind the perks Provincial and Local are allowed to vote to them. That’s a different headache,” mentioned Cormac. “And that the former Department of Land was paying the trust more than fifteen million per year.” 
“Well, yes,” conceded Bridgitte. “But if tribal land is also made available for First Purchase, state land could give everyone around 800m2 that just needs to be deeded. No actual cash required. Lots of generalizations, of course.”
“And a million or so kids coming of age every year,” said Jo. “So we’d need a hundred billion for them, if their First Purchase needs to be cash.”
“Housing was spending two thirds of that in 2015/16. It’s much less impossible than doom-sayers want us to believe.” Bridgitte looked around.
“We have to see how the free market changes demand. I’m zooming in on the 430 thousand hectares of high-potential arable land Afriforum says is under state control. That could be worth as much as R20 billion.
“The stock of land will get more expensive over the long term, with free-market supply and demand, but many of the land studies institutes think that agricultural land would become cheaper,” said Bridgitte. “We’ll just have to hope that whoever takes over from us sees the value and carries on, until the Gini coefficient is good…” she thought for a moment. “Maybe the limiter should be everyone born before the end of this year. No, everyone born before the end of next year. 2020 is a nice round, memorable number. Then it stops, or devolves to a lower subsidy applicable only to new adults who are first- or second-born, and still based only on purchase of land. We can crunch the numbers.
“Also, once we’ve surveyed the land owned by mines that may be suitable for living on, that will start getting surface rights traded when we manage to implement mineral rights as a yearly licencing issue, instead of a decades-long permit to pillage.”
“First Purchase, as opposed to RDPs, will certainly kill the existing construction industry, which is providing a bunch of jobs. For employees and subcontractors,” Bantu said, chewing a thumb-nail.
“Only if they were doing shoddy bulk jobs to begin with,” countered Nkunku. “If they can deliver, the only change is that now, they need to negotiate with 500 individual owners, who want to sign off milestones and receive an official title deed. 
“Not to mention cutting out opportunities for graft or huge mark-ups. No more bribing a municipal project manager that magically gets his holidays and home loan payments covered by some untraceable entity. If we’re lucky enough that he isn’t actually selling RDP house allocations. The state doesn’t need to worry about ‘happy letters’ and the attendant red tape; that responsibility goes back to private providers who don’t get their final payment until the deeds paperwork is done. And it will incentivise the development of cheaper housing.” 
“This is a lot of de-regulation,” said Ivo. “As much as I want to give the free market some space, what’s going to happen if we say water and sanitation and electricity should be completely demand driven?”
“Then First Purchase and UBI are going to stick the demand in places that have been completely ignored, before,” ventured Jo. 
Nkunku laughed, and nodded to Jo. Then he turned to Ivo. “Have you ever struggled to find a Black Label or a Coca-Cola, even in the middle of nowhere?”
Quite a few chuckles at this.
“We have to keep our eyes on the ball,” droned Nhlanhla, cutting short the levity. “We have to make sure we know what is going on, and we need spare cash and capacity to step in if something goes south. But I’m beginning to agree that this is a better strategy. I’m just terrified of how it will play out.”
“If it looks like it might fail, we fire that one,” said Julius, tilting his head towards Jo, “and regroup in our individual parties.”
“But even if it fails, you can blame me as the crazy maverick,” nodded Jo, stoically. “And you get all the excitement of another presidential election as completely uncertain as mine was. What if it works?”
“That is much more terrifying,” opined Bantu. “What if it works?”
D minus 133
Bank charges – Ivo
“I’m looking at cutting red tape,” argued Ivo. “You said I could do that.”
“Yes, I believe you can, and will,” Jo argued back. “But you want to do that. You still have the other half of the portfolio you accepted, and I have two things I want looked at, carefully. 
“Firstly, the banking industry, in our country at least, is raping customers to the point of absurdity. I need your input, as protective as you are of capitalist ‘production’, to define the fee structure for the PostBank.”
“What do you want to achieve?” Ivo asked, sceptically.
“I want to hijack all the raped customers for the PostBank.” Jo raised her eyebrows, and stayed silent. The silence became uncomfortable.
“Okay. How?” Ivo grudgingly caved first.
“By doing away with as many as I can of the ridiculous bank charges, and petty tricks, that the other banks have. Bounced debit order fees. Un-bounced debit order fees. Cash deposit fees. ATMs that list quick-withdrawal amounts that maximise fees instead of minimising them. That kind of thing.” Jo stared back at, her arms crossed.
“That’s just bank charges?” Ivo countered. “They happen.”
“R500 million, at a low estimate, in bounced debit order fees, per month. The lowest is R5.35 per bounced debit order. Up to R115 per transaction.” Jo clenched her jaw. “I understand where it came from, in the old days of cheques, where the bank was actually at risk until a complicated manual set of procedures was completed. There is no more excuse, not for debit orders, and not for reversed debit orders.”
“The banks are trying to encourage financial responsibility,” said Ivo, seriously.
“Really, by making people’s financial situations even more dire? To the exclusive benefit of the bank’s bottom line?” Jo breathed in and out, deeply, three times, before she was calm enough to avoid responding in anger.
Not calm enough yet, she thought. “I have to count to ten before I say anything else.” She did so, while Ivo regarded her, chin rested on one hand.
“There are ‘legacy plans’ all over the place. Until you scream, they’ll keep charging you what you allegedly agreed to, two years, five years, ten years ago. One of the banks charges four rand per debit order. Another one charges R14.00 for a R99.85 funeral policy. Oh, and more than the value of the debit order, if it is reversed.
“And let’s not start on the fact that they charge you to give them your money, which they will then lend out twenty times over at the highest interest rate they can get away with while not paying you, the owner of the money, any interest.
“Poor people problems, I know,” said Jo, sarcastically. “Taking on the entire financial ‘services’ industry is what I’d like to do. With only five years, during which I’ll probably be impeached, I thought the best way to start was to increase competition by implementing an honest and transparent fee structure for the PostBank. And that, I think, should include charging the merchant, not the client, for every debit order presented. It certainly includes truly punitive measures against merchants that present fraudulent debit orders.
“All of the South African banks are currently saying ‘take up your disputed debit order with your service provider. It’s not our bank’s fault.” Jo waited for a response.
“And why is that a problem?” said Ivo. To be fair, he did look genuinely confused.
“Because our legislation changed to protect service providers. Whether or not they are legitimate. The spate of unauthorised debit orders from ‘Dreamworks Holidays’ or some such random shit proves that there is a loophole in the law.” Jo breathed, deeply, again. 
“By my sums, if only half a percent of debit orders are fraudulent, and half of those get bust, fraudsters still make off with a hundred million rand per year. Banks get sixty million. All paid for by the customer, of course.
 “So when I’m told, ‘take it up with your service provider’, I want to scream, which service provider?! I’ve never heard of this company! But my bank, the custodian of my money, just shrugs its shoulders.
“The merchants can even pay someone to track my bank account, to take my money weeks before they’re allowed to, according to the agreement I thought I signed. There is a ‘NAEDO’ function, which to my mind is completely unconstitutional.” Jo was angrier than ever.
“I’ve heard of NAEDO. Refresh my memory?” responded Ivo.
“NON-AUTHENTICATED Early Debit Order,” said Jo, bluntly. “All you need to do is pay a payment gateway company a few more rand per transaction, and neither they, nor your bank, care whether any agreement was actually concluded. Your bank makes its money. And you don’t get to decide that I’d rather pay my house, than my car, when things get rough.”
“You don’t get to say that DSTV can be paid after the important stuff is done…” Ivo seemed to be considering.
“But, on the other hand, legitimate suppliers do deserve to have their contracts and their payment agreements respected,” Jo contradicted herself. “People are often very irresponsible, financially. I certainly was, into my thirties. I just think there must be a better way. Better than this gouging by the banks, overseen by a self-regulatory body that makes money out of every infringement while not caring too deeply about processing the complaints.”
“Aren’t they supposed to have DebiCheck fully implemented by October this year?” Ivo asked.
“Already rolled out by some of the banks,” nodded Jo, “and supposed to replace NAEDO. But all it does is ask you to confirm that you have mandated a debit order. There is no way to say “I approve this debit order, for only this amount, for only two years. And that leads me to my second bugbear.
“Contracts that go into evergreen. Cellular contracts, specifically. I have been hounded by debt-farmers because I did not extend a contract with a provider. Every time they phoned me to offer me my ‘upgrade’, I declined. I requested that the number be converted to prepaid at the end of the contract, less than two months away. Every time, they somehow misplaced that recorded call, called the contract ‘evergreen’, and just continued presenting debit orders.”
“I can see how that’s annoying,” agreed Ivo. “But surely you’re over-reacting just a bit?”
“If I took out that contract to pay off a device, the device is paid off after 24 months, if I was never delinquent.” Jo glared at Ivo.
“Ja, and?” he said, looking bored.
“Once they turn the contract evergreen, the debit order amount doesn’t change, even though I’ve paid for my Samsung in full. So every person still happy with their phone, not wanting a new one, keeps paying for it in perpetuity. Maybe they’re happy that they never go over the debit contract amount they initially signed up for. Maybe they don’t care that, on per-second billing, they’d be paying a lot less. But surely, at least, the debit order should decrease by the value stated for the device, divided by 24.” Jo grimaced, and turned a palm upwards, in supplication.
Ivo nodded, unwillingly. “I’ll look into those,” he assented. “I imagine you want to evaluate data prices too.” He grunted fatalistically.
“That one is easy, the wording of the Consumer Protection Act already states that vouchers cannot expire for three years. The providers argue that their voucher has been redeemed once it is activated on a SIM. I argue that it has then merely been taken out of the pretty gift envelope. It has become another promise to deliver a service, no service has been delivered until the call time is or data is used.”
“So you think airtime and data shouldn’t expire for three years?” Ivo said, doubtfully.
“A Woolworths voucher may not. The retailers screamed store closures and job losses when they had to implement that, but they managed, somehow. Why on earth does Vodacom get an exception?” asked Jo, almost belligerently. “It’s a bit different for contracts, there I think there might be some justification. But even with contracts, there are shenanigans. Contract bundles are specifically chosen to be almost, but not quite, enough. Then contract customers either have to top up at much higher rates, or upgrade to a more expensive contract that they’ll never use up. There’s quite a lot of literature comparing the various operators world-wide. I think Vodacom and MTN may still be in the top ten most profitable cellular providers in the world.”
Ivo scribbled a note.
“It’s one of the biggest scams in history,” said Jo scathingly. “A business model that focuses on avoiding delivery for services that are fully paid up front.” 
“You and your conspiracy theories,” chuckled Ivo. “I’ll bite. What’s the biggest?”
“Being rich because an ancestor started charging tolls on a road that everyone was allowed to use for free the previous day.”
Ivo looked at her quizzically, but said nothing.
“The systematic parcelling up, and fencing for exclusive use, of resources, by the biggest or richest bullies,” said Jo tiredly. “But you admire the bullies. You think they’re somehow better people.” She shrugged.
“I’ll see what I come up with when I’m wearing my Consumer Protection hat,” Ivo said gently, and smiled. “You might not like it.”
“As long as you look, and look critically,” replied Jo.

D minus 130
Education 2 – textbooks, prioritising infrastructure spend, teacher’s exams
Jo paged through Kgethi’s report. “We have how many public schools?” 
“That is surprisingly difficult to ascertain. Even if we look at payroll figures by school names, there are so many similarly named schools that misspellings are common, if the field is even completed at time of appointment. DepEd reports allude, but don’t enumerate, not since 2013, when they said almost twenty-six thousand. Thirty thousand including ECDCs and special schools.
“The latest General Household Survey said about fourteen million people in primary and high school, but that includes private schools. Extrapolating the 2013 ratios, maybe thirteen million in public schools. At the 2013 ratio of five hundred kids per school, around twenty-seven thousand schools.”
“And five hundred of them are in a sorry state.”
Kgethi laughed wryly. “You wish. These are the most nauseating ones. The parameters for cut-off were a challenge to weight, but there’s your list of the worst. Every one of those schools has at least three out of four of no electricity, no working ablutions, problems with textbooks, or a student-teacher ratio of more than forty to one. Oh, and only eighty-seven of them have an average promotion rate of more than sixty percent.”
“Holy crap. Any suggestions?” We knew it was bad. Listen first, Jo told herself.
“We’re already reviewing all textbook and stationery tenders and delivery schedules. In a number of cases, we’ve found small companies that were just putting a hefty markup on prices that we could get direct from the publishers. The interesting thing is that the publishers can’t handle the combined totals, because most of the companies awarded the tenders hadn’t actually made any arrangements with them. Importing independently works out slightly more expensive than the publishers, unless you import older editions that were shelved for good reasons.
“I understand the value of contracting a local business to put up with the schlep and hassle of getting books to places that are in the middle of nowhere, on time. But that doesn’t seem to have informed many of the tender award decisions.
“So we’ve already increased quite a few direct orders for the biggest titles, when we were able to cancel the existing tenders for material deficiencies. It’ll take another month or two to finalise, though.”
“And then we’re stuck with the logistical nightmare of distributing the additional books.” Jo sighed.
“There are some really good small companies in the mix; we’re flagging them as we go along, and matching them with the deficient ones area-wise. By end of July, we could issue them requests for quote to pick up the distribution slack,” Kgethi responded.
“That sounds sensible. How soon would we know how much slack we must deal with ourselves?”
“If we give them ten days to submit the RFQ’s, we could finalise mid-to-end August. They’d spark if we told them they were hand-picked.”
“One down, three to go, then. We’re dealing with the teachers in the process of the teacher’s exam setup, but the electricity and ablutions? What is required to upgrade? Why isn’t there electricity, in each of the cases?”
“This was a very cursory survey, but I’ve kept the QS’s on until Friday, in case we wanted to take it further. What are you thinking?”
“Look at the two hundred that scored worst on your evaluation. Find me a decent mix of provinces, rural versus urban, and poverty in the area. And do a comprehensive bill of works for fifty of the schools. Let’s see if we can make work of those during December.”
“What do you mean by bill of works, exactly?” queried Kgethi, then added, “Can I record a voice note?”
“Of course,” replied Jo, and then thought for a minute.
“How many squares of roofs are dodgy, pitch, covering, state of trusses. Ditto walls, structural or otherwise. How many squares of paint, and tiles, and paving, and glazing, need to be seen to. How many toilets and basins and doors and taps to be fixed or replaced. What is the state of the plumbing, and the wiring, and the connections to services. How big of a generator is needed. Do they need extra buildings, and if so, how many, and, of what type?” She was silent for a few moments.
“Do a separate bill of what an adequate library would cost to build or install. We’ll worry about connectivity when they have electricity.” 
“If I expand the scope and send someone along to interview principals, teachers, and students, we can start collecting some soft stats, too,” Kgethi said, and thought for a moment. “If we send the soft surveyors in first, incognito, they can talk to locals and give the QS’s a heads-up on what to look out for.”
“That’s a fantastic idea.” Jo pondered a moment. “Get us a costing, let’s see if we need to decrease the number of schools to manage that. We need the best intel we can get this month.”
“Okay. Next, about the teachers’ exams. We’ve hit a number of logistical nightmares, and I’m not happy with the work-arounds.” Kgethi clenched her teeth in frustration.
“Like what?” asked Roberta.
“We can set up a separate exam schedule as wide in scope as we initially planned, but there’s no reasonable time span to fit it into the December holidays. Unless we re-open schools later.”
“I don’t see why not. Do you have reservations about that route?” Jo asked.
“Well, shortening the academic year, for one, when it’s already under pressure,” Kgethi responded.
“If we end up with teachers that can teach and turn up for work, it might not matter?” Roberta suggested.
“I don’t want to bargain on that,” said Kgethi, with a grimace.
“The we shorten school holidays,” said Jo.
“I’d like to leave that as an emergency out, if all else fails. It’d would be the easiest to implement, if we deal with the backlash of parents that have already made holiday plans.
“I think the simplest would be to have the teachers write their exams, at their own schools, during the student exam period. But to protect the integrity of the exams, we’d then need to insist that they all write Grade 8 English on one specific date, etcetera. And sort out the logistics of distribution of the papers on time. But what if someone wants to write two separate papers that we didn’t think would be likely to clash, like Life Sciences and Higher Grade Maths? There must be something I haven’t thought of.”
Distribution of exam papers, Jo thought, something tickling at the back of her mind. Courier companies can confirm delivery and pickup. But four hundred thousand teachers, most with multiple papers.
“Do we have numbers on how many teachers are writing which subjects?” she asked.
“The unemployed teacher registration is up and running, and ticking over nicely. But the existing teachers aren’t registering, possibly because they still think we’re bluffing. So we’re matching payroll records with qualifications, and operational reports from the schools, when we have them. But about twenty thousand so far on the unemployed database, registering for an average of 3.5 subjects each, times three grades.”
“That’s a lot of papers.” Jo was hunting for something in her memory. Packaging, why am I thinking about packaging?
“What about an app?” Roberta was also frowning.
“I ran that past Thapelo. We’d be able to impose time limits for an exam, but only if connectivity is reliable. And we’d be limited to multiple choice questions,” replied Kgethi.
“Hey, I wrote some pretty nasty multiple choice exams at varsity. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re easy. Plus it’s way quicker for marking.” Jo bristled. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the various questionnaires would have to be carefully constructed and moderated, which kills the benefit of using existing papers. It is definitely worth looking into for the long term, though.”
“Tamper-evident packaging…” blurted Jo, surprising herself. She turned to her computer and googled the term. After checking the Wikipedia page, she refined the search.
“Apparently, both time-sensitive and air-sensitive inks are already available, used mostly for self-expiring access cards. Could one use some sort of combination? To send individually addressed exam papers, which can be written in batches in a particular school or region. As long as there’s proper invigilation, any number of teachers could be writing any mix of subjects and grades. If the packaging could somehow note the time it was opened, and again closed, and log anything dodgy that happens other than that? The completed paper gets returned in the same packaging, along with the tamper log. Hell, they could write it anytime they want, say over a two-week period, even at, for instance, a police station, as long as the invigilator confirms that it was written independently and within the time limit.” 
“Worth investigating, I suppose,” said Kgethi, doubtfully. “We might make it, time-wise, if our particular requirements are already available in combo. Long shot, Jo.” Kgethi made a note anyway.
“Then let’s prioritise subjects and grades, instead, and do only a partial teacher exam right now,” suggested Roberta. “We’ll learn what works and what doesn’t, and we can expand later.”
“I don’t really want to do that,” said Kgethi. “We’re trying to do a clean sweep and get some accurate data. And we’re trying to do it with almost as many people as write matric every year. We manage that, kind of. There has to be a better way. On-line or app feels like the right direction, to me.”
“Wait…” Roberta chewed her lip. “What about our own archive of past papers?”
“Only for matric,” groused Kgethi. “I thought of that. Maybe we should just let the matric teachers sit the exams with their pupils, this time round, and refine it from there.”
“Or maybe we should look at it from a completely different angle…” 
Kgethi looked at Jo speculatively. “What are you thinking?”
“Instead of trying to nail bad teachers, we help all of them, in a manner that gives them an opportunity to prove that they’re good. Homework, pretty much, but it may also make their work easier.
“If we really want to head for on-line examinations, and I think I agree with you, we’ll need to grow an archive of questions. Capturing historical questions is another option.
“So what if, instead of sitting a teacher’s exam, each teacher must submit examination questions applicable for a specified mix of marks, accompanied by a meticulous memorandum, for each of the subjects and grade combinations they want to be accredited for. Based on the syllabus, we should be able to write a system that solicits a good mix of questions, essay, short answers, multiple choice, true or false, whatever works for the subject.
“So your teacher’s exam is to register, and get your brief for this term, which might be a twenty-mark essay from chapter 4 and five multiple choice questions relevant to chapter 7. Or some such.
“You get a week to submit your questions, along with your comprehensive memorandum.
“Next, you get four other teachers’ submissions, which you have hour to answer. When your mark is logged, you are presented with the other teachers’ memoranda, which you then critique, peer review, if you will, with mostly multiple choice, and an option to comment.” Jo tapped a pen on her hand.
“We could rig it so that teachers with good results are matched with teachers whose results aren’t fantastic. Or whatever makes sense to people who know more about this than I do.” Roberta said, frowning as she minutely inspected a gel nail.
“We could develop a stack of grade-specific, subject-specific, syllabus-specific questions, with some regional and cultural nuances built in…” mused Kgethi. “We let the moderators loose on them after the peer-review part. That could be half of the teacher’s mark, from the moderator, who takes into consideration the peer reviews.” Kgethi was frowning as she spoke.
“The helping bit would be that they can set exam papers for their own students by selecting from the database of questions, and save some time, I was thinking?” Jo asked.
“And…?” said Roberta.
“Uhm, no, that’s as far as I’ve thought,” hedged Jo. “What do you mean by ‘And…’?”
Roberta sighed. “If they’re cherry-picking from the database to set exams, we could impose limitations on which parts of the syllabus absolutely have to be covered. We’d have some control over the quality of all papers, and we can adapt syllabi based on comments and feedback.”
“We could do that now,” said Kgethi, slowly. “The question and peer-review part, at least. That’ll start getting us our data. And it would help teachers identify their blind-spots, and hopefully correct them, before any consequences are implemented.” Kgethi was silent for a few seconds. “We could even have a system of tracking how many times a question is used by other teachers. That may give us some intel about what is considered relevant, and what gets glossed over, for whatever the reasons may be.”
Kgethi looked at Roberta. “Could you check if Thapelo is available to pop in for half an hour? Prof too, if possible.”

A short while later, Thapelo had been brought up to speed, and was looking thoughtful. “If they’re all getting moderated anyway, we could literally have every child in a class writing a slightly different exam, when everything is certifiably on-line. Ditto matric. No leaking of papers, because no-one’s will be exactly the same as anyone else’s, after a year or two.”
“That would bring the house down around your ears. Everyone would be arguing that their exam was more difficult than their neighbour’s,” commented the Prof, on speakerphone.
“The sample is big enough that any glaring outliers could be corrected, although they would be massively informative,” Thapelo argued. 
Kgethi nodded her agreement. “But that’s a bit long-term for today’s train of thought,” she admonished. “Could you get my teachers’ exam going before year-end? If yes, how detailed of a breakdown of each syllabus would you need?”
“I’ll get my Brains started on the architecture. I’d need people from your side to lean over their shoulders and ask questions and make suggestions. Can you give us a couple of weeks? I think this is along lines that we’ve been evaluating for a number of other applications, we might be able to kill ten birds if we invent your stone.”

D minus 124
Cabmeet 4
“Anyone else feel like chairing today?” suggested Jo. “We’ve got a lot of feedback from many of you and maybe we’ll get a more detailed perspective if someone else leads the discussion.”
“I doubt it’ll make any difference,” commented Roberta, drily. “I’m the only one who ever gets this free-for-all back on point.”
“Actually, I would,” replied Bantu, thoughtfully. “I still feel a bit like a newbie, and I do believe I can add a viewpoint different from Jo’s.”
“Okay, then please go ahead, Mr Chairman,” agreed Jo, with a casual salute.
“Well, since Jo has neglected to greet properly,” Bantu started, “Good day, everyone, from the agenda it looks like you’ve all been very busy.”
He received a chorus of helloes and quite a few nods. A number of the others smiled and waved to individual colleagues whom they had not already greeted.
Bantu nodded and dropped his glasses down his nose and looked down at the agenda. “It seems Makhosi is up first, with SASSA to PostBank transfer status. Ma’am?” He looked up at her, and gestured for her to go ahead. 
“Thank you, Ntate,” said Makhosi as she stood, and clicked the projector to advance a slide.
“Our migration and matching revealed just under ten thousand ghosts on the SASSA system. Many were deceased, but a few had non-existent ID numbers,” she started.
“How?” asked Ivo. “Didn’t SASSA verify the ID numbers?”
“If Thapelo could answer?” requested Makhosi, looking first at Bantu, and then at Thapelo. Both nodded.
“It’s like this,” Thapelo started. “There is a calculation to verify an ID number, so most systems use that calculation to check whether an ID number is valid. It would be a back-door nightmare if we allowed outside organizations to query the Home Affairs database in real time. But a smart insider could just make up an ID number and keep changing the last check digit until it was accepted.” 
“Isn’t there any way to limit the number of times someone could change the check digit?” ask Bantu.
Thapelo shrugged. “Anyone can google the calculation, if they’re interested. More telling is that we picked up discrepancies between names and ID numbers, so valid IDs with the wrong names were also on the SASSA system. We’ve started a new run of verifying the gender on the SASSA system, and we’re also doing a match-up of system addresses versus where withdrawals usually take place. But that will take longer and is only an indicator of possible shenanigans, not proof. There will have to be individual investigation in quite a few cases.” He glanced at Makhosi, who nodded.
“Monetary implications?” ask Nhlanhla, gruffly.
“At the moment, it looks like around R170 million per year,” said Makhosi.
Nhlanhla made a note and Bantu nodded.
Makhosi continued. “We’re on track with moving the whole existing grants system to the PostBank by end of June. They were surprisingly ready to take over, and since the contract with the outside provider was ruled invalid anyway, we just cancelled it. They’ll probably take it to court,” she grimaced ruefully, and took a breath.
“Closing down SASSA means about R7.5b per year saved,” she continued, “with another half a billion in payroll from the stand-alone Department of Social Development, which now amalgamates with Labour under Tsitsi. Tsitsi needs at least R3b of that to grow her Social Workers cohort.”
Nhlanhla grunted and made another note.
“I have a problem, though,” Makhosi looked around. “We’re moving the best SASSA people to the PostBank, which has been running at a loss of R1.5b per year. And now I’m increasing the wage bill. We’ve been wracking our brains about how to break even.”
“I have a suggestion for you,” said Ivo. “We’ve been looking into bank fee structures and debit order processes from a consumer protection perspective, and also in order to come up with a competitive fee structure of our own.”  
“And…?” asked Makhosi, looking interested.
“Start a debit order payment gateway,” said Ivo. “The debit order administration companies are getting about R2.5b a year, without adding much value in terms of dealing with rogue or fraudulent orders.”
“How would we get them to use the PostBank, instead of their current suppliers?” asked Bantu.
“Better pricing, maybe?” suggested Ivo. “Although I feel that we would have to build in a record of each mandate as part of the service. No mandate, no debit order.”
Makhosi was smiling thoughtfully.
Thapelo groaned dramatically.
“And now?” Jo asked Thapelo, with a grin.
“I’m conflicted. Setting up a mandate function would be a bloody nightmare, but both my wife and I have quite a few rogues. We were checking bank statements the other day, we’ve been hit with more than five thousand rand over the last year or so, and it costs more money to reverse them.”
“If we handle the mandates, too, surely we can charge more?” mused Bantu.
“Some of the current gateways already archive mandates as a value-add,” argued Ivo, grimacing.
“What if we only process debit orders from PostBank clients,” pondered Nkunku, “and no one else can present debit orders against PostBank accounts? It means any company who wants to debit a PostBank client has to be a PostBank client. They’d have to have at least one account.”
Ivo looked at him with wide eyes and a growing smile. “Brilliant,” he said, chewing his lip while his eyes darted all over the place as he thought. “Then the cost of the mandate warehousing can be covered by properly punitive fines for disputed debit orders. A million and a half disputes to be evaluated every month, though. More complexity,” he contradicted himself.
“If you’re going to make me build a virtual warehouse for… How many, did you say…?” Thapelo said, looking at Ivo in query.
“250 million per month, across all banks and gateways, give or take,” answered Ivo after glancing down at a spreadsheet.
“… For 250 million debit orders, I might as well build in some flagging systems,” continued Thapelo. “We pay attention to merchants that get disputed more than the others. We scrutinize them more closely.” 
Makhosi laughed, throatily. “That neatly fixes the merchants who are howling that grant recipients’ debit orders would have to be reinstated from scratch, now that the accounts have moved to the PostBank,” she explained. “About half the recipients have one or more debit orders, but until now, disputes have fallen on deaf ears.”
 “I’ve been worrying about poorer and less educated people being sold on unnecessary or value-less services because they say ‘yes’ instead of ‘I understand’ during sales calls,” added Tsitsi. “Some social workers have reported that if they follow up on voice call mandates, that’s often what has happened.”
“If Thapelo can automate the flagging, that offers an opportunity for punitive measures, although not necessarily revenue, that could address Tsitsi’s concern as well,” offered Ivo. “If merchants with bad records get relegated to later in the queue. Only the best companies may present debit orders on the day grants get paid. If you spread all debit orders out over two or three days on a transparent basis?”
“I think that’s worth looking into,” pondered Makhosi, looking at Thapelo in question. He nodded.
“Keep me in the loop, please?” requested Ivo. “I’m not quite ready to present my fee structure suggestion, but it should be any day now. Your detailed insights into the financials of the PostBank will help immensely, if we get credible answers quickly instead of vague, guarded evasions. Or instead of combing through annual reports.”
“Will do. Thanks, everyone,” said Makhosi, and sat down.
“Next is Sally,” said Bantu, “about her ghosts and the whole cannabis thing.”
“I’m a lot more enthusiastic than I used to be about the ‘whole cannabis thing’” laughed Sally. “That, coupled with the ghost-busting, has already made fire under the police and justice system. And it’s only been a month.”
“I still don’t like it,” complained Tsitsi. “I’ve read the research you’ve forwarded, and we’re evaluating existing facilities and manpower. But until you put the rehab money where your mouth is, I’m not convinced.”
“Well, our matching with Home Affairs revealed even more ghosts than I worried,” started Sally, clicking the projector onto her first slide.
Roberta’s ‘one-slide per issue’ policy is working well at keeping things succinct, thought Jo. Any additional information to be shared was circulated as interactive pdf documents with hyperlinks.
“This is GEPF’s figures. They’ve been paying pensions in at least five hundred cases, where both the former employee and their spouse has passed.” Sally said. “That’s pretty clearly the negligence, or intent, of the heirs and/or banks. I’m only mentioning it because aligning the actual data with home affairs information has turned out to be a very valuable exercise. But now for my payroll ghosts…” Sally looked at the projector screen and clicked the remote with a dramatically outstretched arm.
“Holy shit,” said Jo, when she looked up at the table and graph on the screen. It was double what Sally had predicted.
Bantu glared at Jo reprovingly.
“Sorry, Mr Chairman,” she said, sheepishly.
“This is only SAPS,” said Sally. “We’re still running the SANDF database. We have been paying pension fund contributions, on top of salaries, to people who have died.”
“How did GEPF not pick up that they were receiving contributions for deceased persons?” asked the Prof.
“Singletons, orphans, or people who purposely broke contact with their families. Killed in car accidents, in the line of duty, that kind of thing. So Home Affairs and my HR departments knew, but next-of-kin couldn’t be tracked down, and no-one claimed the pensions. Quite a few were low-key known to be LGBTI and gave invalid next-of-kin information. It’s sad, really,” replied Sally.
“If your HR knew, why didn’t they process them off payroll, and inform GEPF?” asked Cormac, who had been quiet until now.
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” said Sally. “We’re investigating, but it’ll take a while for answers. Obviously, our questions won’t be answered, informally, by any guilty or negligent parties. We’ve had to sic forensic on them.
Jo vaguely remembered a case of embezzlement she had audited years ago, and slowly raised her hand, wiggling her fingers as she collected the details and weighed up her wording. 
“Yes?” said Bantu, pointedly, after a few seconds.
“Run a query on payroll records,” she asked Thapelo. “Get Bantu or Ivo to issue a proclamation if you have to, to access confidential HR info. Then you investigate every single bank account that has more than one salary paid to it. Do that across all the departments we can, and get provincial records, too.”
“Ah,” said Thapelo, and Sally smiled.
“You’re thinking that people were purposely left on payroll and their bank details changed to someone else’s, and there’s a good chance that the person benefitting is also on payroll.” Thapelo nodded. “And doing it across all branches means we’ll pick it up even if the people responsible are a few pay grades removed, or in different branches or departments.”
“Next, check back all the history we can find, on when the account details were changed on our side, and who changed them. You might find that a fraud has more than one bank account, and the duplicates aren’t at fault themselves.” Jo thought a bit more. “In fact, if you find that all the duplicates are no longer in our employ, we may need to lay criminal charges to get the name of the owner of that account out of his bank. Then we suspend without pay, immediately, and start disciplinary procedures.”
“And don’t forget to take them off payroll immediately,” said Nhlanhla drily, “or we might accidentally pay them again while all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is going on.”
Jo nodded, eyes wide. 
Thapelo gave Nhlanhla a thumbs-up and made a note.
“Anything else on that point?” asked Sally, looking around. 
“Just a note for Ivo, regarding the bank fees structure,” said Jo, looking at him. “Remind me to discuss beneficiary account numbers on bank statements with you.” Ivo nodded to Jo, and Jo said, “Okay, I’m done.”
“Right then, here’s the early results of the cannabis prosecution moratorium.” Sally clicked to her second slide.
This time, Jo kept her profanity to herself.
“We were able to release almost ten thousand detainees who were only in jail because they couldn’t pay R500 bail. We’re removing them from the court rolls as we speak, and it’s freeing up court time. Some of their appearance dates were as long as three months away. So that’s saving us about R200 mill. It’s too early to tell, but it seems that the quality of other prosecutions is slowly improving, we’ve picked up marginally on the rate of trials concluded.” 
She glanced down at her notes, and continued. “We’re working on getting early parole for the convicts, but that’s going to take a bit longer.” She looked around. “That’s it, from me. I’ll have more once we finish the ghost-busting and bank details investigation. Unless anyone has a question?” and she sat down when no-one did.
“Ivo?” asked Bantu. 
“Sally’s already touched on all my cannabis points, there’s not much more to add. We’re preparing a draft bill for decriminalization, but I don’t want that to get in the way of the focus on the Special Committee on UBI’s work. The proclamation freezing arrests and prosecution will do for now.” Ivo tapped his tablet to advance a page.
“How is SCUBI coming along?” asked Nhlanhla.
“Very well, actually,” started Ivo.
“Scooby? What on earth is Scooby?” Jo interrupted, confused.
“’Special Committee UBI’”, Ivo explained the acronym. “We’ve gazetted the draft bill and should be able to debate in Parliament a week or so after the 30 days for comment run out.”
“Neo told me that’s because you told them that the sooner it’s trialled, the sooner it’ll fail so we can impeach Jo before she can damage the next budget,” said Julius.
Ivo looked at Jo warily, but she burst out laughing, coughing up coffee and spattering her notes.
“That’s brilliant,” she snorted, still wheezing, tears streaming from her eyes. “You build in a time limit, and if everything goes to hell in a handbasket because I’m wrong, you can arrest it before it destroys the fiscus.” She coughed and coughed, some coffee having gone down the wrong hole. Julius patted her on the back, quite hard. He was a lot bigger and stronger than she was.
“Thanks,” she said to Julius, once she’d recovered. “Sorry,” she added to everyone else, particularly Bantu. She got a bunch of quizzical half-smiles in return.
“I may have implied something along those lines,” said Ivo, uncomfortably. “But our projections are looking very promising, so much so that we’re seeing if we can get the ProvTrans sorted in the same amendment. That would mean only one bit of legislation to repeal if we fire you.” He smirked at Jo.
“Phumzile, what do you think?” asked Bantu.
“My delegates are warming up,” she answered, “but the Party Executive wants us to minimise the RET taxes as far as possible. You and Nhlanhla may have to compromise on a lower percentage. But Ivo’s right, they say it looks like your calculations were very conservative.”
“Warming up, my ass,” commented Julius. He turned towards Jo. “They’ve already tabled the debate in the National Assembly and the Council of Provinces. They think ProvTrans should be 9% and Stock Exchange tax 6%, and a few other tweaks. That’s it.”
Jo nodded, stunned but relieved. She had expected it to take much longer, but the committee had the best of the best economists and modellers as advisors. Maybe the UBI was looking feasible to sceptics, now that they had gotten used to the RET taxes. And if Sally’s ghost-busting results were anything to go by, the public sector wage bill could decrease by thirty or forty billion before the personal income tax component dropped away.
“Now, as to the justice system,” said Ivo, after a few seconds of silence. “With getting cannabis offences off the court rolls, we’ve noticed that most of the rest of the roll placements are RAF cases, and many are more than three years old. Apparently, some have been postponed dozens of times. I’d like Nkunku’s input on that. Given what Cormac said about needless postponements, and that fact that most RAF attorneys work on a contingency percentage instead of actual costs, I worry that the system is being milked to the detriment of true justice.”
Nkunku chuckled wryly. “It didn’t occur to me that it affects Justice, too. Obviously, it affects consumers, with the fuel levy. I’ve also been looking into it. But I’m not aware of what Cormac said about postponements?”
“Basically, that endless postponements put money into lawyers’ pockets, and cost everyone else. He suggested banning postponements. If one party is not prepared to continue, the case gets thrown out and the unprepared party settles the costs the other has incurred.” Ivo turned to Cormac. “That’s about right?”
Cormac nodded.
“We’re working through it, but there’s a lot of intricacy in the legislation, and obviously most of the people who draft new bills have a vested interest in not changing it,” Ivo shrugged.
“I see,” said Nkunku. “My divorce settlement was pretty hefty in terms of fees, and took more than two years. Hmmm,” he grunted. “I certainly understand how it affects the RAF, lawyers get almost a quarter of all payouts, on average. And that’s just what we pay them directly. Working on contingency means most of them probably get more.”
“Quite a few sources say that, historically, up to 60% of cases on court rolls were RAF cases,” said Ivo. “I want to figure out if there’s any way to streamline the process.”
“Simple, actually,” said Nkunku. “We get rid of the RAF.”
“What…?” asked Jo. The others echoed her.
“I can’t find a single other country that has something similar,” explained Nkunku. “Citizens would be better served by a decent health-care system and the UBI. Even quantifying loss of earnings inherently profits the rich, more than the poor. A foreigner got a 500 million rand payout in 2008. Apparently PWC concluded that his loss of income was R4 billion. That translates to R8m per month if he worked another forty years. The average wage earner gets under R100k in total. UBI for twenty years is almost five times that.”
“Money implications?” Jo asked, frowning.
“RAF gets R33b from fuel levies, the fiscus gets R55b. These are 2015/16 consolidated stats. Then the fiscus spent R34b on road transport, in total, with another R16b from municipality’s income. That was spent on R5b in salaries and R8b to SANRAL. Actual new infrastructure was only R12b.” He shook his head before continuing.
“With fifty billion, I can resurface about 6% of the existing tar roads. That’s no tarring gravel roads, no kerbs, no new roads. No potholes. I’m still coming to grips with all the various SOEs to see if there’s any benefit to be had from restructuring, merging, privatizing, or nationalizing, but I am certain there’s too many of them.”
“Yoh,” said Jo, morbidly. “Can we discuss that in more detail, say, next week? The fuel levy makes our petrol more expensive than neighbouring countries that buy it from us, I’d like to get rid of it, but we’ll still have to find more money for infrastructure. And you’re right, we can’t kill the RAF until hospitals are decent.”
“And until more than R150 billion of approved claims are paid,” added Nkunku. “The RAF is completely bankrupt.”
“If I may,” said Tsitsi. Bantu nodded, and looked at her expectantly.
“With a UBI, the UIF also becomes defunct,” said Tsitsi. “It spends about R6b a year, not counting benefit payouts, but it has almost R140b in investments, which earn it another R9b a year.”
Jo was quiet, feeling overwhelmed. She rubbed her eyes with cold fingertips.
“That is useful, Tsitsi,” said Bantu. “Let’s get some people on that. As Ivo said, secondary to UBI, though. But if we can be ready to fire with a viable plan the instant the UBI goes live, that would make sense.”
“How much does the median beneficiary get from UIF at the moment?” asked Cormac.
“I’d have to check on median. But on average, around a thousand rand a month.”
“So even people claiming from UIF would be better off with a Dividend?” Cormac asked, in confirmation.
Tsitsi nodded, but said nothing further. 
Bantu checked the agenda through the glasses perched on the end of his nose, and said, “Praneet? You’re last.”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Praneet, but he didn’t get up. He gestured towards the screen, and said, “Roberta, would you mind going back to Sally’s first slide?”
Roberta clicked back with the remote. “This one?” she asked, and the ghost-busting numbers were back on the screen.
Praneet nodded.
“That will make a difference,” he said, “the ghost-busting and bank account matching. But I have twice as many people as Sally, 68 thousand in Gauteng, and 100 thousand in KZN, alone. I’m thinking my numbers are going to be even more shocking. Heaven knows what Kgethi’s going to find.”
Kgethi, looking ashen, nodded, while she pulled her bottom lip between her thumb and fore-finger. She remained silent.
“I’ve met with three provinces, so far,” continued Praneet. “Gauteng says it employs 98 people at R25 million each per year, on average. It used to have 98 high level consultants at R7.2m per year, in 2016, and the next year it had 99, at R15m per year.” Praneet sighed.
“That’s according to their annual reports, duly signed off by the Auditor-General.
“KZN underspent on equipment in 2015/16, by a hundred million bucks. Then, the next year, they hired almost five hundred people at salaries of more than a million a year. Limpopo isn’t any better.
“We need to be ready to invoke the national oversight clause of the constitution. I don’t want to do, Kgethi doesn’t, I’m sure. I know Jo gave me the evil eye when I implied it. Sally already has half her information, and that,” he gestured to the slide on the screen, “is what she’s found.”
“I’ve been seeing Auditor-General reports, all over the place,” said Makhosi. “Signed off in some cutesy grade-ten handwriting, saying ‘Auditor-General’. Since when did that office stop signing a name, or at least a pp.?”
Tsitsi nodded. “Every single municipality for at least the last five years. Two or three different hand-writings, yes, but always ‘Auditor-General’ with no name under the line. Is that even legal?”
Ivo was making a note. “I’ll look into it,” he said, looking at Makhosi and Tsitsi before finishing. Belatedly, he nodded to Bantu, and then Jo.
Cormac had his forehead on his hand, shaking his head a silent ‘no’.
“Woah,” Julius said. “But white monopoly capital has been happy with the Auditor-General’s performance so far? Why has no-one noticed this?”
“KPMG, PWC, EY, and Deloitte,” grumbled Nhlanhla. “If the auditor firms like the Auditor-General, apparently everything is hunky-dory.”
“If I may?” ventured Nkunku. 
Bantu stared at him, and Jo nodded, “Please do?”
“In my bigger companies, auditors bend over backwards to allow us to ‘correct’ mistakes. They’re getting their money either way, and signing off on questionable things gets them paid faster. 
“Conversely, I have some bright young people working for me,” replied Nkunku. “Good degrees. Did their time, article-wise. I had an audit where three quarters of a million was moved from creditors to cost of sales. When we wanted to reverse the accrual, the audit company couldn’t tell us what they had accrued in the first place. Nthabiseng, a lovely, highly qualified young woman, re-created a credible journal from the audited statements, but nothing matched exactly.” 
Nhlanhla and Jo were nodding, but the others seemed a bit lost.
Nkunku continued. “I have nine CA(SA)s working in my various holdings. They’re brilliant, they care about the quality of their work, and they take their audit mandate very seriously. But they can’t set up shop on their own, because Nhlanhla’s big four dominate the industry, and it seems to me that they’re incentivised to cover up each other’s mistakes. Banks need two independent auditors. I don’t believe the Big Four are independent anymore.”
“There’s certainly enough smoke to support your statement,” nodded Phumzile. “Just look at Steinhoff etcetera. What do you suggest?”
“In my case, I’ve been using a different firm every year, for each of my companies. And I’ve been using little firms every second year. They restate a lot more than the big four ever do, and they can justify why.”
“So you want to limit how long the same auditing firm can handle a particular company’s audit?” asked Jo, head tilted to the side.
Nkunku nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Not two years in a row,” rumbled Nhlanhla. “Maybe, even, not twice in five years. That will mean that a small independent must do one out of the five. And they’ll be hungry to spot mistakes, to prove their worth.”
“To be honest, I consider that another industry that creates needless complexity to protect its turf,” said Jo. “Who’s going to check out the implications and decide whether we need to come up with a plan?”
“Not me,” grunted Julius. “You’re going to expect me to fight their side if it comes to the crunch. Plus, I don’t like auditors.”
“Nobody does,” said Phumzile, with a smirk. “How hard they hurt you has a lot to do with how well you kept your books, in the first place.”
Bantu put up his hands, palms out, to stop Phumzile and Julius.
“Nkunku,” Bantu asked, “do you need those youngsters?”
Ohhhh… thought Jo, trying to predict what Bantu wanted to say. Sshht, she told herself. Listen first.
“I needed two,” replied Nkunku. “I didn’t like that amount of talent going to waste, so I created positions for them. They are all bored or doing things way below their pay-grade. But I’m not CEO or Chairman anymore. Why?”
“I’m only DP,” answered Bantu, self-deprecatingly, but grinning. “I’ve been tasked with ‘Quality’. I thought that was the same make-work thing you did for your chartered accountant hires.” Bantu looked at Nkunku, and then at Jo, with a lot of humour and a good dash of scepticism. She tilted her head and gave him a look that said, ‘Bo...ring…”
“Can I steal your best?” asked Bantu. “I have the budget. I’m using it for my long-time PA and a couple of admin people. I’ll get more when the Citizen’s hotline goes live. But I didn’t inherit my ministry, and it is currently composed of four people. I need good kids to go hunt down the problems.”
Nkunku squinted at Bantu. “They’re all good. Make them an offer. The boards can’t get on my case if they resign out of their own volition.”
“Will they travel? Will they learn new industries?” asked Bantu.
“How would I know?” countered Nkunku. “You can’t ask me. You have to ask them.”
“While you’re asking them,” drawled Julius, “how about you ask everyone? It seems to me that we need hungry youngsters in health, education, justice and finance. At a minimum. If Quality is going to hire auditors, it should get engineers, doctors, educators and lawyers too.”
“Plumbers and electricians,” Jo nodded.
“Mystery shoppers,” suggested Tsitsi.
“What do you mean?” enquired Bantu.
“People who go in and use services like any ordinary citizen, but they have a check-list of things that they will evaluate, to report back to us,” replied Tsitsi. “Or experts posing as layman, again with a view to report on standards and service.”
“I see,” nodded Bantu, thoughtfully.
“That’s all very well, people,” interrupted Nhlanhla. “We are retrenching more than half the people working in defunct ministries. We need to recruit internally.”
“I disagree,” groused Jo. “Only Health, Sport and Art & Culture are substantially the same as they were. Even yours,” she said, looking at Nhlanhla, “is combining the former Finance and Economics ministries. I know you’ve previously worked with your administrative team in Finance, and you know them, but the rest of us don’t. 
“We have to weed out many people. I’m beginning to think we each put together our dream team, and we advertise those vacancies,” said Jo. “All current employees need to apply for all the posts they think they’ll do well.  That should cover Basic Conditions of Employment.”
“What if I’m hiring economists and I already have twelve and I don’t trust them?” growled Nhlanhla.
“If you have reason not to trust them, investigate for corruption, negligence or incapacity,” shrugged Jo. “Else, offer them a retirement package. Or encourage them to apply for Bantu’s Quality team.”
“Why on earth would I want any economists?” scowled Bantu.
Nhlanhla chuckled, and Jo sighed dramatically.
“For heaven’s sake, the Ministry of the Presidency used to pay a minister, a president, and a deputy president. It had six hundred employees. I can only use so many people who know how to fix the photocopier. I don’t want any economists, either, any more than I need a meteorologist. I want a team of maybe thirty people, and I want to know all their first names and recognise people and pets in their family pictures.”
“Labour law is not my forte,” said Cormac, “but I think we’ll have a leg to stand on, if we prune all our teams into the bare minimum of core-competency stars. We can hire expert consultants on a contract basis, if necessary.”
“Well, National is spending R35 billion on salaries, if you leave out Sally’s payroll,” pondered Nhlanhla. “There were 35 ministries, we’re now down to 16. I doubt if anyone wants to, or can, cut as drastically as Jo wants to, but I knew there would be retrenchments.”
“So if we’ve decided who we want, and get the rest of the paperwork for retrenchments done, by September, we remove overtime and allowances and expense claims for the remainder of the financial year,” said Jo. “Fuck, offer six month’s severance if you have to, it’s already in the budget. Offer an exit bonus for voluntary resignation, if you think that you may need that person, as a consultant.”
“Who will assist Nhlanhla in all of this?” asked Cormac. “We each have individual departments, that require more careful attention. I’m going to have my hands full, conflating Environment, and Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries. Thapelo has about five to vet.”
Jo grimaced, and held up her hands in supplication. “Ideas, anyone? I’d be tempted to say it should be part of Bantu’s portfolio, but he’s going to have the Citizens’ Hotline soon and we have to hit the ground running with that.”
“I can,” said Julius, brusque as always. “Surely government employees are Special Interests?”
Bantu and Nhlanhla regarded him intently, and then nodded. Even Makhosi was weighing it up favourably, Jo thought. We have the elders’ permission. Hmmm. Let’s see what transpires. Shut up, Jo.
“How do I know that you won’t be favouring your people, if I let you get your hands on my department?” said Nhlanhla, eventually.
“You don’t,” replied Julius, shrugging. “You give me a list of the people you want to keep, and I’ll see if we can redeploy the rest, logically. But I don’t have any budget, yet.” He shrugged again, and glared at Jo.
Jo looked at him, almost fondly. Even if they turn out this angry, she thought, I still wish I had a son.
“Okay,” she relented. “The budget for the Ministry of the Presidency is R480 million. You and Bantu can have a quarter each.”
“And you keep the other half?” snorted Julius. Bantu looked at the screen, pretending to be oblivious.
“Hey. I do need one person fix the photocopier, it can’t always be me.” Jo matched Julius’s stare.
Julius stared at Jo, with narrowed eyes, for a count of three, four, five, six…
Then he burst out laughing.
“Your Chief of Staff earns what you do, right?” he guffawed.
“More,” shrugged Jo. “She doesn’t think she’ll have this job in a year. She’s hedging her bets.”
“Roberta doesn’t believe in you?” argued Julius, sputtering. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oddly, her folks were degreed professionals,” Jo replied. “She attended a private high school. She’s very, very good at a lot of things, but she still thinks if she could make it, poor people are lazy if they don’t. I’m the opposite of my coconut friend. I like people, even if they’re skinny, or cold, or (god forbid, the colonial attitude) smell less fresh than if they used life-buoy this morning.”
“Easy to say.” Julius looked bored. “You don’t like me.”
“I have no reason to like you,” agreed Jo. “But I also have very few reasons not to like you. What you have to say, the citizens you represent, have opinions that I don’t share. I’m too old, or too young, or too white, or too Afrikaans. Or I’m just too much of a bean-counter, and don’t see the bigger scheme of things. I don’t care about me, Sello. I care about you, and all the people you say you’re speaking for.”
“So you’ll let me do my thing?” Julius challenged.
“Yep. But of course, I’ll be watching you.” Jo smiled wryly. “I want more young geniuses. I’m not sure why corporate forces people to go on pension when they turn 65, but it annoys the hell out of me that old people, who do amazing things, get paid off. While others, who do nothing, fill up so many posts. I don’t have the gumption for that, and you’ll be better at finding the stars than I would.” Jo lost the staring contest with Julius, and looked at Bantu and Nhlanhla. “Am I making sense, boNtate?” She was rewarded with two intractable slabs of granite. Not even a lifted eyebrow.
Jo looked a bit towards her right. “Mme?” Makhosi was deadpan. She regarded Jo, neutrally.
Nhlanhla was frowning. Bantu was scrolling something on his tablet.
“Are you calling me old?” growled Nhlanhla, eventually.
“Are you?” countered Jo. “I don’t think so. You’re not sitting there reminding us about respect. You’re making everything the rest of us can do, better. And you’ll serve out this term before you hit retirement age, in any place except politics. Unless, of course, y’all fire me.
“I’m tired of young people being discounted, and old people being considered senile, and middle-aged people keeping the job for twenty years, even when everyone can see they’ve become senile.
“This cabinet is half female. I wanted it that way. I also wanted every party represented. I want you, all of you, to disagree when it’s important. How else can I be a president for all our people?”
The silence was deafening. Roberta smirked, and shook her head condescendingly.

D minus 102
Education 3 – infrastructure tender discussion
“How’s the teachers’ exam database going?” Jo asked, to start the meeting.
“We’re testing the submission function. Hopefully we’ll go live before next month,” answered Kgethi. “They’ll have July and August to submit, and we’ll do the peer review phase during September. I had to threaten to freeze grants to schools if all their teachers aren’t registered, but it seems to have done the trick. We’re on more than two hundred thousand registrations already, with enough sign-up questions to properly match them to payroll.”
“Good stuff,” said Jo, absent-mindedly.
She was clicking through a meticulous report, put together by someone who knew Excel well enough to freeze headers and keep subtotals and totals in different columns, so that all the totals added up to the same amount.
“There’s more than fifty?” she asked.
Kgethi nodded ruefully. “We couldn’t narrow it down more. These are all struggling, across the range of parameters we discussed. It would break my heart to go alphabetically or something similarly random to pick you your fifty.”
“Costings?”
“Summary page in the beginning, and if you tab right you’ll see the breakdown of interventions required, one worksheet per school.”
Jo scanned through five or six schools, and something clicked. She went back to the totals page.
“So these two line items, electricity and repairs, are more than three quarters of the total?” Jo asked, for confirmation.
“Yep.” Kgethi looked at Jo, a hint of challenge in her eyes.
Jo looked again, and a conditionally formatted column jumped out at her.
“Two thirds of these schools don’t have electricity because they haven’t paid their municipal bills?!”
“I was waiting for you to notice,” responded Kgethi, smiling ruefully.
“Arrears of thirty million?” 
Kgethi nodded.
Jo opened a sheet at random, and looked at the bill of material’s detail lines. Can’t be.
She went back to the first school, and systematically checked the same section on every one of the eighty-six spreadsheets.
“This is all refurbishment stuff. Painting, tiling, glazing, plumbing. A bit of building, but very little. How did you calculate the labour component?”
“We based it on the average rates we’ve paid on a number of RDP and clinic refurbishments that have been completed over the last two years.”
“By large connected contractors who hire individual subcontractors, and then scoop a cool fifth without actually producing anything themselves, I’m willing to bet?” Jo asked, one eyebrow arched.
“I’m not sure, I’d have to ask our consultants. I hired a medium-sized civil engineering firm with a good track record as the Professional Resource Team on various project types.” Kgethi mentioned a name.
Jo nodded. “I know them. And if they set up the bills of quantities, they should be pretty accurate. Some PRT’s produce BOQ’s so divorced from reality that the final project cost looks nothing like the tender price.”
They were both silent for a while, while Jo double-checked a few things.
“I think, ask the consultants to put together an RFQ for management of the refurbs. I see no reason why they can’t put in a quote too, especially if they JV with firms they trust, in the provinces where they don’t have a footprint. But please check that with Ivos’s people.
“I want to see if we can get this done with only small firms. The experienced PRT’s should know which sub-contractors do good work in their various areas and trades.
“Then we put out an RFQ for each specialist area, in each one of the schools. We let the little career subcontractors quote on as big or as small of a section as they want, in as many schools as they think they can handle within the timeline. The big guys can quote too, if they spot the RFQ on the tender bulletins, but we don’t actually send it to them directly.
“I’m willing to bet we’ll get the fifteen percent saving we need to get all of these schools sorted within budget, if we hold back on the libraries for a bit. And we mostly leave the profit in the communities where the work is actually happening. It’ll also give me a chance to trial an alternative to BEE, and…”
“Jo, stop. I have another list.” Kgethi had leaned back and crossed her arms.
“What list?” Jo asked, annoyed at the likely contradiction.
“The excel file named ‘Good’ on that flash drive.”
Don’t react to the anger, Jo told herself. Angry makes you stupid. She opened the other excel file.
“What am I looking at?” she asked, trying to hide her annoyance. By Roberta’s facial expression, she wasn’t succeeding very well. The spreadsheet looked exactly the same as the previous one.
“There were sixty-seven schools who had a pass rate of higher than sixty percent, which meant they automatically dropped out of our worst-of-the-worst list,” Kgethi said.
“And?” replied Jo.
“I had a quick look at them. Jo, many of them have fantastic pass rates, upwards of eighty-five percent, while facing the same challenges as the others. I picked the thirty with the worst student-to-teacher ratios, and included them in the survey.
“One of the top five on the good list is a primary school with forty-eight kids in each of the younger classes, but only eighteen desks per classroom. They try not to turn anyone away. They make a plan with what they get, and then make more plans to try and get what else they need. The headmaster is respected, both in the community and among the teachers, and actively involved in the day-to-day management of the school. The teachers sometimes strike peacefully, but they only strike en-masse if there is outside impediment to their gaining access to the grounds. Not all the qualifications are entirely up to scratch, but the kids are well-behaved and eager to learn.
“The teachers clean the facilities themselves, and some of the kids volunteer to help. There is a garden club of children, headed by a volunteer teacher, and they do their best to keep the grounds neat and pretty with limited water and implements.
“I hear your PR angle of big visible gains, but I also believe these schools are already well on their way to being the type of high-class institutions we are aiming for. I think they deserve attention too.”
Jo was mortified. She swallowed and waited for her blush to recede.
“You’re right. I’ve been so ready to look for failures that I completely ignored the successes, and there must be more than a few of them. What do you suggest?”
“The same refurb for these thirty, at least,” answered Kgethi. “And lift the moratorium on construction a bit so that I can build them libraries and extra classrooms next year. Also, I want to keep the evaluation team on the books till end of next year, I want to do this exercise for every single school. It’s easy to generalize and jump to assumptions. We need to approach it with more empathy for individual circumstances, and find solutions way better than one-size-fits-all.”
“How much?” asked Jo.
“Double your previous budget,” Kgethi dared her.
“How much have you saved on the textbook procurement?”
“Only about half of what I’m asking for.”
“So we need to squeeze seventy-five million out of some other rock.” Yay, thought Jo. Nhlanhla will be thrilled.
“That’s for these thirty, only. For the others, I’m preparing my wish-list so that MoneyMan can evaluate them for his budget speech.”
Jo and Roberta snorted at this new twist on Nhlanhla’s nickname, FinMin, and then burst out laughing. Kgethi smiled too, but reservedly.
“Why the same money to fix the thirty good schools as we’re using to fix eighty-six crappy ones?” Jo suddenly spotted the catch.
“Because these thirty are already in the right places, with the right grounds. Their teacher teams are functioning well, and producing. I want them so imposing and respectable and proud that they become as sought-after as some of the old model-C schools. Sports fields, libraries, computer rooms, impressive main entrances, and enough classrooms and equipment. Decent lawns, for playing on, for heaven’s sake. We’ve been spending five mil a pop on new twelve-classroom rural schools with jojo tanks for water and toilets unconnected to services. Surely, with the same money, I can turn an existing good school into a gem to be proud of.”
Jo was impressed. I chose well, she thought to herself. So much better than I ever dreamed.
“I see a huge problem,” said Roberta.
Jo and Kgethi were both surprised.
“What?” asked Kgethi.
“All the best public schools in the country will shortly be renamed ‘Mamokgethi Sibanda High’ or some such.” Roberta laughed at their expressions.
“If Thapelo sorts out the systems the way we want, it won’t matter,” Jo joined in, finally getting the joke.
“Actually, that’s been bothering me, too,” said Kgethi. “Laugh all you want, but we can’t be renaming schools, or anything for that matter, just for the sake of renaming. 
“Until we manage to archive all the records we can find, electronically, I want a moratorium on renaming schools. Until we know we can vouch for someone’s matric thirty years ago, every name change compromises the integrity of the historical data. When I can tell you exactly how many schools we have, and where, and what they can do, I’ll give them my blessing to change their names every year, if they want.”
“Kgethi, holy fuck. I’m astounded. I might need you to go convince MoneyMan yourself,” Jo couldn’t stop a giggle at the new nickname, “but I’ll find you your money, even if we don’t have a single presidential or SONA sit-down dinner for the entire five years.”
“Well, then, I’m off to commission some…” Kgethi looked down at her notes, “BOQs for RFQs…”
Roberta pretended not to notice the high-five when Kgethi left Jo’s office.

D minus 98
CabMeet 9 / Ghost results
Thapelo was ready with his presentation, fidgeting with nervousness, when the rest of the Cabinet trooped in.
Everyone else looked nervous too, Thapelo was about to show them the results of the ghost-busting. The individual departments had already seen their figures, but this presentation would combine the results.
“Dumelang, batho,” he started. Hello, people. He greeted in seSotho, instead of his native isiZulu, for Jo’s sake.
“What’s the number?” asked Nhlanhla, uncharacteristically ignoring good greeting protocol.
“About one in twenty,” said Thapelo. “At least five percent of payroll doesn’t actually work for the state or a province. No answer on the municipalities, yet, I haven’t received data from anyone except the metros so far. I’m giving it another two weeks because I’ll need to run those against all the National and Provincial lists, too.”
“The money number,” said Nhlanhla.
“About R26 billion per year. If it holds for Local Government, maybe another R4b,” answered Thapelo, with a slight shrug.
“How many people to be investigated, and how are we going about that?” said Jo.
“Almost ten thousand, out of 1.5 million. A few more that we still need to figure out who owns the bank account,” answered Thapelo. We’re adding up historical payments, and going for the biggest ones first. Some are obvious and have already been suspended pending disciplinary procedures.”
“With or without pay?” asked Nhlanhla.
“If we have enough evidence to justify it, without,” responded Ivo. “But it’s expensive and laborious, and we have to be certain we do it right.”
“How expensive?” Jo asked.
“More than fifteen million rand, so far,” said Thapelo, “and I’ll need at least twice that, again.”
“Forty-five million to save thirty billion a year,” grimaced Nhlanhla. “I’d say that is justifiable.”
“More,” said Jo. “I feel very strongly that we must lay criminal charges, even if people resign or are dismissed. It’s time fraudsters and embezzlers start going to jail. For more than a year, so that they can’t get back into Parliament for five years.”
“If you sue them civilly, there’s a chance to recover some of the money,” pointed out Cormac.
“In my experience, they’re not terribly good at keeping money, so that would be throwing good money after bad,” argued Jo. “But I suppose we should evaluate on a case-by-case basis.” She looked to Nhlanhla for confirmation, and he nodded, grimacing.
“We have the Asset Forfeiture Unit,” Ivo reminded them.
“I have grave reservations about that legislation,” said Jo quietly, shaking her head. “I think POCA gives search and seizure powers that are decidedly undemocratic and unfair. Saying it’s okay to take someone’s stuff, because they might be a criminal, leaves too much room for a trigger-happy Unit to seize whatever they like, from whomever they like, providing they can invent a flimsy excuse. So I’d prefer to avoid that route at all costs.”
“Uhm,” said Ivo, making a note. So were Nhlanhla, Sally, Praneet, and Kgethi.
When the rustling died down, Ivo tried again. “Can we talk about bank charges? I’m on the agenda and all.”
“Go ahead,” said Bantu.
“Most importantly, the PostBank doesn’t have to charge any bank charges at all, to individual customers,” said Ivo. “No withdrawal fees, no debit order fees, no bounced debit order fees, no account fees, and certainly no cash deposit fees. Even the life insurance policies to cover personal loans are more than covered by interest.”
“You must be joking,” Julius said brusquely. “The cheapest existing accounts charge at least thirty or forty rand a month. If it is possible to remove those charges completely, why have banks charged so much for so long?”
“Regulation and barriers to entry,” said Ivo. “There’s not much competition, so you end up with an industry that is implicitly colluding in charging as much as they think they can get away with. Customers put up with the charges because they’ve always had to put up with them.”
“Since the PostBank doesn’t have a profit motive, it can offer an alternative,” explained Makhosi. “If it starts capturing a lot of the market share, it’ll set an example that turns the accepted status quo on its head. And customers can get used to refusing to pay high rates for transactions that require only a few bytes of data.”
“Basically, legislating fees increases complexity instead of our stated goal of deregulating what we feasibly can. If we run the PostBank well, we can get our radical economic transformation simply by competing,” said Ivo, rubbing the back of his neck. 
“So what will the bank do to break even?” asked Nkunku. Cormac nodded agreement.
“It’ll match fees to be a debit order gateway,” answered Makhosi. “We are also considering retaining a small cash withdrawal fee, to incentivise non-cash transactions.”
“Why?” asked Julius and Jo, simultaneously.
“Safety, by not carrying cash. Fewer ATMs means fewer cash-in-transit vehicles to target during heists. The retailers also receive a lot of cash which they must then deposit, while, if they are acting as withdrawal points, they reduce risk for themselves and their customers,” said Makhosi. “Strategically, I don’t want the PostBank to invest in more ATMs, except where there are no other cash withdrawal facilities.”
“Also, there’s the Saswitch charges,” added Ivo. “Unless we ban them, but the networks did require substantial investment to establish, maintain and upgrade. Having one central clearing-house with the same rules applied to all institutions makes better sense than a hundred smaller agreements which may confuse or contradict each other. So happily paying Saswitch charges is a bit of an appeasement, especially since we plan to steal the bulk of the customers.”
“I don’t like it,” said Jo. “The poorest areas have cash based economies. For them, you’ll do the opposite, in terms of safety, if they withdraw all their money in one go to save on withdrawal fees.”
“Why not waive withdrawal fees only on UBI accounts?” suggested Julius.
“That, I could live with,” said Jo. “How do you two feel?” she asked Makhosi and Ivo.
“I’ll see how it affects the projections, but I’m pretty sure it can be done,” replied Makhosi.
“Regarding the poor areas, particularly rural ones,” said Ivo, “we’ve identified another service to offer. I must say Makhosi’s advisory team of PostBank employees had some fantastic ideas about how to improve the service and the offering, particularly in support of poor customers and small businesses.”
“Yes?” prompted Jo.
“Firstly, they pointed out that small business owners often want a separate bank account to keep the business’s expenses ring-fenced. But they would lose the benefit of not paying provtrans, unless business income goes into their UBI account, even though the combined income for the business and the individual is still under the million rand limit. They suggested allowing small businesses to have a separate account, but linked to the UBI account, and for the business account to be exempted, too, until the limit is reached.” Ivo looked around.
“It has the combined benefit of supporting small business in a meaningful way, and to gain more customers for the PostBank. Many businesses don’t turn a million a year,” added Makhosi. “But it led to a different discussion. The PostBank can also offer a low-cost alternative for swiping facilities. That way, we gain cash withdrawal penetration into places that would otherwise need an ATM.”
“That sounds fabulous,” said Phumzile.
“I agree,” said Jo. “Give everyone who helped hatch the idea a Bell’s.” 
“We’re still evaluating that pricing,” said Ivo, “but it’s looking good that we can substantially undercut on device rentals, and charge a flat fee instead of a card commission. We’ll just charge the other banks Saswitch fees instead.”
“So, in summary,” said Makhosi, with a grin, “we’ll charge nothing for a UBI account.”

D minus 83
SCUBI in the National Assembly
Jo was sitting on one of the soft leather couches in her Cape Town office, bare feet tucked in underneath her bottom. A forgotten cup of coffee was congealing on the table next to the couch, as she watched the Parliamentary channel with rapt, but tense, attention.
The vote on the UBI bill was before the National Assembly. It was predicted that today would achieve the highest viewership the Parliamentary channel had ever had.
The debate last week had gone as well as could be expected, after the SCUBI members beat down a proposal that the arguments should not be open to the public. Ivo surmised that the majority party had a faction that wanted to oppose the bill as a political power play, but did not want to be seen to do so by the citizenry. This morning, there had been a request for a secret ballot, deftly mooted by the Speaker, who asked if he should call for an open ballot to decide about a closed ballot. Jo hoped that meant that Julius’s MPs would support the UBI.
Fifteen nerve-wracking minutes later, there were no further requests for the podium, and the Speaker announced that the vote would commence. 
Jo tasted blood and realized she had bitten one of her nails into the quick. The others were also chewed ragged.
221, the Speaker announced, eventually. The bill had passed.
Jo exhaled heavily, relieved, but emotionally drained. She leaned back into the softness of the couch, her mind wandering.
Why am I crying? she suddenly realized. It passed. It passed.
I didn’t sleep much last night. No, I can get by on three hours once or twice, that’s not it.
Ugh, she realized, it’s that time of the month. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes.
Still day-dreaming, imagining future scenarios and all the implications, she fell asleep without noticing.

_ _ _
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Roberta said loudly, and Jo startled awake.
Jo’s friend was grinning like a maniac.
“Jeez, Robbie. What now?” Jo asked, rubbing her eyes and combing her hair with her fingers to feel if it was presentable.
“Half the National Assembly is day drinking in the canteen,” replied Roberta. “I think you should get down there and join the celebration.”
“It still has to go to the Council of Provinces,” said Jo. “We’re not through the woods yet.”
“The majority party only has an outright majority in the three poorest provinces. I’d like to see them turn it down, even with a secret ballot. They’ll get whole towns burned during protests.”
“You think?” asked Jo, doubtfully. “Okay, if I show face at the canteen, won’t I spoil everyone’s fun?”
“The fun is a result of your vision, your mission. They really seem to be behind you, now. Well, everyone down there, at least. I brought you a copy of the voting results, we need to look them over quick, before you go.” Roberta sat down on the arm of the couch and handed the printout to Jo.
The majority party had abstained en-masse, with the exception of Nhlanhla. Julius’s party had voted yes, every last one of them.
What, only 54 for Radical? Had someone abstained? Mosa had abstained?!
Oh, no, she had tendered her apologies. Her mother had mentioned that she had a nasty flu that wasn’t getting better. 
Makhosi and Bantu’s people had mostly voted yes.
Half of the opposition party, too.
“Sjoe, maatjie,” said Jo. Gosh, my friend. “It looks like having ministers from all the parties works. They didn’t even insist on MPs voting the party line.”
“That was declared unconstitutional, remember?” replied Roberta. “But I agree, it’s a good sign when they don’t informally require MPs to be ‘voluntarily obliged’. Especially with something this big and this sensitive.”
“Do you think this can work?” asked Jo. Ouch, she reminded herself. PMS. Stop being needy.
“I think you can achieve miracles, I’ve seen you do it,” started Roberta.
“As I have seen you,” acknowledged Jo.
“Shush. Don’t interrupt me. I didn’t think this was viable. Fuck, I still don’t know if I think it is moral and ethical. But something must change in our country, and maybe, just maybe, this might be it.”
“Thank you,” said Jo. “That means more than you know, coming from you.”
Roberta nodded dismissively as she stood up to survey Jo’s appearance.
“Go wash your face and put on the spare suit. Except the skirt, you probably haven’t shaved your legs, and your pants don’t look bad. Where are your shoes?”
Jo pointed them out.
“Good. I’m waiting,” said Roberta, dropping her chin and glaring at Jo.
Jo went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and change clothes. She regarded herself in the mirror, and then slicked down an errant shock of her short, brown hair with wet fingers. It’ll probably stand up in a cow’s lick before I get out of the lift, she thought, ruefully. 
She returned and presented herself for inspection, arms and hands sarcastically held out, eyes rolled towards the ceiling.
“Okay,” confirmed Roberta, grudgingly. “Are you sure you don’t want some lipstick for the special occasion?”
“No,” groused Jo. “Makeup makes me feel like I’ve been painted with poisonous chemicals.”
“Not even to put a big smooch on Nhlanhla and Ivo’s cheeks?” quipped Roberta, holding up a viciously red lipstick which looked fabulous with her complexion, but would make Jo look like a vampire.
Jo giggled at the thought, and considered. 
“Oh, okay,” she finally relented, taking Roberta’s lipstick. “As long as you have some baby wipes ready for right after.”

D minus 54
CabMeet 13 / Go on Dividend
“How much?” asked Julius, incredulously.
Ivo was also shaking his head.
“Almost R50 billion for this year, so far,” reiterated Nhlanhla. “Collapsing the ministries and the immediate retrenchments. It helps that that one,” Nhlanhla cocked his head at Jo, “thinks that three overworked geniuses are better than three hundred people who rarely clock in.”
Ouch, seems my official title has become That One, winced Jo. But never mind. Yes, no? Can we? When?
“So, the verdict?” asked Makhosi, but she was grinning like the magician at a children’s party.
“We can do the first Dividend this year,” acknowledged Nhlanhla, grudgingly.
“When?” said Julius, sourly.
“End September.” Jo answered. She stared at Nhlanhla, daring him to object.
He stared back at her with his eyes narrowed.
“We can’t start the loans until the Dividend is in place,” Jo reminded him, “so we’re limited to deeding state-owned land until then.”
Nhlanhla sighed deeply. “It’s possible. It’ll be very tight. I’d rather postpone to November.” He looked at Makhosi. “How much time do you need to go live?”
“If you give me the money today, I’ll distribute it Monday coming,” she responded, as immutable as Nhlanhla. “We’re ready. We’ve been ready for almost a month.”
Nhlanhla sighed in irritation. “Yes, then. End September.” 
D minus 40
CabMeet 15 / Education – ready to send for tender
“We’re finalizing the issuing of the school refurb tenders,” Kgethi started, when the agenda got to her. “They’ll be published before the end of the month, and the deadline for submissions is 15 October, so we can award as soon as six weeks later.”
“Quick overview, again, please?” asked Makhosi, with her head tilted.
“We identified 86 terrible schools that desperately need attention,” said Kgethi. “But, in the process, we found another 30 that do well despite being off the radar. We wanted to fix 50, in a hurry, and we clawed out some budget.”
Kgethi sighed, but she was still smiling. “I ended up asking for double the budget, but we’d made some real savings on textbooks. Now, I’m happy to report, that I have found the rest of the money.”
“Heh?” asked Jo. “You said you needed another R75 million. I scavenged it from the presidential operating expenditure. Where did you get it from?”
“Over two thousand teachers have dropped off the payroll. Since most of them didn’t register on the teacher exam database, there might be a correlation, if not a causation. We’ve been able to re-assign teachers from elsewhere in the extremely rare instances where they were actually missed. Just over thirty deaths these last two months, for instance. In a few cases we’ve combined classes for now, but we’ve tightened up the procedures for advertising posts in schools. We’re not replacing coaches in schools with no sports facilities, for instance.”
Kgethi shook her head disbelievingly. “So my total payroll has shrunk by more than R200m, even if we replace every last one of them in January. I’m going to use the rest,” she admonished Nhlanhla and Jo, “don’t get any ideas. We’ll start with the next schools early in the new year, once we’ve assessed whether this kind of work really can be completed during a school holiday.”
Jo looked at Nhlanhla enquiringly, with wide eyes. He nodded reassuringly.
“Ohhh-kay.” Jo turned back to Kgethi. “Your textbooks and other essentials still on target?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Kgethi, breezily. “Uhhhmm… I didn’t think to bring the relevant information, so I’m not a hundred percent certain, but last I looked we’d saved another forty-odd million, on the responses to the RFQ’s we sent to the reliable suppliers.”
“So where are the schools that will be getting all this special attention?” drawled Julius, sceptical, as always.
“Of the 86, 69 are rural and 77 are primary schools. 14 each in KZN, Limpopo, and Eastern Cape. 10 each in Northwest, Mpumalanga, Northern Cape and Free State. Three in Gauteng, and two rural schools in the Western Cape,” replied Kgethi. “For the 30 flagship schools, there’s at least one each in metro, each province has at least two primary schools and one high school, except for Western Cape, who only has one of each. I’ll send you the breakdown, if you want.”

D minus 1
Jo argues the futility of protests on media
“Good evening to all my fellow citizens,” Jo started.
“I’m using most of my budget for schmoozing the USA to talk to all of you tonight. Whether you’re watching national TV, online, or listening on the radio.
“Tomorrow, the first Citizens’ Dividend will be paid to everyone who has a PostBank account. It is two months earlier than we hoped. I’m hoping it will change our country, and our lives, for the better.
“I’m also hoping that we will be able to keep sharing our country’s wealth, with all its people, in the long term. But the world thinks we’re crazy, or at least the powerful parts of the world that have grown fat through charging fees instead of producing anything.
“If we make it through the first year, we’ll prove them wrong.
“If we don’t make it through the first year, I’ll get fired, and things will probably go back to how they used to be. 
“So I need your help.
“Firstly, please don’t strike. Every week you strike without pay means you need a 2% higher increase to make up the pay you lost. If you strike for three weeks, you need a 6% increase and you still won’t make more money for the year.
“We also need to produce more and better, because inflation will be bad for at least a year. If we make more stuff for the same costs, that’s the best thing we can do to keep inflation as low as possible.
“If you have a job, you’ve been supporting yourself and up to ten other people. Tomorrow you’ll be in a much better position immediately. A family of two parents and two children will now have five thousand rand each month, for food, shelter, and clothing. If one parent is working at minimum wage, that family now has R8 500 per month, instead of R3 500.
“So, the second thing I want to ask is, don’t expect an increase, for at least a year. Our poorest people will be able to survive. If you were taking care of five other people with your pay, they now have their own money, probably more than you were able to give them. So, what you used to give them is already your increase, and it’s a big one.
“Next, if you hate your job, or it’s far away, look for another one. You might find a job you love, for only a little bit less money. And then your old job becomes available for someone else who didn’t have one.
“If you don’t have a job, think how you can start a small business at home. Make curtains, or cupboards, or vetkoek. Grow food. Tender to cut municipal grass or clean up litter. Learn how to fix computers or cellphones or toilets. If you have a car, transport produce for the other small businesses. Remember, your neighbours will now have more money, and they can be your customers.
“Don’t harm anyone else or damage their stuff. Take care of your own stuff. Every single thing that is broken costs money that could be used for something nicer. Every single thing that government must replace, because it was broken or burnt, means that there’s less money for schools and hospitals and proper roads. Less money for running water and electricity to every home.
“I also need help from the businesses.
“Try not to increase your prices, despite inflation. You are going to have more customers, who will buy more. But you’re going to have to take good care of them.
“You’re also going to have to take care of your employees. They’re going to be less desperate, and they’re no longer going to settle for bad wages or bad working conditions or bad bosses. The employees who leave will be replaced with ones that are better motivated, who actually want to work for you.  
“Please don’t retrench for a year. See what the effect is, first. We’re deregulating as fast as is feasible. The big boys, who have enjoyed monopoly or oligopoly created by barriers to entry, will hurt. But even you big boys will have more customers; individuals and small businesses.
“So change your ways, add value instead of over-priced fluff. You’ll still get your shareholders’ dividends.
“Lastly, I have a challenge for the tsotsis. All of you. 
“The criminals who are rubbing their hands at how much more there is to plunder. The ones who rape or assault or rob or hijack or murder.
“The ones who prevent colleagues from going to work during strikes. The ones who throw rocks, at cars, off bridges. The ones who loot during protests. The ones who extort from vulnerable people. The ones who stop the services of a competing industry through violence and intimidation.  
“The ones in high office that like kick-backs. And the ones in executive positions that give themselves huge bonuses after retrenching.
“Change your ways. Because we’re coming for you.
“For everyone who isn’t a tsotsi, or would rather not be a tsotsi if her (or his!) family isn’t hungry…”
Jo took a breath when the slide-show of photographs started. Photographs of proud employees, beloved managers. Photographs of self-sustaining rural farmers, in communities living in good municipalities. Photographs of happy, well-fed children proudly displaying their certificates of achievement; with the ocean, or the mountains, or the desert, or the city, as a back-drop.
Jo continued in voice-over while the photos clicked through.
The back-drops went further. Fields of grain, and vegetables. Vineyards. Grazing livestock. A mine-dump rearing up behind a small, but lush, garden of flowers and food plants.
 “Please use the services hotline. SMS, whatsapp, e-mail, or if you can, the app, because that lets us ask enough questions to figure out where you are and where the problem is. Send us pictures. If you want to protest after that, don’t let anyone break or steal anything, or it makes you look bad. Our country has problems, a lot of them. We’ve already fixed a bunch, and we have every intention of fixing the rest. But to help, I need Citizens who care about other Citizens. Not comrades, not cadres. Every single Citizen. I’m a Citizen.”
The ticker-tape band for the Citizen’s Hotline’s contact details was working fine, and Jo checked the numbers and social media addresses for typos, on the screen next to her shoulder.
No errors. Good.
“South Africa, tomorrow is the biggest thing since the fall of apartheid. Use your dividend. Live better. Eat better. Send your kids to school. Enjoy your work, and do it well.
“Choose, carefully, where you spend your money. Spend it close to home, if you can. Help make your neighbourhood into the kind of place you’d like to live. 
“Settle your debt. That clothing store account is going to hurt, when inflation gets bad.
“Pay your school fees and your electricity. Pay your rent.
“Have a special, favourite meal tomorrow night.
“Be proud of who you are. Be proud of what you have. Be proud of what you achieve. Be proud of what you contribute.
“Be the kind of person you wish everyone else would be.
“Good night, my sisters and brothers.”
  
D plus 1
Kagiso has an idea
Kagiso hadn’t slept at all. He had gone home with a bunch of food, even some airtime for Tshidi. His little sister had stared at him with questions in her eyes, but didn’t ask anything directly.
She was doing well at school, but they’d only been back to the village once since their mother died, and Tshidi needed a female role model.
At least she had a good friend at school, and did homework at the friend’s house most school afternoons. The friend’s mother was respected at church, but at home she just shouted at everyone all the time. Kagiso didn’t think Tshidi would be able to ask Fundzo’s mother for womanly advice.
He also needed a job. His friend Jabu owned a small PC shop and internet café, where Kagiso had done most of his on-line courses before he got his internship. Jabu said he couldn’t pay a regular salary, but could manage a share of profit, although Kagiso was overqualified to be a technician-salesperson. With two of them to do the repairs and upgrades (and formatting, when the antimalware scanning was too late) they would be able to catch up the backlog. Jabu had proven himself to his customers, and was getting good business, but richer customers preferred to go to the mall in town for quicker turnaround time. Most of his customers came in over weekends, so Jabu seldom had a day off.
Kagiso’s friend had been honest about the sales and the costs, and how much he himself was able to earn. He had spoken wistfully of the merchandise he would buy if he had a little extra money – RAM, components for a full system or two. A few screens. A few keyboards and mice. Commonly used cables and SD cards. Customers often urgently wanted small, profitable items that he couldn’t currently keep in stock.
A ghost of a plan was forming. Tshidi would be turning sixteen in two months, and be eligible for the Dividend. With his own Dividend this month, Kagiso could just barely manage to work at Jabu’s store for a few weeks instead of fixing appliances and, occasionally, mowing lawns.
If Jabu also got his Dividend, they could concentrate on delivering services better and faster. If the business grew just a little, it could support them both comfortably.
Shall I go see Jabu with my idea? Kagiso thought, lying in bed propped up against his two pillows, in the ox-blood red linen Mama had bought for him when he aced his matric.
Isn’t it better than looking for a radio to fix or a toilet to unblock? Isn’t it better than sitting here smoking weed until it’s time for Tshidi to come home?
Kagiso got up, washed up in the waskom, and brushed his teeth.
He picked out his favourite golf shirt, ironed it, and put it on.
Then he locked the house and started walking.
_ _ _

Discussion of extra issue of dividend
“Not a chance, Jo. Until we start getting numbers for the new taxes there’s just too many other commitments. And next month we don’t get PAYE any more. I’ve been heaving a sigh of relief about the change I’m getting from the Dividend. I’m paying bills. You remember how many of those we inherited, don’t you?”
Nhlanhla was glaring at Jo. Her minister of finance was being precisely the sort of bull-headed, if strategic, bean-counter she had chosen him to be. Tsitsi, however, was staring at the carpet in a corner thoughtfully. As minister of Social Welfare, a combination of a number of former ministries, she had taken to her new role with hard work, a sly sense of humour, and a keen understanding of people and their nuances. 
“I think I agree with the president”, said Tsitsi. Jo was surprised. Tsitsi’s department was the one most likely to take the brunt of any budget shortages caused by the Dividend.
“Moving SASSA functionalities and employees to the Postbank cut my department’s payroll by two thirds. PostBank’s got the Dividend interest to more than cover that.” She looked to Makhosi for confirmation, and got an affirmative nod.
“Also, the transfer process revealed hundreds of ghost employees and other frauds,” said Makhosi. “And since PAYE drops away, the wage bill will shrink, but, of course, it’ll shrink Nhlanhla’s incoming money by the same amount.”
“I was never getting it, anyway,” assented Nhlanhla. “It was always just a set-off on both sides of the books.”
“We’re struggling to recruit the new social workers, though,” continued Tsitsi. “We may have to offer bursaries for next year. I can comfortably handle a ten billion cut, but I’ll want it back for social workers, or when we start building the Care Centres.”
Roberta knocked discreetly, twice, and then opened the office door. 
Julius stomped in and sank into one of the more comfortable chairs. “Hi,” he waved.
“Traffic?” Jo asked, sweetly. Blue light brigades had been banned. Politicians could use the newly implemented carpool lanes, but not bully everyone else off the road at high speed.
Julius scowled back at Jo. “What have I missed?”
The Ministry of Special Interests was originally conceived as a bit of a joke, especially for Julius. Anywhere a bunch of people were yelling at each other, or about something, or about someone, Julius was in charge of resolving differences and creating win-win solutions. He had Fees Must Fall, the LGBT community, Orania, labour unions, religious groups, heritage groups, and the SPCA to deal with. Not to mention environmental versus corporate interests. 
Julius was sharp, and abrasive, and saw the world through a completely different lens, but he was also helping Jo understand the needs and dreams of the millions of citizens she hadn’t previously been able to truly identify with. He had even won over Afriforum. He was a valued member of Jo’s team, much more so than she had dared to hope. It had obviously been interpreted by the media as a thank you for giving her the presidency, until she’d started making the other cabinet appointments.
Jo had wanted a truly inclusive and co-operative cabinet. She had wanted each of the parties to have a respected and qualified representative, and had consulted with them to select their best and brightest in context of the makeup of needed skills. 
 “Nhlanhla won’t let me tell people we’ll issue another Dividend next week if they spark to get their accounts. I was about to remind him that the perks moratorium has already saved us five percent of the interest payment budget, but it seems he somehow spent our remaining twenty billion for this month’s Dividend while I was sleeping.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. We have to watch every penny. They’ve known we were going to start the Dividend for months. They should have acted,” grumbled the Finance Minister.
“They’ve been lied to so many times before, I don’t blame them if they doubted,” said Julius, to Jo’s surprise. “I’m with her on this one, with the proviso that we can’t keep doing it.”
“Just this month, please, everyone. We’ll have the inflation and production numbers soon enough, and the economy is going to start revving into high gear this week already. The VAT numbers are going to convince you at last, Nhlanhla, I’m sure they will,” Jo pleaded.
She thought she could physically feel his scepticism.
D plus 2
Abel hears about dividend
When Abel arrived at work, the doors were still closed. It was a bit early, but usually Moagi was there before the rest of the staff, to get started with the daily maintenance and get the fans and kettle going.
“Ke eng?” asked Abel. What’s up?
“Moagi texted to say he’d be a bit late,” replied Ashley. 
“Lucky we finished the big order yesterday, then,” replied Abel. 
Abel was older than most of the other guys, but he was the one who knew how to finesse the hydraulic machine into completing today’s production, or when to say that it needed to be turned off now and some seal or valve or fluid replaced before continuing.
Abel had years of experience, but no papers. He also didn’t have the energy to study after hours to gain the qualifications the owners had requested and offered to pay for. He knew and loved this machine, and he preferred playing with his grandchildren after work hours. His children brought their babies over often, and not only when they needed Gloria, his wife, to babysit.
Abel was proud that his kids had finished matric, and two had gone on to get further qualifications. Judicious saving and scraping had enabled Abel and Gloria to pay their own way, and they didn’t need their children to supplement their income. Any spare money they had ended up going to sweets and children’s clothes anyway. And more toys than his grandkids’ parents were entirely comfortable with.
The younger men at work respected Abel, but they had very little in common. For his part, Abel disliked Isaac’s shirking, and Zachariah’s habit of turning up for work drunk.
Today’s production load was light, unless the new steel got delivered, but that was unlikely. So waiting was no great hardship, it wouldn’t affect the performance bonus they had been promised if they completed a certain order by end of next week.
“Really, guys, Thembi did get hers. We had Nando’s on Monday. I’m going to open my PostBank account on Saturday, MmaPrez said on the news last night that anyone who opens one by Saturday will get a Dividend on Monday if they haven’t already got it.” It was Zachariah, completely sober, miraculously. 
“What now?” asked Abel. “Dividend?”
“That woman who is president, who said we would get two thousand rand on Monday if we had a PostBank account? Thembi did. And my cousin Judas did, too,” explained Zachariah excitedly. “And now, she’s said that they would pay another Dividend for people who didn’t get one, if we open a PostBank account by Saturday.”
_ _ _

Abel checks with Tshego
Abel walked away from his colleagues. He had not voted for the president. He had thought long and hard about whether he wanted to vote at all. But he suddenly remembered the extra money in his PostBank account on Monday morning. He’d forgotten to request time off to go to the bank to get it corrected.
Gloria didn’t have a PostBank account. He didn’t think his boys did, either. But his daughter, Tshegofatso, was a proud Fourways coconut debtors’ clerk, who could account for every cent. She kept asking him whether she could change his prepaid SIM card to a cheaper plan. 
He called her, although she might still be driving to take her children to school. She answered. She knew texting was not his forte.
“Daddy! O tshogile jang?” Did you wake up well?
My little girl. With her own little girls and boy, now.
“Ke tshogile sentle, lerato.“ I woke well, love. “Sorry to bother you when you’re taking the kids to school…” 
“I just dropped them off, Daddy. I can talk for a minute…” replied Tshego, enquiringly.
“Do you have a PostBank account, baby?” asked Abel.
“Of course I do. Remember I came specially the first Saturday last month to take you to open one? You said you had one already, and Mummy said she was too busy.”
“Did you get two thousand rand in yours on Monday?”
“Yes, and so did everyone I know with a PostBank account, unless they had more than one. Then only the oldest account got the Dividend. What’s wrong, Daddy, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Tshego. I just needed to check. When are you coming to visit again?”
“I was going to phone Mummy tonight to arrange for Saturday. That should be okay, right?” his daughter responded.
“Rather Sunday, if you can,” said Abel. “I’m taking her to PostBank on Saturday.”
He made another phone call.
_ _ _

Quanita and Frikkie
Quanita was lounging in the passenger seat of the metro police vehicle. 
They were parked in the dip right at the middle of the long stretch of climbing road that had only this one-second blind-hill-concealed section. But the road had a solid barrier line throughout its three kilometre visible length.
Frikkie was talking on his phone. He seemed distracted. He was keeping a game eye out for vehicles that would give him any excuse to step out into the road and pull them over. The traffic was still light, though.
He had spotted a likely prospect, a beaten-up white bakkie with bags of cement piled on the back.
“Gaan, gaan…” Go, go, mouthed Frikkie, waving his hand in the direction of the approaching vehicle.  Apparently he was not finished with his conversation yet.
My turn, thought Quanita. Great, he’s only just started letting me do more pull-overs. She evaluated the bakkie as she walked to the middle of the lane and signalled that it should halt. An overload for sure, unless it’s a one-tonner.
The red-faced man driving the bakkie came to a stop. No indicator, thought Quanita. Lekker. Nice.
“Good morning, sir,” said Quanita, stepping up to the driver’s window. He did have his seat belt on. Damn. “Drivers’ licence, please.”
The driver fumbled with his wallet, and Quanita took note of some hundred rand notes in the billfold. Hard to tell, she thought, but I think at least three hundred. She took the proffered licence card and checked the expiry date. Still valid. Double damn. 
She handed back the card and inspected the vehicle registration disk. Expired, but only by two weeks.
“Your licence disk is expired, sir,” she said to the driver. “And I think you are over-loaded.” He doesn’t know about the twenty-one day grace period, she hoped. She put on her best disappointed-law-officer face.
“I only have eighteen bags of cement,” replied the man. “It’s a one tonner, I’m not overloaded, I piled them high to leave room for my workers, and I’m late to pick them up…”
He was sunburnt, noticed Quanita. And wearing khaki. “And the licence?” she prompted, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together, but low, next to her hip.
“I think I have a week left to get it renewed….” he said.
Damn. She couldn’t argue. She started inspecting the registration plate, the state of the light covers, and the tyres. Slowly, methodically. The ones in a hurry were always the best.
“Please turn on your right indicator,” she requested. He complied.
“It’s not working,” said Quanita. “And this tyre has no tread on the outside, here.” She pointed. “Please wait.”
She ambled back to the metro vehicle as slowly as she could, just to give an opportunity.
“Officer,” he called, dangling a hundred rand note out of the car window. “How long will this take?”
She looked, and then turned back to collect the triplicate fine book in the footwell of the metro car.
As she was leaning into the window to pick it up, the sunburnt man called again. He was standing outside his car, three hundred rand notes fanned out in his unobtrusive, lowered, hand.
Quanita retrieved the fine book with as much dawdling as she thought she could get away with. When she straightened up, there were four notes in his hand.
“This is all I have,” he said quietly, when she got back to his car considerably faster than the walk away had been.
She held her book in the crook of her left arm and reached down to take the money, looking him dead in the eye. She slotted the notes between two sheets, pretending to page through the book. “You need to take care of that tyre, sir,” she said. “And the indicator bulb, and the licence. Last warning.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you. Can I go?”
She waved him off, and he pulled back onto the road. The frisson of the extortion was almost a high.
“Oom Frikkie,” she said, climbing back into their car. Uncle Frikkie. “Four hundred!” She took two of the notes and handed them to her superior officer, who folded them and put them into his sock.
“I’m impressed,” replied Frikkie. “I thought he’d be good for maybe a hundred. You’re learning, kiddo.”
They waited for the next likely target. 
Quanita eyed the oncoming traffic keenly. It was already a good day. Maybe she could have another turn or two. 
Ah. Here comes a taxi with too many heads in it. Will Frikkie let me do this one too?
No, not this one. Frikkie opened the car door and stepped into the road.
As he did his dance around the bonnet and lights and tyres, Quanita’s mind wandered. Frikkie didn’t share his takings, but Quanita had to.
Mummy would be disappointed with me, she suddenly thought. 
That day with Shelwyn. She tried to side-swipe the memory but couldn’t.
I’d pulled over a car, and the driver turned out to be my high school friend. We got along well, but he never knew I had a crush on him.
His licence disk had been expired two days beyond the grace period.
Shelwyn explained that he was late for a meeting, and he didn’t have the time to go to court.
You could just pay the admission of guilt fine, Quanita was about to say, but he kept talking.
“I’m a lawyer, Quanita, I can’t have something like this against my name, that can come up in searches. Look, I have five hundred in cash. Your hair seems like it needs a bit of TLC. If I make a contribution…”
Hey, what’s wrong with my hair?! Quanita had thought, defensively smoothing it, flustered.
Then a heavy hand had settled on her shoulder. She turned, and saw that Frikkie was behind her. Her insides had turned to ice. I’m fired, I’m fired, I’m fired…. she had thought. And I haven’t done anything except listen.
“The man has a point, don’t you think, Quanita?”
Quanita had looked back at Frikkie, completely adrift. “What…?” she had managed.
“We protect the reputations of professionals,” Frikkie had replied smoothly, neatly divesting Shelwyn of his bunch of fifty-rand notes.
“But I… The operational procedure…” stuttered Quanita.
“Good-bye, sir,” said Frikkie, patting the roof as Shelwyn put his car into gear. “Goed gaan!” Go well.
Frikkie had led Quanita back to their car, and opened the door for her, like a real gentleman.
When he’d settled her, he walked around to the driver side to climb in himself. Then he handed her five pink fifties.
“Well done, girl! That’s exactly how we do it. I was beginning to think I’d have to request a different partner.”
Quanita had mutely thumbed the corner of the bunch of bank notes in her left hand, while Frikkie talked and talked.
It had been scary, that first while. But she had been able to fix her broken front tooth, and it even had a small diamond set in the gold. When she thought about the gorgeous clothes she’d bought since… And the shoes. Oh, fuck, the shoes. 
Not to mention the buzz, the thrill.
Mamma sou haar skaam. Mummy would be ashamed.
Mummy’s not here. She doesn’t how the world works.
Quanita settled into a doze.
_ _ _

Abel got his dividend too
“I think I got the Dividend too,” said Abel slowly when he’d returned to the group waiting at the entrance. “I thought it was a mistake, but I only have the PostBank account, it’s where my wages go. Are you saying it’s really my money? I can spend it? My mother got three thousand instead of the previous pension, so she doesn’t need the money I send her every month.”
The younger men, Abel’s colleagues, stared at him. “Really, Ntate? Did you believe that woman?” one asked.
“No. I just opened the account because it was closer to home, and I got tired of being charged twelve rand for my funeral policy debit order of R95.00. I don’t care about politics. They’re all liars…”
_ _ _

Karel and Mandla
Karel’s nerves were frazzled. After the near disaster with Mia’s insulin, he’d been late to pick up the team. Then the rain had delayed the outside painting that they had planned to finish this week.
Now he was late again, and the sky didn’t look promising. He pulled to a stop in the parking lot where the guys were waiting for him, and shouted a greeting as they hopped on the back of the bakkie while he unlocked the passenger door for Mandla, the foreman.
“Morning, Mandla. Sorry I’m late again.”
Mandla grinned at him. “Don’t make a habit of it. At least it’s not raining, yet.”
“Look, dude, I ran into a speed-cop on the way here, and I had to give her cooldrink money. All I had with me was the petty cash you needed for dust masks and floor rolls. I…” Karel trailed off, embarrassed. 
“I can handle it for now,” replied Mandla. “Just stop at the hardware quick on the way to site and you can reimburse me when we get paid. Have they said when we’ll get paid yet?”
“The main contractor says the claim is at GSSC, but we know that means nothing. I’ve been speaking to the engineers’ QS and he says the inspectors are dragging their feet about coming out to evaluate progress. And province may have run out of money again. It’s a bit early this year.” They had been lucky so far, being paid only days late, instead of weeks. But the lag had been increasing steadily. “Hopefully by the tenth.”
Mandla sighed and looked out of the window at the sky. “We might still be able to finish the painting this week. Else, I’ve discussed it with the guys, we’ll work Sunday to catch up.”
“Let’s hope the weather holds. Wait, Sunday? Why Sunday?” asked Karel.
“Some of the guys didn’t have PostBank accounts, so they didn’t get their Dividend on Monday. They’re opening their accounts on Saturday so that they’ll get the extra issue next week.”
“Dividend? What do you mean?” Something was nagging at Karel. The unexpected money in his account the day before yesterday.
“The Citizens’ Dividend, the new president’s replacement for the old grants. Everyone gets it, if they have a PostBank account,” replied Mandla. “Brother, have you been living under a rock?”
Pretty much, thought Karel, since the television stopped working. “So they’re paying an extra one next week if you didn’t already have an account?” Marie doesn’t have an account.
“That’s what they said. I already got mine, so I reckon I’m going to go sell cold drinks and ice cream at one of the branches. Make a few bucks. I think they’re going to be busy. Hey, remember the hardware store!”
Karel had driven past in a daze. He checked his rear-view mirror, and made an illegal U-turn.

Jabu phones Kagiso back
“KG…” said Jabu when Kagiso answered the call. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, and you’re right. If I get a Dividend too. Can you come in to run the shop while I go open my PostBank account? I’ll spend the morning showing you the ropes, and I’ll be five minutes away if there’s something you can’t handle. It’s quiet, you’ll probably only be bored.”
“So you’re considering it?” Kagiso asked.
“Bro, if my Dividend also happens next Monday, we’ll weigh up my ideas and your ideas. We can start. It won’t be easy, and we’ll work our asses off. But I think you’re right, we can do it.”
“What time? I can get there in twenty minutes or so?”
“Shop opens at nine thirty, so I’ll be there about ten past. Any time after that,” replied Jabu.
“I’ll see you soon, then. Bye.”

D plus 3
Rosie
Rosie woke up with a hangover, and last night’s blesser pumping away at her, not exactly consensually. But at least he was getting on with it, instead of expecting her to make ego-stroking noises and repeat his name over and over again. Plus he had been generous with the beer, and had even shared his meal with her.
He finished with a sigh, followed by a grunt, and got up to put on his pants. “You have to go now, I’m going to work,” he said. “Get dressed.”
Rosie blinked at him blearily. She was still drunk. “Water?” she asked, trying to sit up and reaching for her clothes.
“Tap at the end of the row. Toilet’s on the other side of this block,” he gestured.
He waited for her impatiently as she pulled on her skirt and blouse and sauntered out past him. He closed the bolt on the door to the shack and locked it with a padlock. Like he has anything to steal, she thought. “See you sometime,” she waved.
He gave a strange half-nod and walked off in the other direction.
Thursday, she thought. None of the shebeens within walking distance had anything going on tonight, so she might as well go home. No-one would buy her a drink this early in the morning.
What’s the date? she suddenly wondered, squinting up. Shouldn’t the child grants be in my SASSA account by now? Probably, she thought. Let’s check, then I can buy my own beer.
Half an hour later she fumbled her ATM pin twice before finally pressing the balance button on the screen. She peered at the screen, concentrating. She was expecting almost seven hundred rand, what with that weird debit order that she couldn’t get SASSA to block. 
R2 807.22. She swayed a few seconds longer before it registered. Someone made a mistake. Well, their problem. She withdrew all of it and tucked it into her bra.
On her way to the offsales she walked past the Pakistani’s shop and halted for a moment. Then she walked inside to the fridge with the chicken pieces.
Her sister’s face bloomed anger when she noticed Rosie approaching. 
“Where have you been?” she screamed. “I told you last month no more chances! Go find somewhere else to live…” Her voice faded when she spotted the plastic bags. Almost sober after the hour’s walk, Rosie lifted her hands to show her sister the bags and their contents. Chicken. Maize meal. Morogo. Pilchards. Onions and tomatoes and a small bottle of Oros. Three quarts of beer.
She put the bags down on the floor of the shack and opened a quart. She fell asleep in the sun before she’d finished drinking it.
_ _ _

Sibongile gets promoted
“Bongi,” said Eugene, when Sibongile walked into the coffee shop three minutes early. “Would you mind joining me in the office?”
This was not good. Sibongile didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. Eugene never shouted, and he never berated anyone where customers or other staff could hear.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a floor chair that had been judged too rickety for customers. Three more were stacked in the corner. The office was small and cramped.
“You’re one of my best waiters,” started Eugene, and Sibongile relaxed just a tiny bit.
Eugene leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees, hands together, as he continued. “Three of the students told me yesterday that they didn’t want to work mid-week shifts anymore. With the Dividend, they’d rather stay at campus and study. I’m stuck in mid-week, now, and I was hoping you’d work more weekdays.” 
Sibongile’s heart sank. Her Sunday lunch shift was one of the best for tips, when bigger groups who appreciated skilled anticipation of their requirements rewarded her accordingly. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to say “But… “
“I know you do well on Sundays. So firstly, we’ll increase your basic, and get you started as a trainee manager. You’ll still be able to wait tables, but in the next year or so we’d like you to take over management of the day shift two or three days a week.”
Sibongile pondered all of Eugene’s responsibilities as she thought. Ordering stock on Mondays and Fridays, speaking with the liquor reps, approving cash-ups, paying wages, smoothly dealing with customers. Smilingly replacing an ashtray or whisking away an empty plate when it got busy and the waiting staff couldn’t quite keep up. All put together, it sounded hard. But individually, couldn’t she do all those things, or at least know how she’d go about learning them?
I’m not good with sums when I’m under pressure… she interrupted herself, thinking about changing to Maths Literacy the instant she was able to do so, back in high school.
Rubbish. I learned what calamari and scallops and bass were when I started here. I know which wines are semi-sweet and which are dry. I can name twelve different imported beers. And I’ve only worked here a year. I can learn. I can practise. And there’s always a bunch of calculators at every till point during cash-up. She looked around the tiny office. Yep, she could see three calculators from here.
She swallowed hard. “Eugene… wow. I’ve worked really hard, but I didn’t know you’d noticed. If you’d show me what to do until I do it exactly right, I won’t let you down. But I can’t afford to earn less than I do…”
“Of course not, I understand. If the Dividend isn’t sustainable, you can’t let yourself be worse off. But we’ve been wondering to whom to offer the trainee manager position, and since the other two want to focus on their studies, it’s an easy choice for us, if you want it.”
“I could spend the whole weekend with Sbu…” realized Sibongile. Take him to church. Make Sunday lunch. Go visit Father.
“These are the new shift rates we’re thinking about. With the dividend coming in, I reckon we’ll get the best staff if we offer a better wage before anyone else does. Have a look at it and make your sums, and let me know your decision.”
_ _ _

Mandla and Karel consider tendering directly
“Karel,” said Mandla, as they were packing up for the day, “Rudolph gave me this, this morning. It looks interesting.” 
Rudolph was the overseeing engineer from the PRT firm running the clinic project on which Karel and Mandla’s team had been working for the last six months. They were on target to complete their portion of the work with less than a week’s extension of time. 
Karel took the sheet of paper, apparently a printout of a newspaper advertisement. ‘Request for Quotation’ it said in the dark block at the top.
As Karel read, he became more and more excited. “Mandla, this could have been written especially for us,” he said, almost breathlessly.
“That’s what I thought,” Karel’s partner, and friend, responded.
“It specifically states work must happen over builder’s holiday, though?”
Mandla stared expressionlessly into the distance, as he was wont to do. “I don’t mind if you don’t. If it wasn’t for my Dividend, I’d be selling cold drinks and ice creams all December. It’s been a rough couple of years.”
“And the guys? I don’t think Sifiso would want to, what with his lobola negotiations?” Karel asked.
“Sifiso would want to work, even more than the rest, for precisely that reason,” grinned Mandla. “You boertjies don’t understand lobola, do you?
“If he needs a day or a week off, we’ll work that in, maybe get in a few extra cousins or friends that our guys can vouch for. But we need something new when we finish up this project next week. Rudolph said they were instructed to give it only to the subbies they trust. I feel pretty good about that.” Mandla’s dreads bounced as he nodded at Karel with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Can you and I work on it over the weekend?” Karel asked before interrupting himself. “No, we’re putting in overtime…”
“It’s only touch-ups left, which won’t even take the whole morning tomorrow.  As long as we’ve double-checked the plumbing by Wednesday, for the pressure test, we’ll be fine. Everything else is on track or ahead of plan,” Mandla assured Karel. “Your house, or mine?” 
“Yours, please,” answered Karel. “Marie’s been very down, I don’t know from day to day what state the house might be in, even when I do clean up everything the previous night. Plus, I haven’t seen Lebo and the kids in ages.”
“Eleven o’clock on Saturday?” suggested Mandla. “Bring Marie and Mia, maybe it’ll help Marie to get out. Lebo and Marie can visit while we make our sums, and then we’ll have a braai and a beer after. You get boerewors, I’ll get walky-talkies. The team can join us later, once they’ve been to the bank, so we can tell them what we’ve come up with.”
“Good plan,” said Karel, and without further discussion, they picked up the heavy generator and positioned it in its usual corner of the bakkie.
D plus 4

D plus 5
Queue at the Postbank
Abel and Gloria were waiting in line at the PostBank. The queue was so long that they had not even entered the bank yet. They’d been there almost an hour already, and behind them were at least another fifteen people.
When they were almost in the door, a bank employee put up a big sign on the inside of the window, stating that the PostBank would remain open until five that afternoon. There were also directions to two other branches, with a note that said those branches were less busy. Gloria texted their sons to let them know.
An enterprising, well-built young man with dreadlocks had a big cooler box on wheels, from which he was selling cold drinks and ice creams. 
“Fanta Orange, please,” Abel said, holding out some money. He and Gloria always shared one of those, because it was her favourite. As he was about to get his change, he reconsidered. “And a Coke.” His favourite. They were ice-cold and refreshing after the wait in the hot October sun.
“William says he’s going to take driving lessons. His shift boss told him that if he gets his driver’s licence, they’ll promote him to foreman. I’m so glad he’s finally settling down,” said Gloria, when she’d finished texting. 
Their youngest had worried them for years. He hadn’t done well at school like the other two, and had then spent a couple of years with a disquieting crowd. When he finally decided to find job, he hadn’t struggled much, but he’d promptly gotten a girl pregnant and almost as promptly lost the job.
“We should have known from his vegetable gardens when they were little that he needs to work the soil. Do you remember how angry he was when Moruti parked on his newly-sown carrots?” Abel laughed out loud. “I’m proud that he’s proved himself to his company.” 
Maybe we should save for a car, thought Abel. Gloria could apply for teaching positions at schools further away if transport was reliable. Maybe she could even work at a school where they don’t threaten to hurt the teachers who don’t want to go on strike. I’ll mention it when we get home.
They waited in the queue, along with all the other atypically patient and quietly exuberant people.

Mandla and Karel complete their quote
Mandla and Karel were sitting at Mandla’s kitchen table, despite the heat, looking through a fat document. The RFQ had listed a web address where it could be downloaded, but when Mandla had confirmed with Rudolph that they wanted in, Rudolph had handed over this copy, from a pile behind the front seat of his larney 4x4, without comment.
“This doesn’t look like any tender doc I’ve ever seen,” said Karel, paging through the beginning.
“Ja, and how many have you ever actually seen?” challenged Mandla.
It was true. They couldn’t afford subscriptions to tender bulletins, and even when they occasionally heard about something they might be able to do, buying the tender document at hundreds or thousands of rands was seldom possible. They were usually too busy executing the tenders other people had won. Their team was small, but efficient.
“But this one is made to be taken apart and put back together,” pointed out Karel. 
They paged through the first sections.
“This is weird,” pointed Karel. “You don’t need to be an existing business, but you have to give CVs with references of all your people, to prove you can do the work.”
“Why do they want bank statements, showing income and wages? Wait, there’s a footnote,” noticed Mandla.
“’A wage gap multiple will be used to prioritise between quotes that score equally high on price and experience’, it says here, the highest salary, including bonuses and overtime, divided by the lowest salary, for a particular company. What on earth will that do?” Mandla asked, but Karel shrugged.
“It looks like it’ll work in our favour, they only start deducting points when the top salary is ten times more than the bottom salary. You and I earn four times what our newest guys do, so our price and experience scores will stand.” Karel thought for a moment, and then dismantled the document, handing Mandla the first half of the resulting pile. “Let’s make a list of everything we need to include.”
After struggling to make sense of the deluge of paper for a few minutes longer, Mandla eventually sighed.
“Ah,” he said, “this is a spreadsheet summarizing the schools by area and by work needed. And this bit, here,” he paged frantically, and then pointed to a paragraph on the fifth page, “this says that we can tender for any portion of work on any number of schools.”
Karel looked over Mandla’s shoulder, and nodded. “Okay, then my section makes a lot more sense. I understand the lines, look, so many squares of paint, and plaster, and tiles, but I’ve never heard of any these schools. But from yours, I’m looking at Mpumalanga and Northern Cape, look, see the page numbers on your list?”
They both checked the Gauteng schools. “Four,” they said at almost the same moment.
“Should we try for them all?” asked Karel, weighing it up.
“Only six weeks to finish? I dunno. Two. Maybe three. How far are these from us? How much work?” Mandla argued.
“Let’s see. This one is Jo’burg South-West, maybe half an hour’s drive one way,” Karel pointed at a column header on the summary spreadsheet. 
“Ja, I know that one too, so let’s put it on our list for now,” Mandla concurred.
“You google the first two, I’ll do the other one…” Karel said, and got going. He didn’t get very far.
“Mine are both north of Tshwane,” answered Mandla, and leaned over to look at Karel’s phone. “Where’s yours?”
“I’m out of data…” said Karel, embarrassed.
Mandla tapped his phone a few times. “Hmm, I’m low, too.” He leaned back in his chair, and yelled into the kitchen, “Lebo, what’s Mme Sophie’s wi-fi password today?”
“You know the rule,” answered Lebo, leaning in the kitchen door, “hand it over. I haven’t needed any today.”
Mandla handed her a twenty rand note, and Lebo disappeared.
“What rule?” asked Karel.
“Mme Sophie has a wi-fi router that can handle twenty-four connections, and she changes her password every day. You can connect, but it costs twenty for the password. She isn’t doesn’t mind how long you’re online or how much you use, but tomorrow you buy a new password.”
“I pay fifteen rand for fifty megs?” Karel was flabbergasted that someone wouldn’t be watching usage with an eagle eye.
“She buys big bundles and she finds specials. It’s pretty convenient, she lives two houses that way,” Mandla pointed the direction. “She’s been saying there’s some good deals, but the networks don’t all have signal here.”
Lebo returned, and handed Mandla a slip of paper. He spent a minute on his phone, and then looked at Karel. 
“Next,” he said.
Karel read the last school name on the spreadsheet.
Mandla typed something into his phone, and then looked up. “It’s within ten kays. I’ve never heard of it. Have you?” 
“Uhm, no. Where is it?” Karel responded.
Mandla zoomed in. “Looks like it’s in the poorer part of town. What’s the spec?”
Karel’s eyes widened. “It’s big. Plastering, tiling, painting, ceilings, paving. Refurb of ablutions and connections to services.”
“Landscaping?” read Mandla, leaning in.
“Apparently. But look, that would have to be much later, because there’s all these new buildings and a sports field to be finished first.”
“The paving, too, I reckon.”
“You’re right, but we would have to look at the plan to be certain.”
“How many teams can we do?” Mandla speculated. “This is a lot of work.”
“You, and me, at least, if we get some new guys in to train. Is Sifiso ready for his own team? I worry that he needs a bit more experience to handle people he doesn’t know well.”
“Then we’ll put the old team mostly with Sifiso, and let them do the painting and greasing of window furniture and touch-ups. We’d be on site too, how big can one school be?”
“Do we quote for this other one in the South?”
“If you want, but I think this school is plenty big enough for six weeks, even if we only get, say, the painting.” Mandla chewed his thumbnail. “And it’s close. Most of us can walk there from home.
“You know what, bro? Let’s go take a look.”

Twenty minutes later, Mandla and Karel were elbowing for room on the roof of an acquaintance’s VIP toilet.
“That block looks new, it probably won’t have too much work,” pointed Karel.
“But those three have seen better days.” Mandla stared, and Karel followed his gaze. “One, two, three, four…” Mandla counted, pointing at smaller buildings. “How many toilets did they say?”
“A hundred and twenty, I think.”
“So there must be toilets in the blocks too.”
“Siza’s new, but he’s shit-hot at plumbing…” Karel ventured. “Do you think he can put together a good team?”
“Let’s ask, most of the guys are coming over later for the braai.”
“Site camp? How fast do we need to work?” Karel was excited, but very, very nervous. They’d never handled a project this big themselves.
“You see the green roof, just to the right of the parking gate, the one closest to the old building?” Mandla pointed to the far side of the school’s premises. “I’m pretty certain that’s a friend’s house. If we put up a decent fence, she would probably rent us that space at the back of her yard for a very reasonable price. I didn’t recognize the school, because I’ve only ever seen it from that side.”
“Truth time, boet,” said Karel. “Can we handle this job?”
“No,” responded Mandla bluntly. “But we can figure out how to handle all the parts we might be awarded, get in more people. We’d just need to spark.”
“So, we’re going for plaster, paint, tiles, plumbing, paving?”
“Glazing and landscaping too, there’s locals that have respected businesses, but we’ll need to check with them about pricing. And that wage gap multiple thing.” Mandla thought for a moment. “Sam lives almost on the way back to my house, he’s part owner of the landscaping business. Want to stop and see if he’s there?”
_ _ _

Sam meets Karel
Sam had been home for about ten minutes, and was unloading the tools from his bright yellow Hilux. The shiny single cab was his pride and joy since he’d bought it earlier in the year. He had started his business with a smaller vehicle, but at twelve years old its maintenance had started to cost much more, and reliability was important in Sam’s work.
Sam had carefully weighed up many options when choosing his new bakkie, and would have loved to get the more prestigious double cab instead, but he needed the bigger load area and the difference in price was staggering. His business was doing well, but there were still bad months when he didn’t land any contracts, and had to rely on the garden services part of the business.
He had just returned from stashing a wheelbarrow full of implements in the shed in the back yard, when a battered white bakkie stopped at his gate. He walked the stretch from the carport to see who it was. The sun’s reflection on the windscreen obscured his view.
Mandla, from church, climbed out on the passenger side, holding a ring-bound document. Sam nodded acknowledgement and waited for the driver to get out. Then his jaw tightened. “Dumelang,” greeted Sam, eyeing the unknown white man suspiciously.
“Agê,” responded Mandla with a smile and a wave.
“Dumela,” said the other man, pronouncing it all wrong.
“Sam, this is my partner, Karel,” said Mandla. “We might have some work for you. Do you have time to talk for a few minutes?”
“Pleased to meet you, Sam,” said Karel, holding out his hand over the gate.
Sam eyed the man’s hand for an instant, and then grudgingly shook it. “Okay,” he said. Partner, my arse, he thought. These people do none of the work and take most of the money. My own ‘partner’ still owns half of the business, and she hasn’t even done a design in three years, never mind actually implementing it or seeing a single prospective client. 
“Follow me,” said Sam, opening the gate. He was annoyed that the side of the gate that opened easily meant that the white man walked through first, followed by Mandla, who then carefully closed it.
“Let’s sit outside,” said Sam, pointing to the garden table under a huge tree.
“It’s so hot,” agreed Karel with a strained smile, “sitting in the shade would be very pleasant.”
Sam’s garden was wild and contained only indigenous plants. They were placed as meticulously as any of the manicured and precisely patterned gardens that he designed and created for a living, but here, they were left to be plants instead of ornaments. He had bought the house because of the large karee tree in the front corner of the yard. He spent most Sundays weeding, pruning, and otherwise nurturing his green babies. In return, they provided his sanctuary when he came home from work, and early in the mornings when he sat outside to eat his breakfast.
Sam positioned a chair and looked to see why the other two men were taking so long. Mandla was hopping from one stepping stone to the next, but since they weren’t meant to be the only path, they were far apart. Karel was still on the driveway, staring down at Sam’s lawn of Otholobium decumbens.
“You can walk on the plants,” said Sam, relenting in the face of their carefulness. “You don’t need to stay on the stones.”
“My wife would love this,” said Karel. “I’m not much into green stuff, but this is amazing. Does the plant have any thorns?” 
“Not unless you leave the weeds in while it grows,” responded Sam. “It likes lots of sun.”
Mandla also looked star-struck. He bent over, perched on a stepping stone, and stroked his hand over a patch of ‘lawn’. “It’s not quite as soft as ordinary lawn, but it’s way softer than it looks…”
Sam grinned. He’d been working with plants for a long time, before he chose this one for his own garden.
“If I can step on it, can I lie down on it for just a minute?” asked Karel. “It looks like all the best parts of my childhood…”
Sam laughed out loud. “Go ahead!” he responded. “I’ve used it in many kid- and dog-friendly landscaping jobs.”
Mandla and Karel grinned at each other, and then lay down with their heads together, hands behind their heads. They were staring up at the clouds.
“How awesome is this?” chuckled Mandla.
“Uh-huh…” said Karel. “I kinda want to take off my shoes.”
They both laughed.
Okay, maybe they are partners, for real, thought Sam. But I’m not convinced. And I need to shower and eat and nap before my date with Lulama tonight.
“BoRra, or should I say banna? You wanted to talk?” Sam said eventually. It was a bit of a kick seeing grown men act like kids in his garden.
“Sorry!” yelled Karel, getting up. “I want this stuff too.” He dusted off his pants. Sam wasn’t sure whether it helped at all, Karel’s hands were as dusty as his pants.
“Me too,” said Mandla, getting up more sedately. “All those spots in our garden where nothing will grow, because the creche kids play there. Where do I get it?” Mandla looked around, and then picked up the ring-bound document and headed to the table under the tree.
“Seedlings, and you have to take care of them for a few months,” answered Sam. Then he looked up into the tree and weighed a lot of his experience. “You know what? I’ll see what I can do with cuttings of these.”
“Okay, sorry for the juvenile moment,” said Mandla, pulling out a chair and finding a page in the document he held. “You know the high school about six blocks that way?” Mandla pointed towards northeast. “There’s a tender out for refurbishment.
“It has a section for landscaping, here,” Mandla explained, pointing halfway down a page that had been folded so that a little bit stuck out of the book, to make it easier to find. “It’s a strange one. None of the other schools in Gauteng have a landscaping part. We got this from our PRT on our current job.”
“There’s more than one page of schools here,” said Sam, flicking through the document.
“Oh, ja, but we decided to go balls to the wall for this one school,” replied Karel. “If we get anything, we’ll be working over Christmas instead of waiting for February. We’ll use savings to buy material up front, for when all the suppliers are closed, instead of just paying everyone base pay with no bonuses.”
“You pay bonuses?” Sam asked, sceptically.
“Ja,” said Mandla. “When we finish a milestone and get paid, everyone knows what their share is. And it’s bigger when we’ve saved on material. Our team doesn’t leave mortar overnight or forget to rinse the paint brushes.”
“So they just take your word for it.” Sam was irritated again.
“He’s right, Mandla,” said Karel to his partner. “The guys don’t ask for proof that they’re getting their percentage.”
“They trust us. And if they want proof, we can give it to them,” Mandla shrugged. “Nobody starves between contracts, if they’re careful with their bonuses. And we show them the projected profit when we discuss logistics for a new job. They can make their own sums. Except for the bank charges, you and I carry those alone.”
“But you and I make twice what anyone else does,” Karel pointed out.
“They know we take forty percent,” said Mandla, patiently. “And they know you have the bakkie and the mixer and the generator, and that I invest my savings for materials. Look, if it will make you feel better, should we give a bank statement breakdown every time we pay a bonus? We have to keep some money for later material until a project is completed. Stop being a girl.”
“My wife might klap you for that…” said Karel, wryly.
“So would mine, now you mention it,” grinned Mandla.
Would Lulama? wondered Sam. He looked at some of the landscaping bills of quantity. This school is in the Free State, near where Mme lives, he realized, checking out the specifications of work required.
“What do you think, do you want to tender with us?” asked Mandla after a few minutes. 
“And let you make a fat mark-up on my work?” responded Sam, snidely. “Why should I?”
Mandla looked genuinely surprised. “Uhm, sho, I didn’t think of it like that. We know the overseeing engineer, is all. Apparently this is not being advertised much and is targeted at hand-picked small contractors.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Rra, I didn’t want to offend you. I guess I thought you might be able to leverage some of our working capital. I know your firm is respected, but I have no idea whether you do well enough to take on a big job like this.”
“Sam’s right,” said Karel. “Maybe Rudolph has more printed RFQs. We don’t know anything about landscaping and probably we’ll be off site before it’s complete. Take this page, Sam, it has the web details, in case we can’t get you a physical document.” Karel handed Sam the original advertisement, which had been tucked in the cover of the tender.
Sam regarded Karel critically for a few seconds. Maybe this mlungu was for real. Mandla seemed dumbstruck with embarrassment at the offence he had unwittingly caused.
“Thank you,” Sam eventually said, slowly. “Mandla, I’m not offended. Well, not anymore.” He pulled the tender closer and quickly found the page for the school in Qwaqwa. “My mother lives here, I want to try for this one too. I have people back home, if I can help some of them out with a job for a few weeks… I think I’m good for capital, but if I get both I might ask you guys to help me out with supervision at the local school? We’ll talk money if I do. You know us little guys don’t get this kind of job.” Sam sighed fatalistically.
“I hear you,” concurred Karel, leaning his head back and slouching.
“If we don’t try, we definitely won’t get it,” said Mandla. “Are you guys giving up already?”
Sam was surprised to see Karel’s expression reflect his own thoughtful frown.

Early results narrative
Everywhere, money was being spent. On food, on clothes, on blankets, on data for CVs and online training material, on transport to job interviews. On making another sales call because you had enough money for fuel home. 
People who had been saving for months bought the new kitchen furniture, or the pretty carpet, or the television that wasn’t bigger than the living room, much sooner than they hoped.
Previously unaffordable seeds or fertilizer, for increasingly varied basic food crops, were purchased.
School fees were paid. Shabby uniforms were replaced.
Municipal accounts were reduced, or even brought up-to-date. Pre-paid electricity meters were applied for in very poor settlements.
Tools and safety equipment were bought. Debts were squashed. 
Embarrassingly old loans from friends and family were settled. These were used to do the same, again. 
The seized-up, groaning economy was being lubricated with the purchase of basic requirements by millions of people who previously hadn’t “qualified” or had much to spend on food. Now they could manage some other necessities.
Roadside fruit and vegetable salespeople were exhausting their stock by the beginning, not the end, of rush hour. So were the supermarket chains. Taxis were leaving the ranks much faster (those that were allowed in, in the first place, having valid quarterly roadworthy certificates). Shoddy and unroadworthy buses that turned up late found themselves leaving emptier than usual. Store owners and managers of all stripes looked at the cash-up figures and were startled.
Some prepared the extra bit of soil for an additional planting. Or placed an additional order. Or started texting their casuals and setting up a fuller roster. Clearly what they already had was not going to be enough to satisfy their bit of the market.
Some started calculating when they’d need extra staff, and how soon they’d be able to afford them.
Surprisingly many impromptu braais were held in the streets, and neighbours who were close friends were joined by others that had seldom before spoken to anyone.

D plus 7
Raveshni and Marie – sold out
Raveshni was languidly re-merchandising clothes from the fitting room rail. The store was quiet, as it always was this early on a Monday. She’d already done the admin and placed orders for the many basic items that had inexplicably sold out over the weekend.
Almost all the cute, cheap little two-piece sets for children had been sold. Underwear was low, and only two lonely pairs of socks remained hanging on the shelf.
Sheets and light blankets had flown. All the cloth nappies were gone. And while ordinary petroleum jelly usually sold well, this weekend they’d also sold many more baby products than their somewhat poorer customer base usually purchased.
Only the most unpopular sizes remained in the workwear section, the formal blouses and men’s shirts suitable for interviews or office work.
According to the sales system, it was the best September month-end since the store opened four years ago. Raveshni had only been the store manager for eight months, and it was the best month-end weekend since she’d started.
Raveshni had taken the job to keep busy while she figured out what she wanted to do with her brand new B Com Information Systems degree. She and Sanjeev had agreed to hold off having a child until he’d passed his actuarial exams, but sometimes the new baby clothes consignments made her wistfully reconsider for a moment.
A chubby woman with short curly blonde hair was contemplating the woefully empty 4 – 5 year-old girls’ section. She looked up at Raveshni. “Are you out of stock?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m expecting more, hopefully tomorrow, but definitely by Wednesday,” responded Raveshni. “I don’t know why so many things sold out, I haven’t ever been understocked before. It was as if everybody suddenly had more money.”
“They do,” responded the woman. “The Citizen’s Dividend. The first one paid out last Monday. Then they said they would do another run today, for people who opened PostBank accounts during the course of last week. I just checked, and I’ve received mine.” 
The woman seemed about to cry, but looked at the ceiling to settle herself, one hand clutching her throat. She was a bit shorter than Raveshni and around the same age. A plain gold band on her ring finger, Raveshni noticed, as the woman sighed before continuing.
“My little girl broke all her insulin last week,” she continued. “I don’t know where we would have scrounged up the money to replace it if my husband didn’t have an old PostBank account.”
The woman contemplated the 6 – 7 year-old shelf as if wishing the clothes smaller, and then smiled at Raveshni. “I suppose I’ll come back on Wednesday, then. We have a little bit left and Mia doesn’t have much in the way of summer clothes.”
“We should have plenty, then,” Raveshni smiled back. “We’re pretty quiet during the week.”
The woman left the store.
Raveshni grabbed a chair behind the till and googled. She usually ignored politics and the latest blather from whomever was allegedly in charge. 
“All South African citizens with a PostBank account will receive R2 000 per month, from the beginning of the month in which they turn sixteen, as of October 2019”, Raveshni read. “People over the age of 65 will receive R3 000 per month. Children’s accounts are linked to a parent or primary caregiver, who will receive R500 for each child. Proof that a child lives with another caregiver must be submitted in order to link a child’s account to anyone other than the child’s mother.”
Okay, that explains the 30% increase in sales this weekend, thought Raveshni, and continued reading.
“The President urges all citizens to open an account even if they do not need a Dividend. Money left in the bank will monetize the bank to enable small business and student loans to individuals, at low interest rates. The PostBank will also take no steps to pursue debt-collecting actions unless the agreed repayment amount is not received for six consecutive months, in which case a mandatory R200 per month will be deducted from the Dividend until the loan and interest is settled.”
I don’t see how this will be affordable in the long term, thought Raveshni. But opening an account is no skin off my nose, and maybe it will help some kid study.
I’ll drag Sanjeev to the PostBank this weekend, she resolved, staring vaguely into the distance.
A few minutes later, she got up, went to her office, and phoned Distribution to increase her order.
D plus 8
Dividend re-issue stats discussion
“Nine million opened accounts last week. Two thirds were for children. And almost all the over-65’s are now registered. Just over thirty-four million people in total,” reported Makhosi to the group. “We disbursed another eight point two billion rand, which puts the total for this month just over forty-seven billion.”
“So we have seventeen million people that didn’t previously get grants or pensions, am I right?” asked Phumzile, and Makhosi nodded. “I think that’s pretty good penetration.”
“Yes, I’m very pleased,” replied Makhosi. “And we’ve finalised the linking of parents to children’s accounts, so we can start promoting the parental maintenance function as soon as we’ve stress tested.”
“How much in accounts that weren’t withdrawn from?” asked Nhlanhla, mindful of the student loan applications which were starting to come in fast and furious.
“Can’t really say for yesterday yet, but accounts untouched from last week total two point three billion. If we assume that the kids and pensioners are choosing to save for now but will need their funds, it’s about one point seven billion that seems to be richer people heeding the call. Eight hundred and fifty thousand of them,” answered Makhosi.
“Can we implement a flag asking people whether they are prepared to give thirty days’ notice before accessing their money?” asked Jo. “That would allow them to indicate that they are intentionally fairy godmothers and godfathers.”
“That shouldn’t be hard. And we’ll let them change the setting on-line too, then we’ll know sooner. I’ll get on it.” Makhozi made a note.
“So less the previous grant amount and the savings, there’s about thirty-five billion extra into the economy this month. And we’ll start getting an indication from the VAT returns early next month.” Jo chewed her pen and stole a glance at Nhlanhla.
“No, not that much. More than four million accounts withdrew less than half of their Dividend. Whether that’s because they’ll use it later in the month, or whether they’re using their UBI account for savings, remains to be seen. But I noticed it because it seems to show a measure of trust in the bank, and a propensity to plan, both of which we’re trying to encourage.” Makhosi looked around. “Any other specific questions? It’s not much information yet, but the report covers our stats and inferences. I’ve mentioned what I thought was particularly interesting.”
“How far are we with processing the existing NSFAS loans into the system?” asked Nhlanhla. “We need to start getting the delinquent loan deduction from the dodgers as quickly as possible. It’s only twenty million a month, but that’s a thousand extra small loans.”
“Not very far yet, but on track to finish during January. We’re prioritising the new applications first, because those will get some of the existing debtors into the system already.”
“And the matching of convicted prisoners?” asked Jo.
“Done weeks ago. Many of them don’t have PostBank accounts and the rest are flagged as exceptions for the remainder of their sentences. We’ll open inactive accounts for the ones without if they have parental maintenance obligations, since we’d need to link them to their children. Their kids will get their money, even though the prisoner is ineligible for the Dividend while serving a sentence.”
“Everyone good?” asked Jo, and got distracted nods. “Then I think we’re done. Thanks, everyone.”

Sibongile suggests improvement to staff meals
“Eugene, when you have a moment?” said Sibongile hesitantly. She was still bewildered at the thought that her new status meant that her supervisor took her ideas seriously.
“Sure. Here, or in the office?” replied Eugene. Sibongile had timed it well, it was the early morning lull with only a few tables of lone customers busy with their laptops.
“Here’s fine, I think.” She swallowed. “About staff meals. We have a great choice of free meals, thank you. But I’ve been getting good tips, and yesterday, I thought that I’d be prepared to pay in a part if I could trade my free meal for a discount on one of the more expensive items on the menu. I’ve wanted to taste the saltimbocca for ages. I’d really be able to recommend it if it’s as fantastic as my customers say. What do you think?”
Sibongile was surprised to see that Eugene was actually thinking about it, his head tilted to one side. He looked up at her. “What did you have in mind?”
“I haven’t really thought about it much. But it’d be kind of a kick to say, Try the saltimbocca, I had it last week…!”
“I think you have a good point. Let’s make some sums, and I’ll run them past Bryce.”
D plus 9
Marie and Raveshni – seasonal discussion
Marie walked into the budget clothes retailer that had been out of stock earlier in the week, and headed straight for the girls’ section. An entrancing selection of cute tops with matching pants or skirts adorned the shelves. 
Not those, she thought. The neck is too tight. But I like these little skirts with shorts built in.
She mused for a while, and selected three sets and a pair of sandals.
Next, she contemplated the baby clothes section, chirruping to herself at how tiny the garments were. I can’t believe Mia used to fit into those newborns’…. Not that one, the buttons will make it impossible to change a nappy without taking off the whole thing.
She looked around for a staff member, and was immediately approached by the woman she had spoken to on Monday morning. Sleek and dark-haired, the woman made even the retailer’s awful uniform look good. Probably a gym bunny, and can afford Estee Lauder, thought Marie, jealously.
“Hi, you’re back!” said the woman, smiling. “I was a bit worried you might come earlier, we’ve only just finished re-stocking. I see you’ve found something for… Marie? You said your daughter’s name is Marie?”
“Nope, but close!” smiled Marie, a bit ashamed of her initial envious malice. “My daughter is Mia. You know how Afrikaners are for naming everyone some version of the same name… But since we’re now on first name terms, I’m Marie, and you are?”
“Raveshni,” the woman replied, sticking out her hand in the same spirit of fun. 
“Pleased to meet you, again, Raveshni!” Marie shook the proffered hand.
“You seemed to be looking for something?”
“I am,” Marie responded. “I have a friend’s baby shower, and everyone always receives way too many newborn clothes. I was thinking to get something for six to twelve months, but that’ll be in the middle of winter, and you don’t have any warm clothes on the stand.”
“You’re right.” Raveshni pondered, and fought down a pang of broodiness. “I don’t think anyone stocks out-of-season clothes. What about some vests and socks then? Even though they’re short-sleeved, they should layer well.”
“But they’re so boring…” Marie pouted. “Look what gorgeous little outfits you have, just not for nine months in the future.” She froze, and thought for a few seconds. “Wait, what do you do with end-of season clothes that haven’t sold?”
“Put them on special, usually, and then box up the remnants and return them to Distribution,” said Raveshni. “You’ve thought of something…”
“I have, and I want to run it past my husband. When are you quiet? Would you mind if I came and asked you a bunch of questions sometime in the next few days?”
“Mondays are always calm, between ten and twelve,” said Raveshni.
“I’ll come Monday then. Do you know anyone that could help me with setting up a website?”
“There’s a PC shop down this corridor of the mall. They might be able to point you in the right direction.” Raveshni gestured to her left.
“Thanks!” said Marie, flashing a smile. “Best show me those vests and socks, then, I think yellow or white. We don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy, since my friend wants to be surprised when her baby is born. Although I don’t understand why someone would choose that uncertainty.”
Raveshni fought down another pang as a brief image of tiny little hands and feet flashed across her mind’s eye. “I think I’d want to know, too. Follow me.”
¬¬
Rosie at the shebeen
Rosie was sitting on a plastic chair outside the shebeen, loudly arguing with another woman. “Just go home, you bitch. You’re spoiling everyone’s party! I don’t know where he is, maybe at the pool table, or maybe in those bushes with someone just as ugly as you!” She waved her quart bottle wildly to indicate the direction.
The man under discussion was the husband of the woman who was now screaming accusations at Rosie. She didn’t know where he was. He’d been here earlier, and had bought Rosie a drink. He’d also fucked her in the garbage courtyard behind the toilet, but that was none of this fish wife’s business. It hadn’t been the first time.
Wednesdays were always good fun. This shebeen also sold some basic foods, and Rosie could usually wheedle a share from quite a few of the regulars. 
“Hey, hey,” flirted one of the men she knew, “Want some skhambani?” He gestured slightly with his head. Meet me in the courtyard.
Rosie shook her head. Cheapskate. She’d rather wait for Jonas, he’d probably buy her pap and meat. And he wasn’t so rough. The courtyard was not exactly comfortable, and Rosie often had grazes or bruises when someone had been too enthusiastic.
“Well, don’t think I’ll buy you a drink, you slut,” growled the man at her.
“I’ll buy my own drink!” she yelled, patting her bra where the rest of her Dividend was stashed. Then, crooking her little finger suggestively, she taunted, “Mr Big Man…” Some of the other customers sniggered.
She didn’t see the blow coming until it was too late to duck. His open hand connected with her jaw hard, and split her lip. 
“That’ll teach the disrespectful cunt!” called one of the bystanders. The fish wife guffawed.
Rosie wiped blood from her lip, staring at the man who had hit her. Then she looked away and drank the last of her beer. She got up to go and buy another one.
“Eighteen rand,” said the server from behind the security mesh.
“Hey, wena, what about my deposit?” insisted Rosie, pointing at the empty quart bottle she’d handed in.
“Seventeen fifty,” said the woman, unapologetically.
Rosie reached for her money, and then thought for a moment. “And pap and meat.”
The server went to the kitchen and returned with the food. “Thirty-seven fifty.”
Rosie paid and took her food. Someone else was in the chair she’d been sitting on. She looked around and chose a spot under a tree. 
“Sisi, are you okay?” murmured a young man about her own age as he walked up to her. “That was not right, for that man to hit you.”
“It happens,” said Rosie detachedly. Not always, but often enough. Sometimes Rosie laughed too.
“May I sit here?” he asked. “Just in case he tries again.”
“Whatever.” Rosie muttered around a mouthful of food.
He sat down with his back to a rock, holding a long tom can of beer in his lap. After a few minutes of silence, he drained the can and crumpled it.
Rosie looked at him speculatively as she finished her meal and licked her fingers. “Here,” she said, holding out her quart. “Want some?”

D plus 10
Marie talks to Karel
Mia had just woken up and was blurry-eyed and miserable. 
“Hey, baby, are you still rebooting?” cooed Karel at his daughter.
Marie rocked Mia, stroking her hair out of her eyes. Mia was getting too heavy for Marie to be able to pick her up like this much longer.
A few minutes later, the little girl was all smiles as usual. She sat and watched stoically while Marie administered her jab, and then joined her father at the breakfast table.
“Oh, Karel, I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had yesterday,” remembered Marie as she stirred her tea. “I was looking for a present for Megan’s baby shower, and realised that there were only summer clothes available. But I wanted something for when the baby is bigger, and that would be in the middle of winter.”
“Ja…?” prompted Karel around a mouthful of muesli.
“Well, I ended up chatting to a woman who works in the shop, uhm, Reshnee, or something like that, and it looks like all the retailers work that way. So I’m wondering if I can start an on-line baby shower gift shop that asks a few questions and makes suggestions for hampers at various price points.”
“Where would you get your stock?” asked Karel, who considered baby supplies taken care of the instant he handed over the money to pay for them.
“Well, obviously, I’d shop around, but as a start, I could simply buy a small selection during end-of season sales and stockpile them for later. If I focus on items that are functional but cute, it shouldn’t be too expensive.”
“I don’t know about this stuff,” said Karel. “But I remember how hard it was to change Mia when she was wearing that fluffy teddy bear overall that only had buttons at the top. How would you pay to set it up?”
“For now, I want to see what’s already available and at what prices. I’ll start keeping an eye out for the types of things I envisage, and find out who the suppliers are. Maybe find a web designer that is willing to work for a cut of profit, or at least start with something basic that isn’t too expensive.
“I also want to ask around and hear if women like the idea. And try save a bit of my Dividend for starting capital.”
“Well, hun, no harm in trying,” said Karel, doubtfully. 

Kagiso in the shop alone
Kagiso was alone in the shop while Jabu had popped out for a bite to eat. Just as Jabu had warned, the store tended to provide half hours of madness interspersed with hours of quiet.
He had spent much of the morning looking over the outstanding repairs, collecting necessary parts, and making a list of components that needed to be ordered. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he thought Jabu’s Dividend would be enough to cover the few things that he didn’t already have in stock.
When Jabu came back, Kagiso would show him the suggested prioritisation of the job cards, and get going once they agreed. But Jabu would be a while.
Bored, Kagiso fetched the crate of broken parts that couldn’t be returned for warranty, and started looking them over.

Yvette at the soup kitchen
“Mama Lerato, can I put the left-overs in the fridge for tonight?” asked Yvette, once the last child had apparently eaten her fill. 
“Yes, sweetheart,” answered Mrs Dabula, with a look that grannies all over the country gave people they liked. “But leave the small pot on the stove for lunch.”
When Yvette had realised, on her third day at the soup kitchen, that the family and the fosterlings were sometimes going without because the outside children would hide a few slices of bread to take home, she had bought a chest freezer and started buying bread in bulk. Almost two weeks later, more children had started coming for lunch, and the Dabulas and Yvette tried to make sure they didn’t run out before everyone was full.
Today’s chicken stew had been greeted with glad recognition and beaming requests for seconds. Yvette thought Jamie Oliver would be pleased at the reception his recipe had received.
At first Mama Lerato had been hesitant about expanding the menu, since her tried and trusted three dishes kept tummies full and was nutritious. But having watched Mama plan and portion and season almost nothing into food for eighty people, Yvette had learned more than from any cook-book. She had tentatively asked a few questions last week, and after a hilarious back-slapping clean-up session, during which Mama had yelled instructions at everyone, including herself, Mama had grudgingly agreed to let Yvette do the cooking today.
They had sneaked spinach into the chicken stew, and there were no tell-tale green bits left on the returned plates.
“Sho, there’s more than enough left for our supper…” said Mama Lerato, snagging a cube of chicken out of the top container and chewing it speculatively. “Okay,” she pronounced, nodding, “it’s nice.”
Yvette glowed. She couldn’t remember when last a compliment had meant so much to her.
“And within budget,” she reminded Mama Lerato. “It seems as if the kids are eating less, or am I missing something?”
“Yoh, iDividend,” agreed Mama. “They can eat at home now, not only pampoen and marogo with onion.” Pumpkin and African spinach.
“Oh,” realized Yvette, and paled. How many children were eating only at the soup kitchen, before?
Jeepers, how many adults did not have enough to eat, before? We’re feeding more children, and my contribution isn’t all that big, Mama has been achieving miracles with donations. But the children are definitely full sooner. We finished off at one today, it was half-past four in the beginning. Mama L said even later, some days. How did I not notice?
“Stay for lunch with us,” invited Mama Lerato. “You haven’t really met my adopted babies, they’re probably already at the table. And it’s Monday.”
On Mondays, Alex and Callum had sports at school until three thirty. Until now, Yvette had left before service was finished, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, to take the kids to ballet and karate and music lessons. She was seriously considering hiring a driver instead, if Mama Lerato thought she could help out those afternoons as well.
“You know what, I’d love to!” Yvette grinned. “We’re all cleaned up in here, I think. Can you see anything else?” She looked around the kitchen and closed the service window. Everything was spotless, and Sarah and Gift had already walked through to the house.
Mama Lerato put a bottle of milk and the fridge and shook her head. “This way,” she gestured.
Yvette stepped through the back door of the garage-sized space for the first time. I haven’t even needed to use the toilet, she thought, and then grimaced, but I need to now…
“Mama,” she asked, and then took in the scene of the five youngsters playing around the table in the back yard.
“Not with a knife, Sifiso!” roared Gift. A little boy, about eleven years old, smiled sheepishly and put down the utensil, and went straight back to tickling his neighbour, a little girl of maybe eight, with bright beads in her twists.
“Sorry, Mama, may I please use the toilet?” asked Yvette discreetly.
“Of course,” said Mama, and indicated around the back of the house. “Nthabi, fetch Mama Yvette some toilet paper, quick quick!”
“Okay, Gogo,” yelled the little girl with the beads in her hair, and dashed off into the house.
Half a roll of toilet paper in hand, Yvette found a small brick structure with a black plastic chimney pipe in the back corner of the yard. 
The inside was as spotless as everything else belonging to Mama Lerato, but an odour of faeces warred with the smell of bleach. Yvette stared apprehensively at the dark hole in the bottom of the pedestal for a moment, before sighing and pulling the door closed. It was rather dark inside, and almost immediately she was surrounded by mosquitos and flies. She swatted at them futilely while she peed. She wondered whether she was supposed to drop the toilet paper into the pit too, but there was no bin or anything that looked like an alternative, so she did.
She had to reach over the toilet to wash her hands in a tiny basin fed from a tank with a plastic valve mounted on the back wall. There was a face cloth hanging on the wall, but it was very wet, probably from the kids washing up for lunch, so she dried her hands on her pants.
The family was waiting for her at the table. As she sat down, Sarah started spooning rice and stew onto everyone’s plates.
“Mama, I don’t know if I did the wrong thing, I dropped the paper into the toilet,” Yvette whispered to Mama Lerato.
“No, that’s okay, you can,” the older woman reassured her. “You don’t know a pit toilet?” Her face crinkled into a smile.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen one,” Yvette answered sheepishly. “Don’t you have running water?”
“In the house, we have,” said Mama Lerato, “but it was built after the toilet. When I got the RDP they said they would put the pipes for sewage, but twelve years now and still not.”
“Oh,” mused Yvette.
“Let’s say grace,” said Gift, and once everyone was holding hands, he prayed.
D plus 14
Marie explains her idea to Raveshni
Marie hurried into the store just after ten. She looked around and spotted the woman she had previously spoken to near the tills, apparently giving instructions. She looked up as Marie approached, and smilingly made a gesture that was half-wave and half ‘just a moment’.
Reshnee? Marie tried to remember her name, but that wasn’t right. “Hi,” she smiled. “I’m back, but I can come another time if you’re busy.”
“I’ve just finished up, Maria. No… Marie, of course,” was the reply.
“Hmm, you’re better at names than I am, Reshnee…?” tried Marie, with a wince.
“Raveshni, and no sweat. Shall we talk in my office? Then at least we can sit down and have a cup of tea.” She led the way down a corridor lined with posters and boxes on shelves and mannequins in various stages of undress.
“I was hoping you could tell me something about how your company works,” started Marie, when they were both seated. “I understand if company policy considers some of the answers confidential, so just stop me if I step over any lines. 
“What happens to unsold end-of-season clothes? At what stage it is decided whether to put them on special, that kind of thing.”
“De-merchandising stock to keep for the sale is my decision, as store manager. Head Office buys limited amounts of fashionable lines, from which store buyers then select, based on their knowledge of their particular clientele. Sometimes we don’t get it exactly right, so something popular sells out much faster than expected, or we’re stuck with heaps of things we thought would fly out of the store. Or just one or two sizes sell for a specific item. Sometimes we leave them out, sometimes we save them for the sale or put them on a bargain rack. Sometimes we return them because another branch did well with them and wants more. It varies.
“I’m not certain what Distribution and Head Office get up to. I could ask. But most retailers and brands have a huge bugbear with knock-offs and rejected stock being sold cheaply via unsanctioned channels. Could you tell me a bit more so that I can explain if necessary?” replied Raveshni. “Plus, of course, I’m dead curious!”
Marie chewed her lip for a moment. Anyone could have come up with a similar idea, she thought. I’m not terribly clever or experienced.
“It’s like this,” Marie started, and then hesitated again. “New babies always get lots of tiny clothes as gifts to their parents, especially first babies. But they never wear all of them, because they don’t get out much. Those first couple of months are hard on new parents.
“And if a clever friend, or elder, buys clothes for 3-6 months, or 6-12 months, they’re usually for the wrong season. A winter baby will be six months old in the middle of summer. 
“So I was thinking about an on-line store which suggests, based on a budget and the due date, a few items which will cover more than one age range for a particular baby. One gorgeous, cute something, and two soft, comfortable, useful somethings in every three items. With a pretty gift bag. Delivered wherever the giver wants.” Marie held her breath and looked at Raveshni apprehensively.
“So your questions are about buying stock more cheaply,” said Raveshni. “Either on sale or possibly directly from the retailer.”
“It was the first thing I could come up with to source stock. Particularly since many of the prettiest things are so completely impractical. I need to be able to evaluate actual items for softness, for static, for buttons in sensible places. As well as by season and by age group.
“I’ve looked at the retailers’ on-line shops. Some even have registries, but still only for the current season’s lines! If I could stockpile some of the best items as they become available, even at full price, for a year, I’d be able to get going with a sensible range. When I know what works, I can consider importing.” Marie frowned at the amount of red tape that apparently entailed.
“You know, I have seven nieces and nephews,” mused Raveshni. “I think I’d use you for Christmas and birthday presents, if the range extended to older children too.”
Marie looked at Raveshni, thunderstruck. “Good heavens, you’re right. Presents from grandparents, especially. Mine tend to choose the more expensive stores and buy things that are too tight around waists and necks. Or hopelessly too big, or hopelessly too small, and…”
“For the wrong season…” they chimed in unison, and burst out laughing. They talked for a while longer.
“Okay, I’ll ask the questions for you. I’m not promising anything,” said Raveshni eventually, “but I’ll let you know in a week or so. What’s your number?”
“I know we barely know each other,” said Marie after they’d exchanged numbers, “but the older kids and Christmas focus was your idea. Would you consider being my partner? Your knowledge of procurement and merchandising and the tricks of the trade would be very valuable.”
 “I’d love to, but my employment contract prohibits me from taking on other work. I think it’s called a moonlighting clause.”
“I’ve heard of those. But if you request official permission in writing up front, maybe they’ll condone it. No harm in asking.”
As Marie waved goodbye and stepped through the staff door, Raveshni leaned against the doorjamb. She was deep in thought as she watched the chubby woman walk towards the store’s entrance.

Sibongile’s staff meals get implemented
When Sibongile walked into the coffee shop, Eugene beckoned her over immediately.
“I spoke to Bryce over the weekend, and showed him our calculations. He thinks it’s a brilliant idea, by the way.” Eugene pulled a sheet of paper closer.
“This is what he agreed to. 
“The free meals on offer stay free. They’re a slightly less flashy version of menu items that use common ingredients, so that’s why there’s only ham or chicken or vegetarian as pizza options. Or the burgers don’t get onion rings.
“If a staff member wants to order food from the menu, they can trade in their free meal for a R40 discount from the menu price. Then they pay in half of the rest. So the staff price is half of [Menu Price minus R40]. It means your saltimbocca would cost you R60 on a menu price of R160. Is that fair?”
“It’s still rough for a bad tip day, but then I could just have my free burger, right? What about drinks or desserts?”
“Same half off. But no holdovers or change. If you don’t eat anything, that’s your problem. You can’t save it up for another shift.”
“It’s actually more generous than I hoped,” said Sibongile earnestly. “When can we implement it?”
“Today. It’s all signed off by the boss. He wants me to let him know what you think, because he wants to do it in his other restaurants as well.”
“I’ll explain it to everyone now. And since it’s quiet, do you mind if I have saltimbocca for breakfast?” Sibongile’s eyes twinkled.
“You know what?” guffawed Eugene, “I think I’ll join you!”

D plus 23
Raveshni and Marie plan their strat session
“Hi Marie, it’s Raveshni from the clothing store.”
“Oh, hi, Raveshni. How’re you doing?” replied Marie.
“Well, thanks. I’ve been following up on those queries you had, and eventually I mentioned that I was considering joining you if my employer approved it. Would you still want me to?”
Marie laughed. “Girl, I’ve been reading up about business plans and procurement and marketing strategies and I definitely do! You know things that would take me ages to learn by myself. Why, have they said anything?”
 “Not really, but they’ve asked us to present the business plan to them so that they can make a decision. Both about whether they’ll allow me to be involved in an outside business and whether they would consider distributing through you. What do you think?”
“Oh, boy,” breathed Marie. “When did they have in mind? I’d want it just right and I’ve never done a presentation before. Not to mention knowing nothing about business plans!”
“Not in December, that’s always hectic. So sometime in the next few weeks or else in only in the new year.”
“I’m scared to commit. We’d have to spend a lot of time together to sort out the technical stuff and explain our ideas properly. And I don’t know much about PowerPoint. Do you have time? Do you think we could do it that fast?”
“Phew,” replied Raveshni. “I have Fridays off, and we could do some evenings?”
“Let’s meet Friday morning. Then we decide when we can be ready. I’ll bring printouts of the templates and some of the stuff I’ve been looking at, and then, during our meeting, I’ll make notes to type up at home.”
“Just mail me the ideas and I’ll bring my laptop,” replied Raveshni. “Shall we say nine? At the coffee shop near my store? We can print what we need at that PC shop.”
“Okay,” said Marie nervously. “Let’s do it!”

Sibongile mall meals
Sibongile almost frowned as she waved goodbye to her customers. They were casual acquaintances who worked in the mall, one at a boutique, and the other at the big-brand shoe store. It looked like they had been on a date during their lunch break.
They had even tipped Sibongile. Not quite ten percent, but close as damnit. Sibongile was not used to being tipped by her peers who weren’t also waiters, but she served them to her high standards, because she thought they probably had challenges similar to her own. There weren’t many, anyway. They only came when they wanted to celebrate, and could afford it.
Hang on, thought Sibongile. They used to. There’s definitely more mall employees coming in nowadays. Am I sure?
Sibongile thought while she wiped down the table and tracked down a missing fork under an unused chair.
Then she took out her order book and made a note on the back cover, accompanied by the date and time.

Marie briefs Kagiso
When Marie stepped into the PC store, a young man sitting behind the counter immediately looked up from a from a pile of incomprehensible computer parts and smiled warmly.
“Hi,” he said. “What can we help you with?”
“I’m not sure if you can,” said Marie shyly. “I don’t know much about computers. But I was hoping you would be able to point me in the right direction.”
“Shoot, and let’s see,” responded the young man.
“I need to find out how to go about setting up a website for an on-line store. So pictures of clothes with prices and stock and descriptions. And I also want to be able to combine items into hampers, if that’s possible.”
“There’s quite a few good back-ends available,” said Kagiso. “Some of them are even free, but they tend to be a bit harder to get used to. And which interface you use affects where you can host and how much that costs…”
“Wait, what? Interface? Host? Just hold on a minute…” interrupted Marie, digging through her handbag until she found her diary and a pen. “Could you start again, please?” she smiled.
She scribbled frantically while the young man explained, patiently spelling out words when she occasionally asked him to do so.
“I haven’t worked with websites for a few years, but if you google you should come up with lots of tutorials and options,” he said, and typed something. “Look,” he said, and turned the monitor to face Marie. “It’ll take some reading to find the best setup for your purposes, but it’s not that hard once you get used to the terminology.”
“Do you know of anyone who would be able to help me?” said a flustered Marie. “I’m presenting to a possible supplier, as soon as possible, and right now I’m completely confused. I don’t even have a name for the business.”
“Do you have to have a working site with existing products, or would it be okay to put together something basic to illustrate what you have in mind?”
“Uhm…” pondered Marie. “I suppose all I really need for the presentation is a few pictures of how it should look, now that you put it that way…” She mused for a few more seconds.
“Then you probably just need three or four screen shots to get the feel for now. That’s not hard, if you can find a template that looks more or less right. I could do that.”
“You could?” said Marie, incredulously. “Would you? I mean, what would you charge me?” I have some of my Dividend left, thought Marie, when does the next one get paid again? The Monday before month-end… She checked the calendar. That’s Monday coming. She steeled herself.
“I’ll see what’s available and do three or four pdf mock-ups for you. Let’s say two hundred.” 
“Seriously?” breathed Marie. “You’d do that for me?”
“It’s simple and quick when you don’t actually have to be sure everything works properly. But when you do, it’s going to be a few thousand rand and some time to get it perfect,” warned the young man.
“That seems fair, uhm… I didn’t get your name?” Marie said, embarrassed.
“Kagiso,” he replied, and held out his hand. “And you are…?”
“Marie,” she responded, shaking his hand with a smile. “Kagiso, is there any way you could do those mock-ups for me by Friday morning?”
“Easy,” he replied. “I’m checking voltages on blown circuit boards out of boredom. I could mail some tomorrow.” He opened a text editor on his desktop and then looked over at Marie, fingers poised over the keyboard in touch-typing position. “So, tell me about your on-line shop?”


D plus 25
Marie and Raveshni strat
Marie stepped through the door of the coffee shop and looked around for Raveshni, but didn’t see her, so she requested a table for two and was ushered to a pleasant spot near the window.
She felt completely disheartened. She had failed miserably at trying to lay out a business plan, and had been even worse at editing Kagiso’s marvellous mock-ups for inclusion into the PowerPoint presentation.
“Hey,” said Raveshni as she slid into the chair next to Marie, and unshouldered her handbag and laptop. She glanced around, and said, “Great, there’s a plug right here. How are you?” She flashed Marie a brilliant smile.
“Awful,” groused Marie. “I can’t do this, Raveshni. I struggled for ages with PowerPoint and the spreadsheets, but I’m useless at them. I would have cancelled if I hadn’t finally given up too late last night to phone you.”
Raveshni wasn’t sure what to say, when Marie pulled out an album of some sort, and placed it on the table. She dug in her handbag again, and produced a folder which she opened on the table.
“Look, these were Kagiso’s ideas for the feel of the website,” continued Marie, fanning out some pages.
“Kagiso?” asked Raveshni.
“The guy at that PC shop you told me about. He’s been incredibly helpful… Look, this one’s my favourite, but there’s aspects to all of them that I like…” She pointed out an airy, cutesy layout with cartoon toys in pastel colours. Some of the cartoon characters were repeated dancing on a rainbow ribbon across the top of the page.
“I can’t even think of a name,” said Marie ruefully. “And I couldn’t move or change anything the just way I wanted it, so eventually I cheated and did it this way instead…” She lifted the album to the top of the pile.
‘Something Babies’ said the cover of the album, in letters painstakingly cut out from multiple printouts of one of Kagiso’s suggestions. The cartoon characters, also carefully cut out, some with a dash of glitter, surrounded the words in a way similar to another of Kagiso’s layouts, and an enlargement of the rainbow header crowned it all in pleasing proportion. A strip of crocheted lace, with light yellow ribbon threaded through it, edged the bottom. 
“I used to love scrapbooking, but I haven’t been able to, for a while. These are some supplies I had left over, it was the only way I could think of to show you what I have in mind,” said Marie in a small, embarrassed voice.
Speechless, Raveshni paged through the scrapbook. Ten website pages had been created, by hand, with pictures from magazines and printouts from the net. Small whimsical touches on each page set it visibly apart, without detracting from the feel of the whole.
A categories page. A product search page. A checkout page, with fill-in fields and icons borrowed from a popular on-line store. Even logos for the payment options. 
A “Help Me Choose” page with hand-drawn fill-in fields for expected date, gender, price range, preferred colour, and thumbnail previews down the side. 
A few example pages, of combination products, single products, and search results. Raveshni smiled at a hamper called ‘And baby makes three!’ It contained a small bottle of champagne, a cigar, a slab of expensive chocolate, and a tube of lavender baby gel. Something for everyone in a new family.
 The product descriptions were hand-written in a charming, but perfectly legible font. The cartoon characters were on every page, sometimes one, sometimes more. “Marie…” breathed Raveshni.
“I’m so stupid, I know. I don’t think I can do this.”
“Marie, this is perfect. It’s beautiful, and well-thought out, and very, very creative.” Not to mention that every page evoked an ‘awww…’ feeling of longing in Raveshni.
“I still have no idea of how to start projecting sales and timelines. And costs,” said Marie, rubbing her eyes.
“Did you sleep?” Raveshni asked, suddenly catching on.
“Not really. Once I got started I wanted to get it just right.”
“You did get it just right. Stop calling yourself stupid. If you don’t relax and start thinking positively right now, I’m going to order you a tequila.”
Marie laughed.
“Now, about those projections,” Raveshni said and opened her laptop. Once it had fired up, she turned the screen so that Marie could see it too. “These are the aspects I think we should discuss, and here’s a basic spreadsheet with lines for all the incomes and costs I could think of. If we’re not sure of something’s price, we’ll google, or thumb-suck on the high side. And here’s a list of names I’ve thought of, but none of them is just right. Have a look, maybe something will trigger a good idea…”
Marie looked at the list of names with her head tilted.
“Let’s break it down to baby steps,” continued Raveshni. “Shall we start with small babies, and then we decide how big a range we need to be viable?”
Marie was staring at Raveshni with her mouth hanging open.
“What’s wrong?” asked Raveshni.
“Baby steps, you said baby steps…” breathed Marie. “That sounds just perfect for the name…”
“You know what, it could work,” chuckled Raveshni.
Four hours later, Raveshni arranged their presentation for the coming Wednesday and ordered them each a salad.  

Abel’s new supervisor
“Hey, wena! Pay attention!” Abel yelled at Zachariah. “You almost dropped that length. It’s eleven metres of processed coil, do you want to explain to the boss why it’s scrap?”
Zachariah wasn’t even listening, since he was staring over Abel’s shoulder. Abel turned around. The Chief was walking in, herding a smiling young man. He was much taller than the Chief, broad-shouldered and strong, with a funny tuft of blonde beard on his chin. Abel had never seen him before.
“Dumelang, boRra,” called the Chief. Good day, gentlemen. “I’d like you to meet Hendrik. He’s our new Production Manager.”
Great, thought Abel. If he’s good, we’ll get hydraulic oil before we completely run out and I won’t have to go hunt down the younglings when their lunch is over. And the seals. One of them doesn’t look good and I’ve run out of replacements.
He hit the cut-out switch and walked over to meet his new supervisor.

D plus 30
Raveshni and Marie – presentation feedback
“Thanks for your patience, ladies,” said Raveshni’s regional manager when he and the marketing director returned to the boardroom.
Marie and Raveshni had been waiting for about twenty minutes, during which they had been offered fresh coffee. 
It had been much less stressful that Marie had anticipated, and it had felt like a good sign when the executives had excused themselves to confer.
“That was certainly one of the more entertaining presentations I’ve seen,” commented the marketing director as she sat down again.
Marie and Raveshni looked at each other and burst out laughing. They had spoken separately and together; had interrupted each other and themselves and finished one another’s sentences. It must have been hilariously obvious how excited they were.
“Thank you for putting it so charitably,” said Raveshni, still grinning.
“Your excellent timing, accidental or no, has a lot to do with it,” the woman told them. “One of our strategic focuses for next year is our on-line presence. Your proposal offers us a well thought-through niche platform to monitor and learn from, and simultaneously helps us with one of the biggest retail headaches, obsolete stock. So this is what we suggest.
“We have a substantial stockpile of unsold returns, dating from 2016. You may select any of them you like, and we’ll sell them to you at the internal cost-to-store price, since many of them have been written off. We’ll also open a consignment account for you, but you’ll have to evaluate what is available and propose the credit limit you think necessary so that we can run you through our debtor application processes. How does that sound?”
Marie realised she should probably close her mouth, and just nodded.
“Raveshni,” added the regional manager, “we hereby approve your involvement in an outside business, but we want to make it an addendum to your employment contract, because there are some caveats. You have a degree in information systems, and while it wasn’t necessary for your store manager position, we had it verified before suggesting this meeting. We want you to commit to staying with the company for at least three years, and move you to Head Office if Baby Steps does well.”
This time Raveshni’s jaw dropped, until she realised that Marie was staring at her.
You have a degree? In information systems?
Raveshni winked at Marie, which she hoped would be interpreted as an ‘I’ll tell you later’.
“When would we be able to look at the obsolete stock?” asked Raveshni. “I’d need to put in leave for us to drive through to Centurion again.”
“Didn’t I approve a full day’s leave for today?” asked Raveshni’s boss.
“Yes,” confirmed Raveshni. “We weren’t sure what to expect.”
The regional manager looked at the marketing director. “Can we organise access today, Mandy? I don’t really want Raveshni to be away from the store more than I can help.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Mandy concurred, checking her watch. “Can you keep yourselves busy and come back at one?”
_ _ _

Raveshni and Marie celebrate at Sibongile’s coffee shop
Sibongile was at the till when two women walked in, eyes shining with pent-up excitement. The slightly chubby blonde woman had a large book in her hands, with a rainbow logo and the words ‘Baby Steps’ on the cover.
“I told you they’d love it!” exclaimed the woman with the sleek black hair, dressed in a cool, but perfectly cut, deep orange suit that framed her busty hourglass figure perfectly.
The blonde just nodded and beamed, apparently speechless. 
“Good morning,” Sibongile greeted, with her usual bright smile. “Table for two?”
“Yes, thank you,” replied the brunette. “Near a plug point, please.”
Sibongile picked up some menus, and then led the women to a table.
“I’m Sibongile, and I’ll be your waiter today,” Sibongile started.
“Raveshni, and Marie,” replied the brunette, indicating first herself, and then the blonde woman, “and we’ll be your customers today!”
It was a very stale joke, but their exhilaration was infectious, so Sibongile chuckled and took their drinks order. She was stepping away to fetch the cappuccinos when Raveshni halted her with a raised hand and a speculative-sounding “Uhm…” 
Sibongile turned back with a patient, questioning look on her face.
“Rather get us one of these,” Raveshni pointed at the name of a rather expensive sparkling wine. “The small bottle.” She flashed a smile at Marie. “We’re celebrating!”
“There’s still work to do this afternoon,” objected Marie, although, by her expression, she didn’t really mind.
“That’s why it’s only a small one,” replied Raveshni in a prissy sing-song tone of voice.
“On its way,” grinned Sibongile.

Raveshni and Marie can’t choose what they want to eat
“When you told them what I’d said about feeling and seeing the clothes, I think that’s when it clicked into place,” said Marie. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Thank you.”
Raveshni touched her glass to Marie’s. “It was your idea and your scrapbook. To Baby Steps!”
“To Baby Steps,” echoed Marie. “Do you know what type of stuff is in their returns stockpile?”
“I had no idea they had one. But I’m optimistic that there’ll be plenty you can use, if it goes back two years. It’s not like baby fashions change very much. Are you ready to order?”
“Noooooh,” moaned Marie, “it all looks so good! There’s some really interesting combinations.”
“I’m struggling to choose, too. Let’s get some advice.” Raveshni looked over her shoulder and waved to Sibongile, who was already approaching.
“We need some recommendations, I’m afraid,” said Raveshni to Sibongile. “I think I’ve managed to narrow it down to fifteen…”
Sibongile chuckled. “Try the saltimbocca, I had it last week.” She realized what she had just said, and laughed.
“It’s my favourite, I have it often,” Sibongile explained, in response to the other two women’s quizzical expressions. “It’s especially good for breakfast…” She winked.
Raveshni looked at her menu to read the description, and nodded slightly. “It does sound good.” She glanced at Marie in query, and Marie nodded too. “Two saltimboccas it is, then,” Raveshni grinned to Sibongile, and handed back her menu.
D plus 36
Sibongile proposes Plate
I’ve double-checked my numbers, thought Sibongile. I have personally served people working elsewhere in the mall at least once a day, and the other waiters have, too.
That nice Indian man, a regular customer and a medical rep. He usually walks in within minutes of opening time. And the woman that owns the bakery, that always asks to be to be served by Nonto. I think she has business meetings here.
She made sure that there were two other waiters ready to greet customers at the door, and then walked over to the office. She tapped on the open door, and Eugene looked up from the closing stock take. He was momentarily annoyed at the disturbance, but his demeanour relaxed when he saw that it was Sibongile.
“Hey,” he smiled.
“Hey,” responded Sibongile. “Do you have a few minutes to talk before the lunch rush starts?”
“Let me finish this quick, I’m just about done,” said Eugene, and Sibongile nodded.
She sat down in the spare chair while Eugene put red stars next to another two stock items, and made a note on his order list.
“I’m done,” he announced. “What’s on your mind?”
“One, I’ve noticed that a lot of people working in the mall come here for special occasions, nowadays,” replied Sibongile, holding up a finger. She raised another one. “Two, most of the stores only open at nine, but in order to make sure you’re not late for work, we sometimes wait from seven thirty, if we come by taxi.”
“Yes…?” prompted Eugene, his head tilted.
“Look, they’re not rich customers,” Sibongile said hurriedly. “But if our staff meal deduction is forty rand, I think there may be a gap to offer a budget option or two during slow times, for mall employees. And maybe a budget breakfast for half an hour before the mall opens?”
“There’s quite a few implications from a stock-keeping and staffing perspective. What do the others say?” asked Eugene.
“I haven’t mentioned anything yet, I’ve just been keeping track of the times I know customers are mall employees,” Sibongile clarified.  “I’ve also noticed the reps that come regularly, once or twice a week.”
“Well, ask them what they think. Quite a few of the staff would have to start work earlier.”
“I will,” promised Sibongile nodding thoughtfully.
“By the way, well-spotted on the change in trend,” smiled Eugene. “The sales reports have been saying that we’re getting more small sales. The big ones haven’t changed much, but total sales have increased significantly. Bryce and I reckoned it must be because of the Dividend, but I didn’t think of the mall employees being part of it.” Eugene frowned as he thought.
“You may have a point, Bongi. Could we do better if our offer is also attractive to many people who are less cash flush? Twelve small food tabs make about the same net profit as one that’s ten times bigger with lots of drinks. I’ll think about it too. Well done.”
“Thanks,” blushed Sibongile, and pointed at the door. “I’ll head back to the floor then.”
Mimi was neatening up the menus, since the coffee shop was still quiet. Sibongile walked over to talk to her.
D plus 38
Mandla and Karel get the tender
“Mandla,” said Karel excitedly, “Rudolph’s just called, we got the school job! Not the paving, apparently, but that’s crappy work anyway, we’re much better at the other stuff. I’m on my way to pick up the award letter from their offices. Should I pick you up to come with me?”
“Nope. I promised Lebo and the kids we’ll go to Wimpy for milkshakes and the playpark, it’s Dividend day,” Mandla replied. “I didn’t think we’d hear anything so fast?”
“Neither did I, but it’s great, because we might be able to get going earlier. Rudolph says there’s contact information and such in the doc pack, I want to see how soon we can see the principal to fine-tune our timing. How does your week look?”
“Weeding vegetables with the kids, fixing a toilet in Lebo’s creche, and annoying Lebo, mostly. Any time is good.”
Karel sometimes wondered if Mandla smoked weed, he was so calm. If he did, though, it never got in the way of their plans or their production.
“What time do you think you’ll get home? Can I come over so we can discuss exactly what we’ve been awarded?”
“What’s wrong with your house? It’s my turn to visit.”
“Marie’s got the lounge covered in piles of baby clothes. I’m afraid to touch anything, or I get yelled at. But if we sit in the garden, I should get away with it…”
“Then we’ll come around when we’re done at Wimpy, maybe two o’clock. The children can tire each other out in the sandpit or a sprinkler,” Mandla suggested.
“I should get back before then. See you later.”

Abel shuts off the machine
Abel mechanically helped retrieve and stack the light steel frame sections as they came off the profiling machine.
Support, combine panels, tape, stack.
They were doing well, and were on track to finish this order by midday tomorrow, even though they’d lost a day waiting for steel. 
Support, combine, stack.
Something nagged in the back of his mind. He listened more carefully, concentrating.
There… between the web and lip cut, a delay that seemed longer than it should be. He walked around to the machine’s service door and edged it open to check the pressure gauge. Technically the machine had a safety cut-out if the door was opened, but it had been bypassed years ago for convenience, before Abel had started working here.
He watched the digital readout climbing as a section was completed, counting softly in his head.
When the next section started, he waited for the web notch again, and then watched carefully as the next tool’s pressure built up.
The hydraulic pressure was definitely taking much longer to reach the level required for punching.
He reached towards the vicker’s valves. The ailing tool’s valve was one of the three in the very back. He touched them in turn, carefully. They did get rather hot.
Ouch! Not that hot! He sucked on his singed fingers and gestured for shut-down. The noise of the machine made shouting useless. 
Zachariah did not see him, so Abel jumped and waved more emphatically and shouted anyway. He crossed his hands in front of him in an insistent, cut-it-now gesture.
At last Zachariah saw him and hit the stop switch.
“One of the valves is failing,” Abel called out. “We should replace it before we carry on.” He turned to go and fetch the tool kit.
“What the hell is going on? Why have you stopped?” shouted Hendrik, walking from his office. “We’re not working overtime because you lot want to take breaks. Get going!”
“The valve, Mr Hendrik, it’s hot,” started Abel, trying to frame his concern in English. 
“They’re always hot, Abel,” snarled Hendrik, who had made sure everyone knew that he had studied civil engineering. He had grudgingly let Abel continue with the daily maintenance routines, but the weekly ones were overdue because of the pressure to complete the order.
“But…” Abel struggled for words... but it’ll seize. How do you say that in English? “It will break, boss. Only one hour to fix, boss, we have spares.”
“With you lot it’s never just an hour. There’s only three hours left and I want the joists finished today. Start the fucking machine, Zachariah.”
It will seize, Abel fretted. The valves fail suddenly when something gets stuck in them. It’s already slower. It’ll get slower and slower as the failing valve overheats the fluid. Then the fluid will just stop reaching all the parts it needs to get to.
Abel followed Mr Hendrik to his office. I must try again.
“Boss, please. The valve make block. Machine will work slow, and…” he tried to indicate seizing by interlacing his fingers and locking them shut. 
Hendrik’s face flushed as he looked coldly at Abel’s gesture.
“I have given you your instructions, Abel. Now get to it.” Hendrik half-pushed Abel towards the door.
Abel walked to the tiny ablution area and splashed water on his face. He was near panic. The parts in danger of damage were expensive and had to be imported.
What if he blames me when it breaks? I must go find the Chief at his office.

Lots of shit that Jo wanted to re-incorporate goes here, but I must pdf right now.

 “Oh, come back tomorrow,” replied the receptionist when Abel asked, “I’m sure he’ll see you then.”
_ _ _
Mandla and Karel discuss logistics
“You’re joking.” Mandla had not even looked at the letter of appointment, and was regarding Karel with an amused, go-ahead-pull-the-other-one expression.
Karel put down the letter in front of Mandla. The amount was in bold, it wasn’t necessary to point it out.
“Almost eight hundred and fifty k…” breathed Mandla.
“We got all the plumbing, but that was a worst-case thumb-suck. We need to see what’s actually needed, work-wise. The principal will see us Mondy afternoon. He says he’s too busy running the school in the mornings.”
“Where’s our quote spreadsheet?” asked Mandla, “I didn’t think to bring my copy.”
“Uhm,” said Karel, and disappeared inside the house. He came back out a couple of minutes later, with a stapled set of papers and two beers.
“Marie and Lebo are making cute noises about baby clothes. Mia and Tumi and Mpho are with them, we have a while before we put on the sprinkler.” Karel put their quote down on the table in front of Mandla, and sat down next to him.
“You’re right, we’ve got this bulk amount to sort out plumbing in each building, plus the additional for fixing or replacing toilets and basins and taps,” noted Mandla. “But plumbing is the tightest in terms of the time limit. I reckon we get going with the fittings as soon as we can get away with it. We can paint and plaster around them once the pipes in the walls have been replaced, if necessary.”
“Glazing last…”
“As always. But we need to see the insides to plan properly. Monday, you said?” Mandla looked at Karel, who nodded.
“Let’s ask the principal if we can cordon off the stand-alone toilets one at a time until school holidays start, plumbing first, everything else after.”
Karel nodded his assent. “How much material do we need? We can’t run short because the suppliers are closed for Christmas. If at all possible, I’d like us to have the bulk already stashed away somewhere, or ready to be delivered.”
“I was working on half for material, half for labour and a twenty percent mark-up. But until we know the colour of the paint, and how old the basins and toilets are, we can’t place orders.”
“Fuck. Three fifty in material.” Karel stared at the table. “Bro, I don’t have anything to contribute. Marie’s retrenchment, and Mia’s insulin…”
“I have about fifty saved up. After we see the principal, we can prioritise. What are the payment milestones? It’s going to get hairy.”
For the first time, they looked at the second page of the appointment letter.
“Payment at 10%, 30%, 70%, and 100% of completion. 5% retention for twelve months.” Karel was demoralised.
“Dude, don’t give me that face,” said Mandla. “We can get to 30% before Christmas close-down.”
Karel looked at him, calculating. 
In the beginning, Mandla was the do-er, and Karel found the work. It hadn’t been that way for a couple of years now, they were partners, in the true sense of the word.
“Nope. We have to get to 30% long enough before Christmas so we can get paid for the milestone by end December. Can we get to 30% by the end of the month?” Karel looked at Mandla questioningly.
“If we focus on the plumbing of the toilet blocks, maybe. We calculated 24 days for that, but we have no idea how time-consuming the actual work will be. Let’s say we cover the plumbing and plastering materials, and wages, we’ll be able to get the rest sorted on the plumbing profit. If the other teams move in right behind the plumbing guys to do plastering and painting.”
Twenty minutes of discussion and calculations later, Mandla sat back and sighed. “Another one-twenty k, minimum.” Mandla looked at Karel, grim. “I don’t have enough money for that. Not while we’re not sure when we’ll actually be paid.”
Karel was leaning his head on his hands, elbows on the table.
They looked at each other, sad and bitter. Their big chance lost, because of uncertain payment terms.

Abel waits to see the Chief
Abel was sitting in a chair in reception. He had been told to wait, that the Chief would see him as soon as he had a minute.
He felt out of place among the plush furniture and plants. His blues were carefully ironed and always clean and mended in the morning, but hard physical work tended to get them creased, dusty, and sometimes greasy. And it was almost time to exchange his safety boots for a new pair, they were scuffed and saggy.
It was delightfully cool in the office block. In the production building, winter was freezing and summer heat sapped strength and morale.
Abel had been waiting for a long time when he saw the Chief stride out to the parking lot, apparently in a hurry. He didn’t notice Abel.

Lebo’s loan
The three kids came barrelling out of the back door, dressed in bathing suits. They tracked down the hose-pipe, with the sprinkler fitting still attached to it, and set it in the middle of a stretch of green lawn. “Mummy…!” they yelled in chorus.
Marie came into the backyard at the summons, and turned on the tap. Some drops landed on the table where Karel and Mandla were sitting, before she turned it down a little. Lebo had followed her out, and they were talking throughout the whole manoeuvre.
“So I’ll get my answer by Wednesday, they said, but it was looking good for the twenty, at least,” Lebo was animatedly explaining.
“That’s fabulous, Lebo, and you can do your separate entrance and your sign with that?” 
“With less, if the guys,” Lebo tilted her head at Mandla and Karel, “give me a special price...”
Karel was first to realize that they were being gossiped about. “Special price on what?!” he groused.
“I’ll hear on Wednesday about my PostBank loan for upgrading the creche,” answered Lebo. “With a separate entrance, and more play area towards the fence, and if I move the bathroom, I could comfortably handle twenty-four kids, instead of ten. I’ve had a lot of queries, and I know who I would employ to help.”
“PostBank Loan? What now?” erupted Mandla. “You haven’t told me about this?”
“I told you how I’d expand the creche, if I could,” started Lebo.
Mandla grudgingly nodded, agreeing that there may, at some stage, have been a discussion in this regard.
“Well, when I went to send Mother my stokvel money this morning, the PostBank had a sign saying that they were now giving personal loans. I applied, and it seems that pretty much anyone can get a twenty thousand rand loan. I’m waiting for Wednesday, because I applied for forty, and they said it looks good because all the parents of my creche kids pay their monthly fee into my PostBank account. They said they can see how much my business makes…” Lebo turned to Marie to giggle, “they called the creche my business…”
“Wait, please tell us?” Karel interrupted their mirth. “Do you know the interest rate they’ll charge you?”
“Repo plus half percent,” said Lebo, solemnly, with the air of someone gravely reciting something they’d rehearsed, in order to remember.
“Can’t be,” said Mandla, deflating again.
“No, I’m sure,” replied Lebo. “I knew you’d ask. They said it was much less than the lending companies in town. Less than the banks, even. ‘The prime rate is about 3% higher than the repo rate’,” she chanted again.
“Repayment terms?” asked Karel. He didn’t have Mandla’s patience, and had been bitten. Often. Until no bank would lend to him anymore.
“For the twenty, three years at just under R650 per month. But if I don’t pay that, six months in a row, they start taking R200 per month from my Dividend.”
“What if you don’t pay it five months in a row?” said Mandla, now certain his wife was being scammed.
“My three years just gets longer. And there’s a bit more interest.”
“If your forty gets approved, what will do with the rest?” Mandla was almost interested, but mostly deeply sceptical. Women. Really.
“I’ll buy some educational toys I’ve been reading about. But mostly, Mma Minah, next door, will rent me some space in her yard, so I’ll buy a nice jungle gym. With more room, and an assistant, I could take care of enough kids to maybe start a Grade RR for five or six of them, and use my qualification.”
Mandla stared at his wife, open-mouthed. When did she go from being the mother of our kids, admittedly with a nursery school teacher’s qualification, to this savvy woman who was already earning a living from our unused garage? And thinking bigger?
When he turned to his partner, Karel was staring too.
“Are there limits on the loans?” Karel asked Lebo, while staring at Mandla.
“Not as far as I saw. The only thing is that the loan is in my own name.” Lebo paused. “And the business’s income must go into the same account as my Dividend, or I’ll be taxed on it.”
Mandla took a deep breath. “Karel, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Ja, I reckon. Are we taking our letter of appointment to the PostBank tomorrow?”
“Definitely. I’ll meet you there. Actually, no, fuck it. Pick me up at seven, we’ll be first in the queue when it opens.”

Abel gets suspended
Just before shift-end, Abel walked back into the production building, which was ominously silent.
“Just where the hell have you been, Abel?” thundered Hendrik almost immediately.
“I was waiting to see the Chief… “ Abel started to say.
If at all possible, Hendrik’s face seemed to get even redder.
“Get out, get out! You’re suspended immediately until your disciplinary hearing!”
“But why, Boss…?” Abel was bewildered.
“You can pick up your charge sheet from Security tomorrow morning at ten. Give me your work phone. Now!”
Abel carefully retrieved the phone. He’d bought the special pouch for his belt because he was worried it might get damaged if it fell out of a pocket during the vigorous work of production. Scared and confused, he handed the phone to Mr Hendrik.
“Boss, I will get changed,” he requested politely, pointing towards the locker room.
“Don’t you dare. Fetch your stuff and go. Drop off your safety clothes at Security when you collect your charge sheet.” 
Abel looked round at his colleagues. They were frozen, even more fearful than he was. Nobody responded to his enquiring look.
He collected his things and trudged away.
_ _ _

Abel tells Gloria
“You must speak to your union person,” said Gloria after Abel had despondently explained what had happened at work.
Abel nodded and went to fetch his personal phone, relieved to have a plan, any plan.
His heart sank as he scrolled through his contacts. Only family and one or two friends. All his work contacts were on the company phone he had handed over.


D plus 39
Abel fetches his charge sheet
“Sorry, Ntate, you’re not allowed in,” said Edwin, the access control guard, when Abel tried to walk through to the parking lot.
“I have to collect my letter,” explained Abel, “and give you these.” He held up the plastic bag containing his safety boots and blue overalls.
“The letter isn’t here yet,” replied Edwin, accepting the lumpy package.
“Edwin, you must help me. I don’t have any contact numbers, and I really need to speak to the Chief. Please call reception for me. Please.”
Edwin relented, and dialled the extension on speaker. He explained Abel’s request.
“The Chief is not available to speak to Abel until the disciplinary process is complete. We are very disappointed. We’ll send out the charge sheet in half an hour or so, it still needs to be signed.” She hung up abruptly.
Abel waited on the grassy verge next to the guardhouse. If only I could speak to Moagi, he thought. Or get George’s number, surely the union should be able to tell me what to do. Wait, where’s my union card?
“Your letter is here, Ntate,” called Edwin a while later. Abel got up and walked back to the guardhouse.
“Please sign here that you’ve received the letter,” said Edwin, pointing. “And put your telephone number here so that they can reach you to tell you the date of your disciplinary hearing.” 
Dispirited, Abel complied. He took the letter and went back to his spot on the grass to read it.
‘Gross insubordination in that you failed to comply with a reasonable order from your supervisor.
‘Gross negligence in that you failed to perform adequate maintenance as prescribed resulting in significant financial loss to the company.
‘Dereliction of duty in that you deserted your post for most of the afternoon of 7 November, 2019, without permission from your supervisor.
‘Threatening physical violence to your supervisor.’
Abel froze. What? When did I threaten anyone? I would never!
“Ntate, they say you must vacate the premises,” called Edwin again.
Abel nodded and got up.
I must phone Tshego, he thought. She’s very clever, she’ll help me find out what to do.

Marie and Raveshni categorising merchandise
Marie was sitting on a sheet in the middle of the floor of her lounge, surrounded by a pile of children’s clothing. She held up a little dress in aquamarine t-shirt material, with white and purple edging on the flounces around the hem. She checked its tag.
“SKU 8441-03,” she called to Raveshni, who was sitting at the kitchen table, with her laptop, a few meters away. “Girl, blue, summer, short-sleeved, stretchy.” 
“We have those in 3-4 and 7-8,” responded Raveshni, typing in the categorization. “Quite a few. And they’re 2017 stock, so the cost price is lower than our calculation averages.”
“I reckon two of each in our consignment,” said Marie, and held the dress against one of the line drawings of a shirt and pants propped against the couch behind her. “It’s a bit small for 3-4. Make it 2-3 instead. And a note to check the 7-8’s for size.” 
She looked up at the list of descriptions she and Raveshni had drawn up after Kagiso had explained how to use categories in shopping cart software. It was sticky-taped to the broken television.
“Frilly, no print, flower applique. Link to those plain ski pants.”
“Got it,” responded Raveshni. “Next?”
It was Raveshni’s day off. They had spent the afternoon after their presentation going through hundreds of boxes of end-of-line clothes in a large storeroom at the back of the retailer’s warehouse, selecting the items Marie thought were suitable. They had been loaned one sample of everything she chose, for photographing and categorization.
As each box was inspected, it was stacked against either the left or the right wall, depending on whether it was accepted or rejected.
Many boxes were orderly, but some were woefully jumbled. 
The store manager in Raveshni was irked at the mess, so she ended up sorting the accepted pile again. They’d need to be able to find things when they got orders for them, she argued.
It took hours, and they had only gotten through about half of the boxes. But Mandy had promised that the store-room wouldn’t be disturbed until they placed their first consignment order. 
The haul was already very promising.
So were the numbers.

D plus 42
MK see the principal
Still flushed with euphoric disbelief, Karel and Mandla waited for their two-thirty appointment with the principal. 
They had each applied for a PostBank Loan, with a debit order against their business account. Even better, the debit orders would only start going off in January, and they were free to settle the loans as fast as they could. The interest for a whole year would be less than two percent of the project value. And the credit would reflect in their loan accounts by tomorrow, once the telephonic verification of their appointment letter was logged in the correct systems. If they didn’t need to transfer the loan money out for purchases, it would not incur any interest.
Right on time, a distinguished-looking older man strode towards the visitors’ couch where they had been asked to wait. A metal-framed pair of spectacles perched on his round cheeks, and his hair and neatly trimmed beard had plenty of grey.
“Good day,” he greeted, in a mild voice that still somehow carried. All the staff in the reception area and in the office behind it looked up immediately, and went back to their activities once they’d confirmed that he didn’t require their attention.
His people listen when he speaks, thought Mandla to himself. Out of fear, or out of respect? I suppose we’ll find out.
“I’m Principal Jonathan Moletsane,” said the man, as he held out his hand.
“Sir,” nodded Karel, shaking first. “I’m Karel Nortje, we spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Ntate,” said Mandla, when he shook hands. “Mandla Semenya.”
“Just Jonathan, please,” smiled the principal. “Follow me.”
He led them to a sunny office, furnished elegantly, but not expensively. A copy of the refurbishment project plan was opened to the external toilet block specifications. A neat in-tray contained had a student performance summary on top.
Mandla glanced at the spreadsheet of a maths class’s results, and his eyes widened. Those were impressive marks for any maths class.
I must stop reading things that are upside down, thought Mandla, as they all sat down. They’re none of my business. But after all these years, I’m still nervous about being in a principal’s office.
“So, where would you like to start?” asked the principal. “I must confess that refurbishment is not my strong suit. We haven’t had budget for much maintenance in the ten years I’ve been here.”
Karel and Mandla looked at each other, and Karel nodded to Mandla. You go ahead.
“Uhm, well, sir, it’s… uhm…” stuttered Mandla.
“Are you nervous, young man?” chuckled the principal. “Naughty at school, were you?”
Mandla laughed and relaxed. “You read my mind. I don’t think I was really naughty, but I liked pranks. And my maths marks certainly weren’t as good as the average for that class…” He pointed his gaze at the in-tray. “I had to re-learn everything when I started my own business. I regret not paying more attention when good teachers tried to equip me with the knowledge.” He pursed his lips ruefully. “But I think you understand more about construction than you believe, looking at where your project plan is open. Our most urgent question, other than conducting a detailed site visit, of course, is that we want to get going with the free-standing toilet blocks before the end of the term. This week, if possible.”
The principal nodded. “Yes, I can see why. But I’m a little surprised at this refurbishment, we didn’t request it, and the amount of money being spent…” He leant back and took off his glasses, and then rubbed his eyes for a moment. “We do well enough. The primary school, though… they struggle. I can’t help feeling that they need this more than we do.”
“Awarding a tender is a complicated process, sir,” said Karel. “We could ask, but Province probably has reasons why they selected your school, and they won’t shift the budget elsewhere, because they’d have to start all over.”
“It has something to do with this, I’ll bet,” said Mandla. He turned around his own copy of the project specs, still closed, and tapped on the word ‘Flagship’ on the cover. “I had to google this, sir…”
“Jonathan, please,” reiterated the principal. 
“Jonathan,” Mandla nodded. “It means the one you’re proud of, the biggest or best one.”
“I do know what a flagship is,” said Jonathan. “I just don’t think we are one.”
“Maybe they want more,” suggested Karel. “Maybe they want schools like yours, that are good despite challenges, to be great.” Karel shrugged, then turned to Mandla. “Thanks, I didn’t even notice the word. But it kind of makes sense, if you think how much bigger this school was in the RFQ.”
“Maybe,” shrugged Mandla. “All I know is, this is our first project that was awarded directly to us. It means our teams aren’t on survival pay for the whole builders’ holiday. Sir…” He stopped, laughed at himself, and continued. “Jonathan.”
Jonathan smiled too, and nodded a ‘Please go ahead…’
“This is our chance to prove ourselves. We want to do it so well that we get all A’s on our report card…”
All three men burst out laughing.
“Then let’s go and look at them,” suggested Jonathan. “Do you want to start with the worst first, or the easiest?”
“We actually want to get all the stand-alone toilets done before school holidays…” said Karel. “One at a time, of course, but they’d need to be off-limits for about a week. Unless they’re really bad.” He looked at Mandla. “Worst first?”
“Let’s see,” said Mandla. “Maybe there’s three easy ones which’ll help cash flow. Don’t know until we look.”
“Then follow me,” said Jonathan, taking off the jacket of his suit and hanging it on a broad hanger suspended from a hook on the back of his office door. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

D plus 44
Abel’s disciplinary date
Abel received the text message shortly before eleven in the morning. It stated that his disciplinary hearing would be at the company’s offices on Tuesday, 19 November, at 14:00. 
His heart was heavy, but it was better than this waiting which had almost broken his spirit.
I’ve always been appreciated and praised and thanked for my work. Nobody’s perfect, but am I somehow not as good an employee as I thought? Could the Chief have been so wrong about me all these years? A good bonus every Christmas. And the television last year when we produced that clinic’s frames in record time.
I thought I was valued. I thought I was an asset to my company. 
Surely I haven’t changed in such a short time?
Was I really insubordinate? How George explained the meaning of the word just doesn’t seem right. I’m respectful. I work hard.
Well, at least I can phone George now. We must practise again. I can’t say things wrong or forget the words to use. I’m so glad that Tshego found the union’s contact details on the internet.
But the date also means that if things go wrong, I won’t get my full month’s pay. 
D plus 45
First inflation figures
“Eighteen percent inflation on CPI in October. And you’re okay with it.”  Nhlanhla was staring icily at Jo.
“Yes,” she replied in a low voice, feeling like a naughty child in the principal’s office. “But less than twelve on food items, even lower in rural areas. Some of the projections went higher than fifty percent. I think it might get to thirty before it peaks. You know that.”
“Knowing your estimate and seeing it become frighteningly real are not the same thing. The Reserve Bank is going to crucify us.”
“Because of their mandate, yes. But they also have some of the best minds informing their decisions, surely they will consider the very novel circumstances in any decision they make.” I fervently hope so, thought Jo.
“Well, you’ll get your answer soon enough. The Monetary Policy Committee sits next week. What if they hike the interest rate by a hundred basis points? Or even more? Consumers will revolt.”
“I disagree. Even the well-off ones can get their Dividend if they don’t already. At a two percent hike, the Dividend would cover increased interest on up to R1.2m in debt per person. I don’t think even a huge rates hike will improve the CPI nearly as much as catching up the production lag will.”
Jo took a deep breath and continued. “A rates hike will lead to more foreign investment because of the interest gap. Then supply and demand will do the rest. Inflation will start decreasing by the sixth month…”
“Six months of thirty percent inflation? That’ll get you impeached!” Nhlanhla spat.
“Up to thirty percent. After the spike, it’ll drop back down as seasonal differentials even out. Then we have to start learning about the effects of a whole new economic model that both enables and taxes consumption.”
Nhlanhla snorted.
“And if people empty the PostBank to pay for a rates hike?”
“The PostBank doesn’t have any debt, except to clients with savings. They can’t withdraw more than they have.” Jo swallowed.
“We don’t get GDP figures until March. They’ll temper the shock of the inflation. Look,” she pleaded, “please stay on my side until end of June. We never thought that this would be easy.”
_ _ _

Rob deals with a drunken Jo
“Mzi says she thinks you’re drunk,” murmured Roberta, stepping out onto the balcony of Jo’s study. She stood leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, and looked at Jo.
Jo squinted up at her. Damn her nosy, overly concerned bodyguard.
“A little,” she admitted, and looked down at the empty wine bottles on the floor next to her chair. 
“You promised me you wouldn’t, when I agreed to this job. You know where you’ve been, maatjie.” Roberta’s soft tone belied her grim expression.
“At least it’s not six quarts of Black Label.”
“No, it’s almost three quarts of Grand Cru.”
“You said wine was more civilized than beer.”
“For a single spritzed glass at a function.” Roberta picked up a bottle and read the label by the light slanting through the door. “This is twelve percent alcohol. You could have had your six quarts of beer, and one extra.” She stepped into the study and returned with another glass. “I might as well help you lay the last soldier to rest, as long as we can escort you to bed right after.”
Roberta filled her own glass, and then tilted the remaining wine into the one Jo proffered with an outstretched arm.
“If I had a joint, I’d be smoking.” Jo commented, wryly.
“Then it’s a good thing you haven’t managed to decriminalize it yet. You missed bath time with your kids, again. You haven’t had date night with your husband in weeks. And I can’t go home to my family until I’m sure you won’t pull shitty stunts like this. Talk to me.”
“What if I’ve fucked it up completely?” Jo mused drunkenly. “What if all those people that have had a few weeks of a halfway decent life have to go back to the hell they thought was normal before?
“What if my research and my projections were wrong, and we can’t pull this off? Eighteen percent already. I was hoping it’d take a couple more months to hit that high.” Jo looked stricken.
“What if the suppliers decide they’d make more money keeping the market in deficit on purpose?” Jo blathered on, slurring. “What if too many things are too spice-elastic?” She burped. “Prrrrrice-elastic, I meant. What shenanigans will the status quo come up with to fuck up my dream of a decent life for everybody?” Jo tossed back the rest of her glass. 
Roberta had only had a two sips. “We expected frightening inflation. So it’s worse than you hoped. You’ve had experts going over your stuff. They didn’t conclude that it was impossible, just not the most likely outcome. You have all those scary brilliant people in the Cabinet. And I know you, Ms ‘Impossible Isn’t’. Of course you’ll have to tweak. But a market with minimum interference will go where the money is. And now thirty million previously dirt-poor people are the ones with a substantial chunk of the money.”
“Where are the others? Which rural areas have we missed? Which community radio stations?”
“That’s an insult to me, and you know it. We haven’t missed any mass media. We even found that tiny TshiVenda-dialect radio station with less than a thousand listeners. Have you considered all the old people in micro-villages that won’t hear about the Dividend until their grandkids go home to visit? There was an exodus from the metros bigger than Moria last month end. And next month is Christmas. Just be patient.” Roberta frowned at her friend, and took a swig of wine.
“I think I can be, if we can just deflect the opps in Parliament and the committees until closing. We’ll have better stats by the time we re-open. At least the inflation on food items that can be produced quickly are way lower than the eighteen. There is spare capacity, and most businesses would rather make more money at a lower margin. I hope.”
 Jo reached out and took hold of Roberta’s hand. “Oh, fuck, I hope.” 
Roberta squeezed Jo’s hand gently.
They sat in silence, looking out at Tshwane’s lights twinkling across the vista, until Roberta heard a snore.
“Mzi,” she called softly, “help me, please?”
Jo’s slight, wiry bodyguard stepped onto the balcony and picked Jo up like a baby.
Good heavens, thought Roberta, when her assistance proved completely unnecessary. She’s no bigger than Jo is. How strong is she?
“Let’s go,” said Mzi, equally softly.
_ _ _

Rob decides to go home
Sighing gently to herself, Roberta watched as her best friend was carried into her bedroom by the tiny bodyguard.  She closed the door quietly behind Mzi, and walked towards her own suite. She and Jo had shared space many times over the years, since that day at the expensive hotel in Nairobi, where they were working together on a glitzy event for a cosmetics multinational. They had been working in Jo’s room, and the thought of rearranging their mountains of paperwork to clear a bed for Jo had depressed Roberta, so she had just dragged her needy, neurotic client to her own room where both twin beds were clear. After that, for the remainder of the events in a number of African countries, they had always used one room as an office and shared the other for sleeping and showers.
Roberta went into her suite and stretched out on the couch, kicking off her shoes and putting down her half-empty glass of wine on the floor next to her. Then she reconsidered. It’s late. I’ll only be able to spend a couple of hours with him if I go home. But I want to. I need to.
She pulled both phones out of her pockets, and checked the screens to see which was her personal one. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that the SSA didn’t listen to all her calls and monitor her texts, so she had waited until she was issued her official device, and then bought an exact duplicate. I’m not being sneaky, she told herself, I’m just keeping my personal life as personal as a Chief of Staff could hope for.
She dialled his number from the doppelganger phone and waited for it to ring six times before she killed the call. It still annoyed her that he never knew where his phone was and almost always missed her calls. She waited five minutes, and dialled again. He answered on the first ring this time.
“Sorry, I was asleep,” he muttered into the phone. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Just before two,” she replied. “I need to see you.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly wide awake. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Rough day. I’m not fine. Can I come over? I’ll be there in thirty. Don’t fall asleep.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait up, but…”
She cut him off before he could say anything else and stood up, knocking over the wine glass. She stared at it, distracted, for a few moments before she bent over to pick it up. When she straightened, Mzi was standing next to her, hand outstretched to take the glass.
Roberta started. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. How the hell do you manage to be so quiet, anyway, in those frikking steel-toed boots?!”
“Practice,” grinned Mzi.
Roberta made a mental note to get Maintenance to fix her door. It took a lot of pressure to latch securely. I can hardly get on Jo’s case about security if I can’t even close my own door properly.
_ _ _

Mzi’s opinion of Rob
Mzi was amused at the fact that the indomitable Chief of Staff would ask her boyfriend for permission to go to her own house. But then Roberta gave him way more space and freedom that Mzi would ever be comfortable with in a relationship. He was obviously much younger than Roberta, but had access to her home, assets, and accounts. That had been the only catch when the VIP Protection services had evaluated Roberta’s security. They had checked out every aspect of the young man’s life, and had come to the conclusion that he was exactly who Roberta believed him to be. The security at Roberta’s mansion had certainly made them much happier than they had been with the fiasco at Jo’s.
Different strokes for different folks, thought Mzi, as she took the glass from Roberta and escorted her to the basement.
Roberta stumbled on the stairs and Mzi caught her elbow, arresting her fall. She’s so tired, thought Mzi, with concern.
When they reached Roberta’s car, Mzi slapped the roof of the black Volvo SUV and the passenger door opened. Mzi helped Roberta in, nodding to her colleague in the driver’s seat.
“Waterkloof,” she told him.
He nodded back.
When the car reached the ramp, Mzi turned around and headed back to the security room. It had been Xolo’s shift since ten, but Jo and Roberta seemed more comfortable with Mzi, so she often stayed on duty until they finished up for the day. 
Once she’d handed over to Xolo, Mzi went to her own quarters. Inside, she thought about a shower, and decided against it. She brushed her teeth, said her prayers, and fell asleep immediately she lay down.
_ _ _

Roberta gets home
Roberta clicked her seatbelt into place and leaned back in her seat, eyes closed. 
She startled awake when Eddie touched her shoulder, and saw that she was home. 
“Please tell Francesco half past five, Eddie,” she said patting her pockets to find her phones before releasing the seatbelt. They’d sort it out from there, she was too drained to care.
Once inside, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey and some water from the drinks cabinet in the kitchen. She knew she wouldn’t be getting much sleep, and she didn’t need it. She headed up the stairs.
She could smell his cigarette smoke as she stepped into her bedroom, a huge, high-ceilinged room with eclectic textures in muted earth colours. Except for the deep-piled, ultra-soft cream carpet. She kicked off her four-inch heels and her tortured feet luxuriated in its softness.
He was smoking on the balcony. He’d forgotten to close the sliding door, again.
She set down the whiskey and joined him, slipping her hands around his waist. 
He turned around in the circle of her arms, and leaned down to kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. She returned the kiss, leaning into him, wanting to be close enough to meld with him.
He pulled away a few heartbeats later, and padded into the room to pour them each a whiskey. Ice from the bedroom fridge, the one they’d bought in the beginning so they could stock it up for dirty weekends and never leave the room.
When he returned, she was sitting cross-legged on the balcony couch, an unlit cigarette in one hand. He raised an eyebrow as he handed her the drink, because she had quit not long after they’d met.
She held out the cigarette wordlessly, and he lit it and handed it back. He settled himself next to her and uncrossed her legs, pulling them over his lap, as she took a deep drag, and then coughed raggedly for an uncomfortable number of seconds.
She took a big swig of her whiskey, and then had another drag of the cigarette. She didn’t cough again.
He waited patiently for her to talk, tracing small circles around her ankle with a thumb. 
Suddenly she crushed out most of the cigarette and laughed. She leaned in to run her hands through his hair and down his neck. He shivered slightly and pulled her onto his lap, facing him, and kissed her.
She kissed him back, thrusting her tongue into his mouth and tasting him. He tasted like cigarettes and beer. He tasted just the way she remembered, she wanted, she needed right now. Wordlessly, they both got undressed awkwardly, still kissing, stumbling towards the bed.
She forgot about the tirade from Nhlanhla, forgot about SADTU, forgot about the VIP Protection detail. She forgot about the stress of the custody argument she was still having with the father of the twins. All she felt was what she wanted to feel. His hands on her body, his chest hair against her nipples, his hot breath on the nape of her neck.
Frenetic minutes later, she lay sated, mustering the energy to go to the bathroom to clean up. When she sat up, he pushed her gently back against her pillow, then fetched a washrag moistened with warm water.
He wiped her gently, and ran the rag down each inner thigh.
Then he went to fetch their drinks from the balcony. He briefly considered having a cigarette, but a glance inside revealed her lying quietly, staring distantly at the ceiling.
Drinks positioned on his bedside cabinet, he climbed back into bed to spoon his long frame against her side.
“Are you ready to talk now?” he asked.
She rolled towards him and nodded.
“You’re not a secret, you know,” she murmured.
He was startled at the randomness of the statement.
“I know.”
“But I don’t know how to… I don’t know how to… reveal you… without it seeming like… Like I’m one of those ‘transactional relationship’ people.” She leaned her forehead against his collar bone as she struggled with the words. 
With a 14-year age gap between them, she knew what it would look like, and what people would think, and wished she’d gone public with their relationship from the beginning, but he hadn’t wanted to. He felt that those who needed to know, already knew, including his vehemently disapproving mother, nonchalant father and indifferent brothers. 
Her family and friends, and the multitude of colleagues and acquaintances they shared, knew that she had always dated younger men, and they didn’t much care one way or another, provided she was cherished and not taken advantage of.
But the fling had now run to years, and Roberta was afraid to tell him that she loved him. She was afraid that he didn’t love her.
If he doesn’t, he fakes it well. Is that enough?
“So Nhlanhla was a real prick about the inflation figures and Prof is being impossible about the rape facilities in hospitals. You know how charming Jo isn’t but everything we say is bouncing straight off him. Oh, and did you know Babalwa is gay?”
He was constantly amazed, and most times, irritated, by how quickly and completely she switched topics.
“Babalwa, really? But isn’t she married?”
Roberta raised a sardonic eyebrow and continued telling him about her day. 
He also had news, but he’d wait until she’d vented.
She suddenly sat up again, cross-legged and facing him, entirely unaware of her nudity. She quizzed him about the feasibility of the project, the status of the privacy issue, and asked if he had read the article about net neutrality that she had forwarded. 
She knew that he’d be a perfect addition to Thapelo’s team. But the stench of nepotism… 
And that other issue she hadn’t yet to brought to Jo’s attention.
“I got a text from Arthur.” Roberta was suddenly deadly serious.
“Arthur?” He recognized her expression and his eyes widened. “That Arthur?”
“Yes, on my personal phone. God knows how he got the number.”
“What about?” he prompted, suddenly troubled about Roberta’s safety. He waited anxiously until she eventually answered.
“He says Jo asked him to join the party list last year. He wants to know if we still want him to work for us.”
“Yoh…”
“You know how opposed she is to things being kept secret. Cabinet had to bully her into dropping a motion to shut down most of the security and intelligence agencies. But she didn’t tell me anything about Arthur. I have no idea what her motives could have been.”
“So ask her.” He still felt uneasy.
“Back-to-back meetings tomorrow. Cape Town on Thursday and Friday. I don’t know when we’ll be able to talk in private, because it won’t be a two-minute conversation.”
“And you’re worried.”
“Very.”
D plus 50
Abel’s disciplinary
Abel was waiting nervously in reception. He had arrived almost an hour early, desperate not to do anything that might make matters worse.
At ten to two, the receptionist motioned to Abel and led him to a boardroom. Mr Hendrik was already there.
“Good afternoon, boss,” said Abel timidly. 
Hendrik nodded curtly without looking up. 
The receptionist pointed out a lone chair on the long side of the table, opposite Hendrik. “The Chairman will be here soon,” she said, before leaving the room.
Abel was near panic. He stared at Mr Hendrik, trying to frame a question. Why are you so angry with me? I worked hard for you, I did my best. I don’t understand.
Hendrik stared down at some papers in front of him, studiously ignoring Abel.
The company’s HR Manager bustled in and took the chair at the head of the table. He was followed by a young woman that Abel didn’t know. He’s probably the chairman then, concluded Abel. The young woman checked her watch and started typing on her laptop. 
The chairman scanned his notes quickly, and then looked up.
“The disciplinary hearing hereby commences. Please write down your name on this attendance register, and sign next to it.” He handed Hendrik a sheet of paper. When Abel received the paper, he stared at it for a minute. This feels like I’m already acknowledging guilt.  Knowing he had no choice, he signed it and handed it back to the chairman.
“Mr Initiator, please state your case,” continued the chairman. “No, no need to stand,” when Hendrik pushed back his chair.
“With reference to the charge of gross insubordination,” Hendrik started.
“On 7 November, 2019, Abel shut down the machine without leave to do so. When given instruction to resume production, he refused.
“With reference to the charge of gross negligence, Abel was responsible for the maintenance procedures as detailed in the manufacturer’s service manual. The machine failed on the afternoon of 7 November owing to lack of such maintenance. The financial implications for repairing the machine are substantial.”
“How much will it cost to repair?” interrupted the chairman.
Abel felt sick. The machine might cost a hundred thousand rand. Surely its repairs might be as much as my salary.
“A hundred and forty two thousand rand for repairs. Here is the quote. But some parts take three weeks to import, and there is no production until they are installed and tested. Contracts already forfeited amount to four hundred and fifty thousand rand. At capacity, the production time lost will amount to three point eight million rand in turnover.”
Abel couldn’t move, almost couldn’t breathe. I can’t imagine those numbers in money. How could I have made such a big mistake?
“Please continue,” waved the chairman.
“With reference to the charge of dereliction of duty. Abel was absent without leave from approximately 14:15 until 16:52 on the afternoon of 7 November, 2019.
“With reference to the charge of threatening physical violence, Abel gestured a threat of strangulation during the discussion in which he refused to return to his duties.”
“But I didn’t threaten…” Abel was distraught.
“Abel, please refrain from addressing the other party. You will get your chance to present your case, and, of course, interview any witnesses,” interrupted the Chairperson.
Witnesses? George said I could ask the other guys to come and speak for me, but Moagi and Zachariah had both been afraid to risk their jobs. 
“Thank you, Mr Chairman, my case is concluded. I will not be calling any witnesses,” said Hendrik, closing the folder in front of him.
“Thank you, Mr Initiator. Abel, please state your case,” the chairman turned to face Abel.
Abel stood up, wringing his hands. Head bowed.
“You don’t need to stand. You may sit,” said the chairman.
“Please, boss, I want to stand,” pleaded Abel, looking up at the chairman.
“That’s fine, if you want to. But please address me as ‘Mr Chairman’ or ‘Sir’, not ‘boss’,” responded the chairman.
Abel tried to remember all the sentences he had practised with George. But he was so heartsick about the situation, about the amounts of money Mr Hendrik had said. He was so tired and so scared.
“I hear something funny in the machine. I look, and I think the valve is breaking. I think it is expensive, but I have spares.
“I ask Zachariah to shut down. Then Mr Hendrik, he says we must put back on. I try to say, it will seize,” Abel locked his fingers together and pulled, like he had done that day. George had helped him find the right word in English.
“Mr Hendrik say we must carry on. So I went to look for the Chief. But he left, and I didn’t talk to him.
“I didn’t do anything to hurt Mr Hendrik. I don’t know why he says I did.” Abel sat down.
“Is that all you want to say?” asked the chairman.
Abel nodded.
“Mr Initiator,” said the chairman. “Please demonstrate the gesture that you felt was a threat of strangulation.”
Hendrik, looking a bit green, interlocked his fingers and pulled.
The chairman nodded. He went back to the first page of the pile of papers in front of him.
“Abel,” said the chairman, “do you admit to the charge of disobeying an instruction to continue production?”
“Yes,” said Abel, “but I worried about the machine…”
“Only yes or no, please,” said the chairman.
“Yes,” responded Abel. He hung his head.
“Do you admit to the charge of performing inadequate maintenance?”
Abel looked up in horror. He didn’t let me do the weekly maintenance. I told him about the seals we needed. I really get to say only yes or no? Of course it wasn’t enough. I told him.
“Yes.”
“Do you admit that you left your post, without permission?”
He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t care. I was trying to save the machine. Abel suddenly knew, with leaden certainty, what was happening.
“Yes.”
“Do you admit that you threatened violence to your supervisor?”
“No.” 
“Gentlemen, I am retiring to consider the case. I’ll call you back soon.”
_ _ _

Jan evaluates Abel’s disciplinary
Jan rubbed his temples, staring at the form that he had to complete.
It was obvious that Abel was a loyal, committed worker. But he had not addressed the charges, in his statement. And he had admitted guilt to three of them.
He had not made any mention of his spotless employment record and any number of commendations.
He had not pointed out that maintenance of the machine was not in the company’s job description for a general labourer, and since it wasn’t given as evidence, Jan was not permitted to take it into consideration in his decision.
Hendrik’s numbers were based on worst-case scenarios, for maximum shock value. The plant had never run at more than seventy percent capacity in all its time. But lost production was still heavy.
Damn the nit-picky, overly careful labour laws, that caused companies to implement policy documents that were as one-sided and blinkered as the one that lay close to his right hand.
I have to find him guilty on the first three charges, agonized Jan. I just hope Hendrik isn’t egotistic or stupid enough to request dismissal.
Jan picked up a pen and reluctantly started completing the form with his findings.
_ _ _

Abel is dismissed
It was close to four when Abel was called back into the boardroom. Hendrik appeared a few minutes later, still scowling.
“I am ready to deliver my decision,” said the chairman, when Hendrik was seated. Abel had again requested that he be allowed to stand.
“On the charge of gross insubordination, I find you guilty.”
Abel hung his head and closed his eyes.
“On the charge of gross negligence, I find you guilty. On the charge of dereliction of duty, I find you guilty.”
No, no, no. How can this be? thought Abel. He looked up at the ceiling. His granddaughter had once told him she did that when she didn’t want to cry. Abel was surprised, and grateful, when it worked.
“On the charge of threatening violence, I find you not guilty.” The chairman cleared his throat, then continued.
“Mr Initiator, what sanction do you feel is appropriate?” asked the chairman, looking at Hendrik.
“Mr Chairman, owing to Abel’s insolence and the magnitude of the financial loss to the company, I feel there has been an irretrievable breakdown in trust, and I request that the sanction be dismissal.”
Abel stared at the ceiling again, so he didn’t notice that the chairman had gone pale too.
“Abel, do you have anything to say in mitigation?” asked the chairman.
“I don’t know that word, boss,” said Abel before dropping his eyes back to his wringing hands.
The chairman explained, and Abel listened carefully, but he still wasn’t absolutely sure.
“I’m sorry, boss, I tried to do right. I don’t want to lose my job.” He swallowed. Again the ceiling.
The chairman sighed and collected his papers together. Then he sat, unmoving, for a long time.
“In light of the severity of the charges, and the lack of mitigating factors, I endorse the request for dismissal, effective immediately. Your pro-rata salary up to and including today, as well as any accumulated leave, will be paid on the last day of the month. You may return in one week to collect a copy of your sentence and complete the necessary documents. You have the right to approach the CCMA for recourse, and the relevant information will be included in the documents you will receive next week. This hearing is concluded.”
Jan looked at Abel’s stricken face and immediately looked away.
“Thank you, Mr Chairman,” said Hendrik with a victorious smirk, and stomped out.
Abel stood frozen for a few more seconds before he, too, left the boardroom.
Sally, who had been taking minutes, packed up and exited last.
Jan breathed deeply. Once, twice. He didn’t know Abel’s trick with the ceiling, so he sat for a long while, elbow on the table, head in his hand, palm and fingers covering his eyes.

D plus 58
Abel’s final payslip
Abel looked at the printout of his final payslip again. It was much more than he had expected. There was his salary, which was lower than usual. But there was another big number for Accumulated Leave, 35 days. It would only get paid next week, they said, but he’d received his Dividend on Monday and Gloria said she could handle the important month-end payments so long.
Abel had always worked when the company was open and stayed home when it wasn’t. He’d never paid much attention to the things about leave on his payslip. 
At least we won’t struggle in December, he thought. But what do I do at the end of January?
He still couldn’t decide whether to show all these papers to Tsego or not. She’d understand them and explain them to him, but he felt ashamed. Maybe I should just look for a new job and get on with my life.

D plus 61
Tshego helps Abel with his CCMA submission
Tshego had come over specially, armed with extra data on her snazzy smartphone.
She was paging through the stack of papers that Abel had been given on Tuesday.
Abel was mortified that his baby girl should read the things they had said in the hearing. All that money. 
“Right,” said Tshego after a while and started doing something on her phone. She read for a while, tapping the screen every couple of minutes.
“Right,” she said again, and look earnestly at Abel. “Daddy, the one thing these documents didn’t warn you about is that you have to submit your dispute paper to the CCMA within thirty days. Since you had to wait a week to get them, and I’ve only come today, that means you have only nineteen days left, and it’s December holidays soon. I want us to send your form today so that we will be certain they have it before they close for Christmas. We must also fax one to your offices.”
“I don’t know a fax number, I never needed to,” protested Abel.
Tshego searched some more, checking with Abel about the order of letters in the company’s acronym.
“Here we go,” she said, and then looked again. “This is a Joburg number, so it can’t be your offices. It might be an old number on their website. We’ll fax it there anyway, but to be sure, you must take a copy to the offices on Monday and ask someone to sign that they’ve received it.”
Abel quailed at the thought of speaking with anyone from his former company. They’d all know he’d been fired for being a bad employee. “I can’t, Tshego, I don’t want to do this. It has already been so difficult for me, and for your mother.”
“I know, Daddy, but from the things I’ve read on the internet you were fired unfairly. If you don’t go to the CCMA you’ll never know for sure, and I hate seeing you like this. I refuse to believe that you are bad at your job. Go get your jacket, so that I can take you to the mall to print these things.”
_ _ _

Abel and Tshego in Kagiso’ store
Kagiso and Jabu were doing some housekeeping in preparation for tomorrow morning’s stock take, filling up the hooks for hanging stock, making sure that everything had been put back in its expected location, and checking seals on anti-static packaging. 
Kagiso had also vacuumed the workshop, shelves, and under the anti-static mat at their workstations. The store front was spotless, as always. One of them vacuumed and mopped it every morning before opening. 
They had briefly discussed employing a cleaner, but had come to the decision that for now, it was very little extra effort to do it themselves. They were still watching every cent, however much they would have liked to offer someone a part-time job.
Kagiso looked up as a perfectly groomed woman entered the store, accompanied by an older man that seemed vaguely familiar.
“Good morning, how can we help you?” said Kagiso and Jabu in unison. They looked at each other, and burst into laughter.
“Let me,” said Kagiso, looking at the stack of boxes Jabu was just about to carry to the storeroom. When he looked back at the potential customers, the woman was smiling. The man seemed sad and subdued.
“Hi Ntate, Mme, it seems I’ve become a carbon copy of my new partner in a few short weeks. What are you looking for?”
“Good day,” answered the woman, “we’re here to print a document from my phone. We need to complete it and fax it to these two numbers,” she handed him a slip of paper, “and it’s very important that we get proof of transmission. Then we need copies of the document and the transmission slips, and some sort of paper on which someone can sign acknowledgement of receipt.”
She unlocked her screen and held out her phone to him. “Do you have a cable? The document is in my downloads.”
Kagiso noticed that the old man had paled.
“No need,” said Kagiso, “you can bluetooth it. Look for ‘PowerPCPrint’, I’ll accept the transfer on the printer.” He thought the Ntate looked relieved that Kagiso would not read the document.
A few minutes later, Kagiso handed over the printout face down. He turned to get them a pen, and when he offered it he caught the logo at the top of the form.
He averted his eyes immediately. The Ntate seemed so embarrassed already. Then he typed up a basic acknowledgement of receipt, with date, name and signature lines, which he gauged would fit on the bottom of the fax transmission report, underneath the reduced version of the first page.
The woman handed him the completed form, and he carefully punched in the first fax number. Three minutes later, the transmission report printed. Kagiso punched in the second number. Then he lined up the first transmission report behind the printout of his acknowledgement of receipt, and held it up to the light. Two lines lower.
The printer was bleating the long-engaged tone. 
“There is something wrong with this second number,” Kagiso told them. “The fax doesn’t seem to be going through. Do you want a failed transmission report, or can I cancel it?”
The old man looked at the woman, who considered the question for a moment.
“I’m not sure it will make any difference, Daddy, but we may as well wait for confirmation that the number on their website doesn’t work,” she eventually said.
While the printer redialled twice, the woman walked over to one of the shelves. Her father stayed in the same place, waiting patiently.
“I think there’s a mistake on this price,” the woman called over her shoulder. She was looking at the SD cards, at the top row where the more expensive ones were.
“The 64 or the 128 gig?” queried Kagiso.
“Both, actually,” she responded. “I’ve been meaning to get a bigger one for ages, but at this price I’d take the 128 instead.”
“It’s a new brand,” said Kagiso. “It’s only been in the country for a few months. But it has a one year immediate replacement warranty, so you wouldn’t be taking a risk, as long as you back up regularly.” Kagiso had discovered the small distributor, based in the area, while comparing their main supplier’s prices out of sheer boredom.
“Then I’ll definitely take one.” She brought one of the heat-sealed packages to the counter.
“May I have a look at your device? I just want to check the model number’s specifications. Some have upper limits on how much additional memory they can use.”
The second fax report printed while Kagiso googled to ascertain whether the phone could handle the bigger, more expensive memory card.
“Don’t take the 128, your phone can’t use more than 64,” confirmed Kagiso. He scooped the original document out of the printer tray. “Which sheets do you want copies of?”
“Two sets of those three pages, please.”
Kagiso made an extra copy of the first transmission report and fed it back into the printer’s paper tray to print his acknowledgment of receipt.
He handed her the originals, copies, and a stapler. Then he showed her the double-printed acknowledgment of receipt. “Is this what you had in mind?”
She peered at the sheet of paper and smiled. “It’s great, I didn’t think of doing it that way. What do I owe you?”
D plus 63
Abel gets a call
Abel was sitting in their backyard, under the peach tree they had planted twenty years ago. He looked out at all the flowers, nestled around the small patch of green grass. Gloria was so proud of the garden, and over time, she had figured out how to grow many things. These flowers were easy for her now, so she had been experimenting with vegetables that she’d never grown before.
“It’s not the right time to plant them,” Gloria had explained to Abel when she came home with sugar snap pea seeds, after her third Dividend. “But look, the packet says I can sow one row a week, and they’ll keep going, if I support them and pick off the pods. They like cold, but not freezing weather. I’m going to sow them around the back, by the fence, in the shady places.”
Abel felt a flush of grateful love as he smiled back at Gloria. The empty spots were where the morogo was not already sheltering the spinach and some other leaf thing. Abel liked morogo, and didn’t mind spinach too much. But that other stuff, kale, wasn’t it…? It tasted like tea boiled from dishwater. He hoped she wouldn’t plant it again.
She wouldn’t, if I asked her, Abel admitted to himself. But she’s so proud of growing and cooking new, interesting things. I don’t have the heart to tell her I hate the kale and those stupid turnips.
Gloria bent over to plant the seeds. She was being careful not to put pressure on the soil that, over the years, she’d painstakingly loosened, and then enriched with dung and crops meant to die and fertilize before the next planting. Her plant beds were dark and spongy, and she was likely to swipe anyone with a dishcloth, even one of the grandchildren, if they stepped in them.
With a big smile, fuelled by years of memories, Abel stared at her bottom, clad in the traditional-inspired material that her teacher-appropriate dress was cut from.
Gloria was not tall, but she had such curves. Her hips, her legs. Not like those skinny women on television. Each of her smooth, strong thighs were bigger than the babies that had come from between them. Her breasts were magnificent, now pendulously straining against her dress as she balanced on the stepping stone to reach the back.
She was impossible, when we just got married, remembered Abel. The other guys laughed at me about my wife who was allowed to speak her mind, and eat meat and eggs, as much as she wanted. But she’s kind, and clever, and she helped me find a way for us to work together. I’m so proud of her. I’m so proud of our children.
And dang, I’m glad I married that ass…
Abel’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his cellphone, somewhere inside the house. He got up to go and look for it. It rang and rang, but cut off just as he tracked it down on the shelf for keys, by the front door.
The number looked vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t sure. It was not among his private phone contacts. Shall I phone back? he briefly considered. It might be someone from work.
With a sigh, he put the phone back on the shelf. It had been awful to get his acknowledgment of receipt for the CCMA form signed, even worse than he had feared. The colleagues he saw had avoided his eyes and hurried on, without greeting. The receptionist had been hostile and abrupt.
The phone rang again.
“Hello?” Abel answered.
“Abel, I can’t believe you’ve gone to the CCMA!” the Chief almost shouted. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“I tried, Chief, but you were busy and then they wouldn’t let me in…”
“Then why didn’t you text or phone?” The Chief sounded exasperated.
“My work phone, I didn’t have it anymore, I don’t know your number,” Abel responded softly.
“Of course, that’s why the number I have for you wasn’t answered. Look, I’m going to speak to the other director and sort this out today. Don’t be rash.”
“Okay, Chief.” 
“I’m flying to America with my family tonight, but I’ll get them to call you.”
“I’ll wait to hear,” said Abel, anger not quite overshadowing a glimmer of hope.
“Happy holidays, Abel,” said the Chief.
What? thought Abel. When you’ve just fired me?!
Before he could respond, the Chief had ended the call.
Abel carefully saved the Chief’s number. Then he headed back out to join Gloria, thoughtfully chewing on a hangnail.

D plus 65
CabMeet 30 – First SARS results
Jo was a tense as she ever remembered being, when she walked into the Cabinet boardroom. Nhlanhla had refused to give her even the tiniest of hints until the tax numbers were crunched officially, according to SARS’s strictest protocols.
She loosened up the instant she saw him. He was standing expansively, relaxed, with his hands in the pockets of his pants. His usually immaculate suit was a bit rumpled, and he almost, but not quite, hid a smile.
Jo breathed out audibly, “Phew…!”
“It does seem to look like good news,” smiled Praneet, paternally.
“So let’s hear it!” said Phumzile, echoing everyone’s sentiment. “Hello, colleagues, can we greet politely now-now?”
She was met with chuckles and hello’s, and everyone turned to Nhlanhla expectantly.
“Okay,” he relented, with a big grin. “Good day, everyone. Although there was reason to be hopeful with October’s provtrans numbers, we now have actual VAT submissions to compare them to.” Nhlanhla clicked a button on the projector’s remote.
“The VAT target for this year is R350 billion, so an average of about R30 bill per month. The returns for vendors who are on a one-month VAT cycle are the best indicator, since we know what proportion they usually make up of any given two-month cycle. We also have some good estimates of how much they contribute to total GDP.
“Get on with it, please!” wailed Nkunku. “Davos is coming!”
Nhlanhla joined in with the round of laughs, and then cleared his throat.
“It looks like eight percent growth, so far,” said Nhlanhla, and was met with a variety of gasps. Everyone stared raptly at the new slide. “The one-month cycle VAT vendors have declared R28 billion in VAT all by themselves. The two-month vendors declared another ten, but one of the months they declared is before the first Dividend.
"It should be ten percent, if all of the additional Dividend money is going into the economy?” asked Jo.
“Quite a bit of it is just lying in the accounts, like we asked,” pointed out Makhosi. “More than twenty percent, in fact, so eight percent is bigger growth than the Dividend would account for.”
“Until we get the quarterly labour statistics, we won’t really know how many firms are giving the former PAYE to employees, versus dropping it to the bottom line,” added Phumzile.
Jo nodded, and returned her attention to Nhlanhla’s slide. “Hang on,” she said, tilting her head. “An additional eight billion is way more than eight percent of thirty billion.”
“26%,” agreed Nhlanhla. “But for a reasonable estimate, we have to deduct that 18% inflation.”
“VAT declarations are a quarter higher than expected?” frowned Thapelo. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” said Nhlanhla, deadpan. “Our analysis suggests that in October, sales increased, and labour was more productive. Firms needed to produce substantially more, because the customers were willing to pay. But, first, they took price increases that they’d been delaying for two years, because the economy was struggling.”
“Good lord, how much was corruption costing the country?” asked Phumzile.
Jo started at the blasphemy. Phumzile was usually impeccable with her words, and never swore.
“That is yet to be established,” shrugged Ivo. “Unless you have better data, boNtate?” Ivo looked at Nhlanhla, and then at Nkunku.
“Businesses have been holding down price increases, to attract the last of the customers…” responded Nkunku.
“And the last two months, we flooded the market for basic goods, with customers,” Nhlanhla added. “Indications are that the market will catch up on basic goods and start buying intermediary and luxury goods soon, especially over Christmas.
“But as far as corruption is concerned, I don’t think we’ll ever know the full extent. All we can do is deal with it when we find it, and see whether we can do more with the same money.” Nhlanhla looked glum for a moment, and then perked up. He directed their attention back to the projector screen.
“The Stock Exchange Tax is over target to completely replace the revenue lost from PAYE, but the number of transactions is decreasing already.  We’ll have to keep a keen eye on that,” said Nhlanhla. “It might not remain a cash cow, unless the growth translates into spectacularly better returns for shareholders.”
“Foreign transfer tax?” asked Nkunku, looking thoughtful.
“Double what we hoped for,” answered Nhlanhla, simultaneously gesturing towards the projector screen with the remote, and clicking to the next slide. “And almost half of them are not requesting import refunds.”
Julius whistled, quietly. Even Ivo looked stunned.
“So you’re saying twice as much money is leaving the country as you estimated originally?” asked Phumzile. “Good heavens!”
“Estimated optimistically,” confirmed Nhlanhla.
“It might be capital flight,” said Nkunku. “These are the first results, the investors have been spooked for months.”
Nhlanhla nodded. “So this, too, bears watching and careful analysis. But for now, it means we’re within budget to continue the Dividend. We don’t even need the savings on government spend.”
“We will continue to save until the state doesn’t spend a single unnecessary cent,” growled Jo. “If there’s too much money we can reduce tax rates or increase the Dividend.”
“That’s very premature,” admonished Nhlanhla, “with only two months’ results. Calm down.
“Finally, though, provtrans and what we need to refund,” Nhlanhla looked back at the screen.
“Just over R45 billion received for each of the two months,” he said. “Fifteen in refunds for October. But only a third of the vendors are completely up to date, and are paying arrears with provtrans instead of requesting refunds. It seems that the removal of the PAYE burden is freeing up cash flow and the provtrans is hurting much less than they feared. Many of the firms with completely clean slates are opting to de-register already. 27%, to be precise.”
“How much is SARS still owed in arrears?” asked Bantu. “That will dry up eventually, and then the refunds will increase.”
“Traditionally, SARS has never made that public, it measured its own performance on money in the bank. We’re working on changing that for purposes of transparency, especially since provtrans means that SARS is a net debtor to taxpayers.  Currently, there’s more than fifty billion outstanding, including penalties and interest. It climbed substantially over the last years of the previous administration, possibly a silent protest against corruption.”
“So, the upshot of all this, budget-wise?” asked Bantu. “You say we can continue the Dividend?”
“If these numbers reduce by a third we balance the budget. If they stay approximately the same, we can pay back our debt twice as fast. No more deficits.”
“And eight percent growth,” mused Bantu. He held up a dignified palm towards Jo. She blinked at him in confusion.
“Don’t you know how to high-five?” said Bantu, with a broad grin, and Jo laughed and complied. Then she turned towards Nhlanhla, and started clapping softly.
“Thank you,” she said to him, quietly. “All of you,” she continued, looking round.
The others were laughing and smiling too, and joined in the applause.
D plus 86
Christmas lunch with family
The family was around the outside table, mostly lounging back in their chairs to ease the pressure on bellies that were dealing with the effects of ‘just one more bite, for lekker, not hunger…’
The unspoken rule at family lunches was that phones were only for photos. They were usually scattered all over the open plan entertainment area. Certainly no-one was ever pre-occupied with their device, since conversation tended to be loud and impassioned in a group of people with such strong and disparate opinions on such a wide range of topics. 
The landline started ringing.
“Excuse me,” said Jo’s mother-in-law, “it’s probably one of my sisters to wish us a merry Christmas.”
Jo’s sister-in-law, Caren, had tracked down her phone to take a picture of the girls and grandpa, and had uncharacteristically checked on a notification.
“One of my neighbours says something big is burning in downtown Jo’burg, she can see the smoke and flames from our balcony side,” she said, her expression worried. 
Mzi burst up from the dining room table, where she was sitting eating a plate of Christmas lunch that Caren had pressed on her.
She practically flew out to the verandah, touching her ear-piece to hear better.
“Three occupied buildings burning in downtown Jo’burg,” she reported. “One is already gutted.” She was quiet for a few seconds, and then spoke into her microphone. “Hold on, I’m checking with MmaPrez now.”
“My phone…!” Jo flapped her hands at her husband, who hurried to find it for her. “Where’s Lucas? Tell him I’m leaving. You come too, Mzi, but let the rest of the team stay here with my family.”
She frantically dialled Roberta. The call rang to voicemail. She re-dialled. Again. Damnit, Rob, answer, please answer…
She was still trying minutes later when her husband handed his phone to her. “It’s Rob.”
“Fuck, Jo, your phone’s been engaged for ages. Every time I hang up, I have another missed call from you. Why don’t you have call waiting?! And what are we going to do?! Have you received any intel yet?”
“One is apparently already gutted. That’s all that Mzi has so far. She’ll tell me as soon as they know more.” She looked at Mzi, eyebrows raised, and Mzi responded with grim shake of her head.
“I’m driving to Jo’burg now. Can you get back to Gauteng?”
“Booking my flight,” said Roberta, tapping on a keyboard in the background. “It lands at six, but I’ll have to hustle to get to the airport. I’ll make some phone calls on the way. Ask Mzi to get my guys to wait at…”
“Hold on, Mzi might have something more,” interrupted Jo. “I’m putting you on speaker.” Mzi had raised her hand, and was listening intently.
“The destroyed building was derelict, but home to squatters. Many managed to evacuate, but there’s no way to know how many there were to start with.” Mzi listened again for a few seconds.
“One of the others was being renovated, the bottom four floors had tenants. Upper floors were sealed off, but there may have been squatters there too. Emergency services can’t get in there yet. Evacuation of lower floors not complete, but most of the units are empty.” Another few seconds of silence. “Apparently most of the tenants are foreigners, so they may have gone home for Christmas.” Another short silence. “And they’re starting to get the fire under control.”
“And the third?” Jo had a horrible sense of foreboding.
“Was due to start upgrades in Jan. The slumlord was served in terms of the new Municipal Appropriations Act, and has until June to make it fit for tenants. The existing tenants haven’t yet been relocated, but many moved out as soon as they could afford it with the Dividend.
“They can’t get into it. The fire is hot enough to worry about the integrity of the reinforcement. I’m sorry, Jo. Those poor, poor people…” Mzi trailed off.
Jo waved goodbye to her in-laws and hurried towards the car. “Did you get all that, Robbie?”
“Ja.” Roberta sounded resigned and worried.
Jo quickly kissed her husband and the girls, and got into her car, Mzi climbing in on the other side. Lucas drove off before their seatbelts had clicked into place.
“Find out how many floors, and how many units on each floor,” Jo told Mzi. “Also how many churches and halls close by, and how many they might be able to sleep for a few nights.
“Rob, shelter, food, basic goods.” She made a quick calculation in her head. Say twenty units per floor, ten floors per building, four people per unit. If they survived. “For at least two thousand people, until we have better information. Where do we start?”
“I’ll make some phone calls. I hope I can get through to someone on Christmas Day. Keep an eye on your texts. And for fuck’s sake switch on your call waiting.”
“I will. Travel safe. Bye.”
Jo’s phone rang immediately after Roberta had hung up.
“Hi, Kgethi,” she answered. ‘Merry Christmas’ seemed completely inappropriate.
“Hi, Jo. It’s terrible. I assume you’re on your way there?”
“I am.”
“What can I do?” Kgethi asked.
“We need to find the evacuees somewhere to sleep, and we need to feed them. Any ideas would be extremely welcome.”
“Let me try the Vice-Chancellor of Wits. That’s the highest decision-maker I know, in that part of Jo’burg. Hopefully he’ll take my call now the news is starting to spread.”
Jo finally activated call waiting. She thought for a moment, and typed a message on the Cabinet’s Whatsapp group. They might have some suggestions.
“Ma’am?” Mzi said, to draw Jo’s attention. It was annoying how she insisted on doing that when she wasn’t alone with Jo and Roberta.
“Yes?”
“The mayor’s at the scene, Ma’am.” She handed Jo a team phone.
“Mr Mayor,” greeted Jo.
“Madame President,” he replied.
“I’m on my way. How are Emergency Services coping?”
“We’re getting in extra support from further afield, but we’re short on ambulances. We’ve had to start taking the worst injured straight to Bara, because Charlotte Maxeke and Helen Joseph are at capacity, and the closer hospitals can’t really deal with serious burns.”
“Have you spoken to the premier or Health MEC?”
“Tried both, they’re not answering. I’m fairly certain the premier, at least, is abroad.”
“How many people left homeless?”
It was a few seconds before the mayor answered. When he did, he sounded tired and haunted. “I have no idea. There’s a crowd of maybe three hundred traumatized people in the park behind me. We’re taking them there for now, once the paramedics have checked them over.”
“I’ll see you in less than an hour, and I’ll talk to some people in the meantime. Strongs.” She handed the phone back to Mzi.
Then she typed a message to the group: Need ambulances. Too many wounded need to go to primary facilities that are far away.
There was a message from Roberta: Loading a truck at Makro. Tents, non-perishables, clothing, bedding. Soap and toothpaste. Can’t get hold of Procurement for a go-ahead.
I’ll see what I can do, replied Jo. Thanks.
Nhlanhla was typing, Jo saw. She waited for the message to appear. Procurement hiking in Peru. I can’t get into the system because we firewalled the VPN for security purposes.
Her phone started ringing. It was Kgethi again. She answered.
“Hi Jo, I got hold of the VC. He says he’ll ask for forgiveness instead of permission. There’s about six hundred rooms in the various residences that are empty and easily secured, and overflow can camp on the lawns and fields of East and West Campus. He’s arranging to open some of the kitchens now, but we’ll have to handle most logistics until he can muster volunteers from his staff.”
“That’s fantastic news, Kgethi, please tell him I am tremendously grateful.”
“Will do. I’ll keep you in the loop via text.”
“Please stick it on the Cabinet group, so we all know where we stand.”
“Of course. I’ll put on a message about what I just told you, too.”
“Thanks, Kgethi. Please excuse me, I have a call waiting,” she apologised to Kgethi, remembering why she always had the function off in the first place.
“No worries. Goodbye.”
Jo looked at the screen and answered. “Hi, Praneet.”
“Good morning, Jo. About the ambulances. Two of the private emergency medical services companies will send all the ambulances they can spare. And one private hospital group is sending them a list of how many unreserved beds they have in each of their facilities, so that the paramedics can send some patients there. I’m waiting for the others to get back to me. I’ll argue about the bill in January, if I can’t guilt them into calling it a donation.”
“That’ll help. Thank you. Please pop a message on the group.”
“Sharp. Let us know when you know what else is needed.”
Jo leaned back and closed her eyes for a few minutes. And thought.
Then she phoned Mosa.
“Jo! Merry Christmas! Huh…?” she said, apparently turning her head from the phone. “My mother says Merry Christmas too, and kisses for the girls. How are you?” the exuberant young woman bubbled.
“Terrible, sweetheart. I need your help.” Jo sighed before she could continue.
“What’s wrong? Are you all okay?” Worry creeping into her voice.
“The buildings on fire in Jo’burg, I need you to help me get student volunteers from your old Alma Mater…”
“What fire? Wait, let me turn on the news…” 
Jo waited, preferring that to saying the awful words.
“Oh, my God, Jo… this is terrible…” gasped Mosa, and then remained silent, apparently aghast at what she saw.
“Mosa… Mosa!” called Jo.
“Yes… yes.” She seemed to collect herself. “You said I could help.”
“We need some people who know the campus to volunteer to help us with logistics. Preferably current students, since they’ll already have verifiable student access cards. If they know one of the rezzes on East or West Campus, even better. For two or three days, probably. Fifty kids would help, a hundred would be better.”
“Can I put it on Twitter?” Mosa suggested.
“Yes! But ask volunteers to DM my presidential handle, so that we can co-ordinate the responses. We can’t have half of Jo’burg descending on ground zero hoping to help. I’ll get someone to respond quickly. Actually, ask them to DM their telephone and student numbers, then we’ll create a Whatsapp group. They’ll know we still need more volunteers if they get added to the group. I’ll get the group admin to add you, then you can forward a link to request membership of the group via text, too.” 
“I’ll get on it. Bye.” She hung up without waiting for a response.
She handed her phone to Mzi.
“Please text the Cabinet group. Ask Sally to get the Army in. Let’s call it two hundred. We’ll declare an emergency, ask Ivo how I go about that. And tell them that we’ll hopefully have student volunteers to act as guides.”
Mzi started typing, occasionally stopping to pay attention to her headset.
What else? thought Jo.
_ _ _

Jo arrives at Ground Zero
Lucas stopped the car in the park next to the mayor’s Audi. The car was ostentatiously dignified, much like its owner.
“This way,” said Mzi when they were out of the car.
Jo followed her for about a block, until they reached a barricade. The air was thick with smoke.
“Mr Mayor,” called Jo, when she spotted him standing in the eye of a hurricane of rushing firemen, paramedics and police.
He turned around at her call, as did the army officer standing next to him. Only one star, Jo noticed, but other icons above and below it. I need to get someone to explain the insignia to me.
“Madame President,” the mayor nodded. “This is General, uhm… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten,” he looked at the officer.
“Brigadier General Wagner,” responded the man. “Madame President,” he saluted her.
“Good day, sir,” she responded. Is it insulting if I don’t use that mouthful of rank? I hope not. Who is he? Can I talk with the Mayor in front of him?
Greying orange hair, skinny, but with a slight paunch. A brushy orange moustache that hid his upper lip. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. His disciplined, upright bearing made him look bigger. Doesn’t that stance have a name? She thought back to her marching band days in high school… At ease, she remembered, it’s called ‘at ease’.
Mzi noticed her lack of response and saluted him too. “Brigadier General.” He nodded.
“Ma’am, if I may?” Mzi asked.
Jo nodded, please, please do.
“AFMin sent the BG to set up a quartermaster and logistics centre,” Mzi started. She used Sally’s nickname, an acronym for ‘Armed Forces Minister’, which meant that Mzi had confirmed that he could be trusted if Jo spoke freely. 
“Where do we stand?” asked Jo of both the men.
“Wagner was asking where they can set up the control room. They have a skeleton staff here already, the rest will arrive shortly, but City doesn’t have much in the vicinity,” responded the mayor, pointing at a group of soldiers standing a few meters away. He had carefully pronounced the Afrikaans ‘g’ in the man’s surname. So I can get away with his last name, Jo thought, if the mayor isn’t only guessing, like I am.
“Wits has given us access to accommodation and food preparation facilities,” Jo started, then remembered a bunch of things. Damn my arrogance for not wanting a PA.
“Mzi, you’re going to need to act as liaison between us, the mayor’s people, and the BG’s people. I’m adding you to the cabinet group, so you’re in the loop, until Roberta gets here and her people can take over.”
Jo looked at the BG. “Can you assign one of your people to work with Mzi?”
“Khumalo!” he barked at the group of soldiers. One of them immediately ran over.
“Ma’am, it’s just Lucas and me, I can’t leave you until the rest of the team gets here,” Mzi objected.
“Then stay close,” said Wagner. “Khumalo’s soldiers will do the running around. Ah, here you are, Colonel. Khumalo, Mzi. Mzi, Khumalo,” he introduced them with gestures.
They saluted each other, no other response.
“Ma’am, your orders?” prompted Wagner.
Jo pressed her fingers to her eyes and collected her thoughts.
“Mzi, Roberta lands at six, get her detail to collect her from the airport. I don’t know the carrier, I didn’t think to ask, but she was in George.
“Get Kgethi to ask the VC what we can use for Wagner and Khumalo’s command centre. Get his number and deal with him directly. I don’t care about fragile egos today. What do you need?” she asked, turning to Wagner and Khumalo.
They looked at each other for a second.
“Space and plug-points for twenty computers and operators. Desks, if possible, but we’ll bring our own if not,” started Wagner.
“Storage for supplies,” said Khumalo. “We’ll need to allocate and distribute food and the like, for more than two thousand people, by my estimation. A place where we can process the evacuees and assign them space. Do we know where and how much accommodation there is?”
“About six hundred rooms scattered over East and West Campus,” replied Jo. “If they’re the same as Tuks, they’ll be single rooms, not big enough for more than three, but a bathroom for every six rooms at most. Roberta was organizing bedding,” Jo answered, grateful that he was so good at his job that he was reminding her of things she’d forgotten to act upon.
“So we need to get a list out of the VC asap,” Mzi said, making a note on her phone.
“And recce them so that we know where to take people,” added Khumalo.
“Oh, shit,” said Jo. They studiously ignored the swear word. She unlocked her screen, and noticed a text from her husband. I’ll look at that next, she thought, and opened Twitter. The young man whose job it was to respond to the presidential handle was on leave. Even if he had been checking in, he’d have no idea what to do with a bunch of DM’s with random numbers. Thirty-eight DM’s, when she clicked on notifications.
“Mzi, get the presidential handle on your Twitter. Reset the password via SMS if you must, it’ll get sent to my phone. The DM’s are from kids who are Wits students and volunteering to help act as guides. Telephone numbers and student numbers.”
“I’m not on Twitter, ma’am,” replied Mzi. “How do I do that?”
“I’ll help you,” said Khumalo. Was he almost smiling?
“And set up an admin approved Whatsapp group, add the numbers of the volunteers as they come in. Add Mosa immediately, and send her an invite link. Approve whomever responds until you have enough. Send any queries or instructions that way.”
“What, how much…?” blubbered Khumalo.
“Don’t worry, I’ll show you,” interrupted Mzi. She was staring up, pursing her lips to hide her smile.
“Speak to my PA, Adel. She’ll be here by tomorrow morning,” said the mayor, showing Mzi a number on his phone, which she jotted down on a clipboard she liberated from Khumalo.
 “We need to find somewhere put the uninjured evacuees until we get them set up at Wits. I really want the medics to be able to triage somewhere more private and comfortable than that pavement.”
Everyone turned to look in the direction the mayor was facing. Fireman were carrying people out of the partially renovated building, and laying them on stretchers held ready by paramedics.
Some stretchers were immediately loaded into the first available ambulance, but many people were being assisted across the roads to have cuts, broken limbs and slight burns treated in the makeshift ER on the pavement. 
Jo was suddenly exhausted. She had managed to ignore individual suffering while focussing on the needs of a large number of people. But one of the people carried out while she watched was a child, and the face had been covered with a sheet after a brief flurry of activity. She remembered to check her husband’s text.
Headmaster St John’s College called mom, they’ve been friends for years. He offered the school’s facilities to emergency services. Rooms for boarders have just been fumigated, but fields and halls and ablutions available. There was a contact attached.
“Mzi, Khumalo, take this number,” she said, and read it out. “St John’s has offered their facilities. No accommodation, unfortunately, but if we take the evacuees there we could cordon off the park for the medics, and get some tents up.
“What else?” she asked, weary.
“Somewhere for our guys to camp,” said Wagner. “They don’t need ablutions, we’ll get those in if necessary. Until then, we’ll share with the evacuees.” He turned to Khumalo with a snap of his fingers. “Cleaning detail.”
“Already on my list, Sir,” answered Khumalo.
“Lawns and fields on the Wits campuses,” answered Jo. “The VC thought we could use them for tents if there weren’t enough rooms for evacuees.”
“Thank you, ma’am, that covers my immediate concerns.” Khumalo paused. “Steenkamp. Field table for Mzi, double-time,” he shouted at the group of soldiers. “Since you need to stay close to Madam President,” he explained to Mzi.
Khumalo and Mzi stepped away to continue discussing their priorities and plan of action.
“Mr Mayor,” said a metro police officer, approaching the group. “There’s two big Makro trucks over there.” He pointed to the other side of the park. “They want to know where to offload.”
“Do either of you know anything about this?” the mayor asked Jo and the BG.
The supplies Roberta had finagled. “Ah, yes, Roberta said they were on their way,” responded Jo. “Thanks, officer, please speak to Mzi and Khumalo, over there,” she pointed. “There’s bedding and clothes and non-perishable food in the trucks.”
“There’s smoke coming out of that electric thingy…” said Wagner suddenly, his voice rising to a shout.
Khumalo immediately looked around to see what his superior officer was talking about. His eyes went to a fenced-in transformer, liberally barb-wired. Where he would have expected at least three fuses, there were none. There was, indeed, smoke. Then there was a blinding arc of green flame and the metal casing starting bulging.
“Everybody down, NOW!!!” he roared, tackling Mzi to the ground rolling so that Mzi landed on top of him, but a moment later was under him, shielded by his body. The soldiers complied immediately.
A split second later, Wagner grabbed Jo and mayor by their necks and threw them to the ground before landing on them with his arms over their heads.
Jo swallowed blood and turned her head to see where some emergency workers were standing, confused, staring at the prone group and others who had heeded the call.
“Down, down, DOWN!” screamed Khumalo. Some obeyed.
A devastating whoomp of sound and pressure reverberated through the streets. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of Jo’s ears and lungs. She couldn’t hear properly. Glass shattered everywhere and fell tinkling to the ground. Someone screamed. Many someones screamed.
“Electrical fire!” Khumalo was on his feet, waving the fire fighters towards the ripped casing of the transformer, which was still spitting bolts of green energy. They started getting up groggily. Some didn’t stir.
Wagner was up, too. “Boys, run!” He sprinted towards a three-story building next to the transformer. “That building doesn’t look right!”
The soldiers, those that could, ran into the building hot on Wagner’s heels.
Two minutes later, soldiers started pouring out of the entrance, carrying or leading injured and stunned occupants.
Wagner ran out with a small form in his arms. He settled the child with the other rescuees, and ran back inside.
Dozens of people were rescued before a soldier shouted and pointed up. “Get out, get out!” he shouted. The middle floor of the building was squeezing in on itself as some vital part of the structure failed. 
Wagner was the last to run out with another small shape, before the whole structure crumpled in on itself and collapsed in a cloud of dust and rolling rubble.
_ _ _

Mandla hears about Fire
Mandla watched his son fondly. Tumi was four, and moody, and thoughtful. So when he smiled as broadly as he was doing now, it was impossible not to smile back. 
Tumi had gravely watched while Mandla assembled the bicycle which was his Christmas present, and by the second wheel he had handed Mandla the correct spanner at exactly the right time. Maybe all kids try to put things together and take them apart, thought Mandla, but I think this one understands fast. I wonder who he will become as he grows.
Tumi had also asked all sorts of questions about the training wheels, and had immediately gone dashing around the yard without putting his feet on the pedals as soon as Mandla finished. But now, fifteen minutes later, the bicycle was parked near a wall and its box was the favourite, being set up as a club house, with a pillow and a few treasured toys arranged inside.
Mpho was chattering away, packing puzzle pieces into the back of a plastic truck that she had loaned from her brother by means of a wordless baby negotiation that was apparently concluded by a nod from Tumi. At two, most of what she said made sense, but she still had some code words that required her brother’s interpretive skills.
Mandla started collecting playthings and the remaining few condiment bottles and side plates on the table to take into the house. “Come, children, we’re going inside,” he called, and received wails of disagreement. “Go give Granny and Grandpa kisses. When they go home you’re going to miss them,” Mandla warned.
Tumi started packing things into his box with the head-to-the-side, go-slow reluctance of an angry teenager. Mandla stifled his laughter. Mpho pushed her truck towards the kitchen door, squealing with glee, leaving half of her puzzle pieces for Mandla to collect.
Mandla dropped his various burdens in the kitchen, and then stashed the bicycle in the laundry. He went to the TV room, to find Lebo and her parents watching a news bulletin with horrified expressions. They barely noticed him.
Mandla looked at the screen and saw a burning building. “Hey, I know that…” he started, before all the breath drained from his body. Bonolo and Myrie. My phone, where’s my phone?
As if in answer, his phone started ringing on the coffee table. His heart heavy with dread, Mandla grabbed it and answered.
“Mister Semenya?” enquired a stranger’s voice.
“Yes…” whispered Mandla, then cleared his throat. “Yes?” he answered again, more forcefully.
“Mr Semenya, your niece gave us your number. Your sister has sustained grave burns, she’s in ICU at Park Lane Clinic. Myrie is with her now, but she can’t stay at the hospital. Should we…”
“I’m coming,” interrupted Mandla. “Is Myrie okay? Can she come home with me?”
“Yes, sir, she has some cuts and burns but nothing too serious,” was the answer from the anonymous voice.
“And Chris? Bonolo’s husband?” Mandla remembered to ask, belatedly.
“We don’t know, sir. Myrie says he wasn’t home, and he’s not answering his phone. Many people were injured in the streets, sir, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Maybe in an hour. Please keep Myrie safe. Who am I speaking to?” Mandla remembered just in time.
“Wimpie van Staden, sir. I’m an admissions clerk at the hospital. When you come in the door, you’ll see five desks to your left. I’m at the third for now, but find me when you get here.”
“Thank you, Wimpie, I will. I’m on my way.” Mandla ended the call and took a few deep breaths.
“Oh, my love…” said Lebo, dragging Mandla’s attention back to his surroundings. “What happened?”
“Bonolo’s in ICU, Myrie is okay, Chris is missing,” replied Mandla, brusquely. “I have to go fetch Myrie and find out what is going on. Excuse me,” he said, and started dialling Karel’s number. Lebo nodded with patience and empathy, worried.
“Brother, you have to take me to Park Lane Clinic,” said Mandla, as soon as the call connected.
“Huh, what…? Park Lane? Of course, bro, is everything okay?” replied Karel, recognizing Mandla’s near panic.
“My sister got hurt in the fire. I want to see her, and fetch my niece…” Mandla keened softly, rubbing his eyes to hide the tears that were threatening.
“I’ll be there in twenty, I’ll need to stop for fuel on the way to you. Mandla, are you okay?”
“Of course I’m not okay!” shouted Mandla. “Just hurry up!” Two more deep breaths. “Please…”
“I’m getting in the car right now. Have a drink. Kiss your kids. I’ll be there soon.”
“Kay.” Mandla was mad with worry and fear.
_ _ _


Roberta arrives at Ground Zero
Jo saw Roberta coming, and they started running towards each other. Jo threw her arms around Roberta’s neck and started sobbing.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” asked Roberta, pushing Jo away to look up at her face anxiously.
“I’m fine, I’m fine…” Jo answered after a minute, wiping eyes and cheeks with the heel of her hand. The gesture re-opened a cut on her cheek.
“How bad?” Roberta quietly asked.
“Forty-five dead, so far. Over a thousand injured, six hundred with serious burns. Almost everyone got at least some cuts when the glass blew out in the explosion.
“Close to three thousand people that need somewhere to stay. One building next to the transformer started burning too, and they couldn’t fight it until they got the power shut down. It’s not so tall, thank fuck, but the occupants couldn’t get down, so they went up to flee the fire. If Wagner didn’t get an army buddy in with a helicopter in the nick of time, they would have died up there.”
Roberta stroked Jo’s upper arm as they tried to comprehend the magnitude of the disaster.
“Jirre, if Khumalo wasn’t an electrical engineer, it would’ve been worse. Without his warning, I would probably be dead.”
Roberta stretched her eyes, staring at Jo. She was still holding Jo’s hand in both of hers. Jo stared blankly at their hands, and shrugged. Then she looked back out over the slowly calming chaos.
“We’re going have to issue some retroactive permissions for all the rules broken today,” Jo said eventually. “The helicopter pilot took his chopper from the hangar when Wagner called him, without clearing it.” 
I won’t ever tell Roberta what I overheard, thought Jo. 
The pilot’s frantic voice had squawked out of the walkie-talkie. “Waar sit ek die kaffirs neer?” he had demanded in Afrikaans. “I have to get this lot down so I can get the rest before it’s too late.” Where do I drop the ‘black people’? It was an offensive term. It was a loaded word.
Jo hoped the mayor hadn’t heard it too.
“Who did you get hold of to get the purchase order for Makro?” Jo asked, to change her depressing train of thought.
“Oh, I didn’t,” said Robert off-handedly, clearly thinking about something else. “I used my card.”
_ _ _

Mandla driving to the hospital
Karel was driving the boring bit of the highway, so he could cast his view at Mandla every ten seconds or so. “We’ll be there soon, bro,” Karel soothed.
Mandla had his arms crossed, rocking forward and back against his seatbelt, staring ahead furiously. “I know. Bonolo is in a good hospital. Myrie will be safe once she’s with me.”
“What are you angry about?” Karel said in a low voice. “Tell me it’s none of my business, if you want.”
“It’s none of your fucking business,” seethed Mandla.
“Okay,” said Karel. He kept driving, worried about his friend’s state of mind. But if Mandla wanted quiet, he’d get it. They’d been working all hours for weeks. The plan had been to spend Christmas Day and Boxing Day relaxing, because they’d literally been working deep into the night and hadn’t spent any time with their families. They were even working on New Year’s, with a volunteer skeleton staff, but they were looking good to complete the refurb before school started. Although their timeline was allowed to extend to February, their discussions with Jonathan had impressed upon them how disruptive the loss of the classroom blocks would be. So they had tightened their planning and hired more LDC artisans. 
Almost everyone in their original team was running a team of his own. Or in Cynthia’s case, her own. Cynthia was their master detail painter. Doors, windows, skirtings, cornices, dado rails. All the things that needed colours that could completely bugger up earlier work when it wasn’t done cleanly and meticulously.
“Fucking fucker foreigner drug-dealer asshole motherfucker…” muttered Mandla, bringing Karel’s attention back to the present.
Karel glanced at Mandla out of the corner of his eye. “Who?” asked Karel, mildly.
“My brother-in-law,” growled Mandla. “Bonolo’s husband. Where the fuck was he? How are you not with your wife and her kid on Christmas Day? Probably out dealing. I’m so scared that I’m going to find out that Bonolo’s not dead because Myrie is the only fucking grown-up in that household. She’s twelve, for fuck’s sake. She buys what they need and wakes them up to eat. I never liked the fucker, and I’ve been worried that Bonolo has a crystal meth addiction, for almost a year now. Myrie protects them, she won’t tell me shit. But some of the stuff she says…”
“Crystal meth?” asked Karel. He’d never even smoked, marijuana or nicotine, in his life. Three beers at a Saturday braai with friends, or a special occasion, was his only vice.
“Tik?” explained Mandla. “Have you heard of that?”
“Ja…” said Karel. “But I kind of thought it was homeless kids in city centres?”
“It’s cheap, and easy to make. I’m pretty certain Chris was making it. And selling it on Christmas day. Instead of taking care of my sister and her daughter.”
“Sjoe, I’m sorry…” Karel was dumbfounded.
“Just get me to my sister, please.” Mandla was even more agitated.
“20kph over the speed limit, brother, we’ll be there soon.” Karel reached over and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. Mandla almost shrugged it off, but then slapped the back of Karel’s hand, still on his shoulder, twice, instead.

Holiday reminiscences
Jo and Roberta had stopped off at all the major nuclei of people, and had reached the kitchen at St John’s College, where supper was being prepared from donated fresh foods.
It was after eight, but many people were still waiting to be placed in temporary accommodation and a basic meal was being served in batches.
“What next?” Jo asked Roberta.
“We’ve completed my checklist,” answered Roberta, “but I’m too hyped to try find somewhere to stay. I do want to sit down, though.”
Jo looked around. There was an empty area near the rolling door for deliveries. Lining its one wall was a row of bags of potatoes.
“What’s happening with the potatoes?” she called out.
“We’re mashing them to go with the stew, ma’am,” responded the army chef in charge of the kitchen. “We ran out of maize meal a while ago.”
“Do you have enough peeled and quartered?” Jo asked.
“Getting to that next, ma’am. As soon as we get everyone settled, I’ll have three extra army boys in here.”
“How many bags do you need? And where are the peelers or paring knives?”
“About five bags… what, no, ma’am, I didn’t mean that…” protested the chef as Jo raided the closest drawer and picked up some big metal bowls.
She dumped the cutlery into the top bowl, and selected a knife. Bag of potatoes pulled closer, she sat down on the floor with two bowls in front of her.
Roberta held up one hand and sighed as she inspected her immaculate gel nails. Then she sat down facing Jo and picked up a potato and a peeler.
“What a shitty Christmas.” Roberta was pensive.
“Much shittier for all the people out there than for us,” Jo responded. “Holidays are overrated.” Then she giggled. “Do you remember that Christmas right after my divorce when your mother insisted I shouldn’t spend Christmas alone?”
“Ja,” Roberta smiled. “She sent my brother to collect you while you and I were still arguing about it. Then she sent me to buy you a six-pack when you gave up because my brother was at your gate. And then my auntie finished two of them before you even arrived. That was a surprise, we didn’t know she liked beer.”
“That was one of the best ones,” said Jo wistfully. Both Roberta’s mother, and the grandmother that raised Jo, had died not long after.
“And that Easter I visited you in Mafikeng, when it took me three days to realize that you were feeding me decaf coffee…”
“You were drinking too much coffee and not sleeping at all. I forced you to have a holiday, that was the whole point!” Roberta argued.
“I did take lots of naps,” admitted Jo, remembering the comfortable couch in the cool lounge, and waking up with the twins climbing all over her in their excitement to share their day. “I just didn’t understand why, until I saw you refilling the coffee jar. Cow.”
They looked at each other in mirth.
“The holiday in Hazyview was amazing too,” Roberta said.
They both smiled. Mom-in-law’s about-to-expire timeshare points had accidentally been booked by Jo over the week of Roberta’s birthday. The kids had loved the place, and Roberta’s twins had shown Jo’s much younger children all the best ways to have fun being naughty.
“Dancing all night in Harare, after our first show, and then frantically packing, with no sleep, to catch the plane. You broke your finger closing the window, and wouldn’t try to get it looked at…” Jo glared at Roberta.
“We would have missed our flight back to SA, and our connecting flight to Kenya, if I had,” groused Roberta.
She was right, Jo remembered. The Air Zimbabwe flight had been delayed, because someone had forgotten to file the correct flight plan. The pilot had told them as much when explaining why they weren’t taking off. Then, when they had finally ascended, the pilot had assured passengers that the flight wouldn’t land much overdue, because ‘we’re taking a shortcut over Musina’.
“We didn’t use Air Zim again, for the remainder of the campaign, did we?” asked Jo.
“No, but Kenya Air was always fantastic, unless you thought the choice was a joke and sarcastically asked for…”
“A warm beer!” they said together and doubled over laughing.
An hour’s reminiscing later, three young soldiers approached and stood respectfully waiting.
Jo looked up, to find the kitchen volunteers staring, and Xolo ineptly peeling a large potato that looked tiny in his huge hands.
“Hey, we’ve finished almost three bags, and the reinforcements have arrived,” quipped Roberta. “Time to get to bed.”
“Where, though?” asked Jo, “any vetted hotels in the area?” She had lost the fight so many times, she didn’t even bother any more.
“Sunnyside is vetted, ma’am, but they’re fully booked,” replied one of Roberta’s team. “We’re checking out the rest.”
Jo thought for a moment, and then said, “Ask Mzi. There might be something on campus that they couldn’t use because they couldn’t secure it.”
Roberta’s bodyguard, Thabo, wasn’t it? No, this was Eddie… responded after a brief interchange with his microphone-earpiece.
“Follow me, ma’am, ma’am.”
Soon, they trooped into the lounge area of the top floor of a residence reserved for post-grads. None of the rooms were empty, but a student volunteer had suggested the lounges when Mzi and the army team asked for recommendations. The built-in couches were ugly, but serviceable. Between their two teams, there was guard on each of the stairwells, two at the lifts, and one outside the door. Eddie sat on a spot just inside the door, watching Roberta and Jo making pillows out of scatter cushions, scarves, and a jacket.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d spoken to Arthur?” Roberta suddenly asked quietly, but bluntly.
“Dunno why I did it the first place. I have no idea what I’d do with him, but I didn’t want him on the outside pissing in,” was Jo’s sleepy reply.
Just before Roberta went to sleep, she heard Mzi come in and lie down on the third hard couch. Jo was dead to the world.

D plus 87
Social Workers
“Jo, Tsitsi for you,” said Mzi, gently shaking Jo’s shoulder.
Jo sat up, blinking, and rubbed sand from her eyes. Mzi was holding out a phone.
She took the device, squinted at the screen out of habit, and said, “G’morning, Tsitsi. Sorry, I just woke up, what time is it?”
“Morning Jo. It’s just before six, but I need to tell Melissa who to coordinate with. We’re sending in a skeleton staff of social workers to help with counselling and needs analysis, but we want to help, not get in the way of the emergency services.”
“Didn’t even think of that. Thanks. Forward Melissa’s number, I’ll get Mzi or one of Roberta’s team to call. What do you want to achieve? I’m not a hundred percent awake yet…”
“Pretty soon, we’ll have to find somewhere for the evacuees to live. We need to meet with the families one by one, and make case files. Where people are from, what they do for a living, where kids go to school. If they’re up to it, we need to know whether they have any options, family they could stay with, that sort of thing. Whether they have enough money to set themselves up again.” Tsitsi cleared her throat, and then carried on in a low voice. “We need to know how many people are missing, and help them find their loved ones. We need to take care of any children separated from their families, and hope to God that they haven’t been orphaned.” 
“Of course. Oh, fuck, these poor people…”
Tsitsi didn’t respond to Jo’s expletive. “We’ll send in more field staff as we realize what’s needed. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thank you, I’ll get the logistics people onto Melissa asap,” promised Jo, and ended the call. She sat with her head in her hands for a few seconds.
“Where’s Roberta?” she eventually asked Mzi.
“She left for the control room hours ago. She said to let you sleep,” Mzi said. “I sent one of Khumalo’s boys to find you a cup of coffee and a sandwich. There’s a wash-cloth and some soap in the bathroom, but I didn’t have a spare towel in my emergency tog-bag, so if you want to shower you’ll have to use mine. Roberta sent someone to go pack each of you some clean clothes, but I don’t know when those’ll get here.” Mzi got up to answer a knock at the door.
Jo looked down at her ratty outfit. Favourite dark brown cargo shorts, with an orange and white sleeveless top that didn’t remotely match. Her feet were covered with soot and a few spatters of blood that she’d missed when trying to clean up a bit last night. The plastic flip-flops on the floor next to her feet were probably not the best choice of footwear, Jo thought, but at least I wasn’t wearing girl shoes that would have killed my feet with all the walking yesterday.
She smiled gratefully as Mzi handed her a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a paper plate with a wilted sandwich on it. “Thanks.”
“I know cheese and tomato is not your favourite, but you won’t remember to eat later, so finish it,” instructed Mzi.
“You sure you won’t mind me using your towel? My husband thinks it’s gross when I use his,” asked Jo around a mouthful of, paradoxically, both dry and soggy sandwich.
Mzi shrugged. “It’ll get washed. I think you’d better try on my spare uniform too. Right now, you could be mistaken for an evacuee. I’ve also got some underpants. You probably aren’t wearing any.”
“Am too,” groused Jo. “I’ll rinse them out and shake them as dry as I can. But I can’t wear your uniform, I’m not a member of the forces.”
“You’re technically the Commander-In-Chief, I’m sure you’ll be forgiven for insulting the uniform,” said Mzi drily. “You’ll probably not wear the jacket, anyway. I’ll answer your phone while you’re in the shower. Do you want more coffee?”
“Yes, please,” answered Jo. “Where’s the uniform?”
Mzi handed her trousers and a shirt, and went to the door to speak to Xolo.
_ _ _

Mzi overhears Wagner, Khumalo’s response
Mzi was almost at the door of the control room, looking for Khumalo, when she froze, stunned.
Wagner was issuing a barrage of instructions, and the third word Mzi heard was the k-word. It was repeated twice more before he finished speaking.
She stepped through the door and waved to Khumalo. He said something to Wagner, and then joined her at the door.
“I need to introduce you to Roberta’s team,” Mzi explained to him, “they’re taking over from me now.”
She considered briefly. She and Khumalo had developed a lot of respect for each other over the last day and a half, maybe even come to like each other.
“How do you put up with it?” she eventually hazarded, as they purposefully walked.
“With what?” replied Khumalo. “Oh, the Brig. We’re used to it. I think to his generation it was a collective word for all the tribes, much like I might say ‘Russian’ and mean everyone from Ukraine to Mongolia.” 
Mzi grunted, still shocked and angry.
“Look, Mzi,” Khumalo said gently, “I don’t think some of the old ones will ever get it. But there’s no malice in it, from him, anyway. He certainly speaks isiZulu well enough.”
“I don’t like it,” Mzi said. “I don’t think the president will, either.”
“Please don’t tell her,” he asked, softly. “We’re the shit-hottest unit in the country. I’ve learned from him. And once you’re close, they pay attention to you. It’s just another word, like ‘Dutchman’. He told me once his father was made to wear a dunce-cap for speaking Afrikaans in school when the Brits were still in power.
“Those old arseholes made a country work towards preserving their tribe, their language. They screwed over your ancestors, and mine, in the process, I know.”
Khumalo smiled wryly. “My grandmother had to get permission to visit my grandfather, for years after they were married, until her ‘dompas’ was finally amended, because she was Zulu and he was Tsonga.”
Khumalo stopped, and grabbed Mzi’s forearm, holding her back, staring into her eyes when she turned towards him.
“There is something to be learned from history, however evil it is. I want to know how they did it.”
 “I’ll think about it,” said Mzi, and jerked her arm free. She strode toward Mapaseka, who was waiting a few meters away.
There’s nothing to think about, she said silently to herself.
_ _ _

Re-issuing papers
“InMin on the phone,” Roberta called to Jo, beckoning her over. They were in a courtyard adjoining the control room, where trees and shade seemed to dull a bit of the horror of the devastation just a few kilometres away.
“Madame Minister,” greeted Jo, mindful of all the aides and soldiers bustling around. Roberta echoed the greeting.
“Madame President,” replied Makhosi, equally formally. “I have no words. It must be terrible.”
“It is. Where will the orphans go? Even if we find interim accommodation for everyone, what are they going to do for clothes, for blankets? I feel so impotent. At least the donations from all over have been phenomenal, nobody is going hungry.”
“That’s sort of why I’m calling. Some of the citizens will get their Dividend on Monday, but how many evacuees managed to save their papers? IDs, passports. Do they have their PostBank cards? I’ve just spoken to Tsitsi, and it’s already a huge problem.”
Jo’s eyes widened. “Shit. You’re right,” she replied. “Please tell me you also have a solution?” 
“I think we need to get a mobile Home Affairs slash PostBank branch set up asap to issue temporary documents. I’ve also been speaking to Thapelo, and we have a team evaluating all the post offices in the area. We’re hoping we can set up in the campus branch, but we may have to get people to Marshalltown or Jeppe Street instead. The CEO is putting together a volunteer team of extra PostBank staff, and we’ll bring in the mobile Home Affairs hardware as soon we can. We should be able to get going during the course of tomorrow.
“We’ll be able to get the citizens sorted easily enough if they know their ID numbers and we’re able to compare ID photos and fingerprints,” Makhosi added. “I’ve mailed everyone a list of the criteria we’re considering accepting as sufficient proof to re-issue bank cards, and I’d like comments, quickly, please.”
“I’ll look at them right away, and get back to you,” promised Jo.
“We have another problem, though…”
Jo groaned. “Great. Okay, tell me?”
“How are we going to deal with the illegal foreigners? It sounds like there’s quite a few of them. Do we issue them anything? If so, what? How do we verify? Do we ship them all to Lindela? What if they end up stateless?”
“And they’ve just lost everything. It would be inhumane to deny them the assistance we give everyone else. They’re already at a disadvantage because they don’t qualify for the Dividend.” Jo sighed. “Okay, we’ll discuss it with the Cabinet. Even if we have to have an emergency teleconference or something. Send me what you have? I’ll try have an answer by the time you’re set up.”
“I will. Want me to put it on the Whatsapp group so long?”
“Please. I’ll speak to you soon.”

Jo confronts Wagner
“Please wait outside,” Jo asked Mzi, and stepped into the control room, closing the door.
Wagner was by himself for a brief few minutes. He looked up from his printouts.
“Ma’am,” he nodded, getting up.
“No, please sit,” waved Jo, but Wagner continued to rise and saluted her anyway.
“The uniform, ma’am,” he explained. 
Jo remembered what she was wearing and attempted a salute in return. “Sir,” she said crisply. “How was that?” she asked, half joking.
“Passable for a brand new troep,” responded Wagner. “Although I’d cite a trainee soldier for bringing the uniform into disrepute by wearing it with plakkies.” Flip-flops.
Jo smiled ruefully, and, pulling over a chair from another workstation, she sat down across his desk, leaning forward on her elbows.
“Het u ‘n familie?” Jo asked. Do you have a family?
“No, ma’am,” he responded, also in Afrikaans.
“Do you have a sister?”
“I had three, ma’am, but only one is still alive.” He leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms.
“If I was your sister, and asked you to stop calling me ‘poplap’, because that was what I was called by a relative who molested me as a child, would you try to avoid using the term in my company?”
“Of course, ma’am, but…”
“I’ve only just admitted it to you. It happened thirty or forty or fifty years ago. Do you think that makes any difference to me, to the revulsion for the word, and the awful memories it brings back? Would you understand if I told you it makes me want to vomit bile, just hearing it spoken out loud? Do you think it would help if you told me to ‘just get over it, already’?”
“No, ma’am.” He looked straight at her, uncrossing his arms, pensive.
“Stop calling the majority of our citizens ‘poplap’, and ignoring the hurt still lingering from the abuse of decades. I don’t want to hear anyone in your command use that word ever again.”
“Ma’am.” He rose to salute again, and then sat down to resume his work.
That’s a pretty neat dismissal, thought Jo, but he didn’t say yes or no. She got up from her seat.
Khumalo came barging through the door just before Jo reached it, and held it for her, saluting.
“Thank you,” she said, and walked away, Mzi silently stepping in behind her.
_ _ _

Rob and Jo finish up at Ground Zero
Mzi entered the bustling control room, and stepped aside so that Jo and Roberta could walk through. Thabo came in behind them, and waited on the other side of the door from Mzi.
“Brigadier General, Colonel, soldiers,” greeted Jo. Roberta waved.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” they all responded, standing up to salute.
“At ease, please,” asked Jo, having almost gotten the hang of it. 
Jo and Roberta had come in to check whether any additional support or supplies were required, before they went back to the Union Buildings to sort through the implications and ramifications. Christmas holiday was over, they had agreed.
“Don’t worry, sweet,” murmured Wagner, reaching down.
Jo leaned in, to see him patting the head of a boy, maybe five years old, sitting against the wall behind Wagner’s desk. Next to him was a girl of around nine.
Wagner noticed Jo snooping, and sighed. He gestured for Jo to come around his desk, and pointed. “This is Ben, and this is Lily. I can’t pronounce their full names. We haven’t found their parents.”
Roberta approached and went down on her haunches. She addressed the children gently, in seSotho.
“Dumelang, banna. Le bitso ya mama ke mang?” Hello, children. We want to know your mummy’s name?
They stared back at her, wary.
“They’re Angolan, and they’re not siblings,” explained Wagner. “They were rescued from the building that collapsed. They only seem calm with me.”
“Are they the kids you carried out?” asked Jo, remembering.
Wagner looked at Jo in surprise, and then at the children, his eyes softening. “Ben, yes. Lily, probably. I didn’t have enough time to soothe her before the building came down, so I didn’t really look at her face at the time.”
So many aspects that had never occurred to me, thought Jo. This team is one of the most efficient, effective groups of people I’ve ever seen in action.
They had a brief discussion about the way forward, and then Jo and Roberta headed home.

D plus 88
Illegal immigrants 1
“It keeps coming back to the illegals, doesn’t it?” Roberta said to Jo, sombrely. They were sitting on the floor of the biggest boardroom on their floor, surrounded by printouts of reports, spreadsheets, and graphs. They had pushed the table and most of the chairs against one wall.
Makhosi, Sally, Julius and Ivo had all sent links and reports in response to Jo’s urgent request. Tsitsi was heading in and would be there soon to join the discussion. 
More than half of the fatalities and injuries recorded so far had been foreigners. Of those, only a third had been in the country legally.
“At least I didn’t have to deal with the burns, and the people in agony.” Jo was pathetically grateful for that, but was also worried about the emergency services personnel that did have to. Not to mention the faceless thousands who suffered the agony, and in many cases, died.
“If I am so distressed by the little I saw, our people that actually worked with the survivors and deaths must be traumatized. I don’t even have the balls to imagine the face of one injured person.” Jo’s voice was scathing, her self-disgust unmistakeable.
“I know. But trying to put a face to the numbers will paralyse us,” Rob said. “Stop imagining it. Our people managed, somehow. The survivors are housed and fed, somehow. The injured are receiving treatment. The dead don’t care. Unless they’d blame us for not taking care of the survivors.”
“Numbers. Okay,” said Jo. “Numbers only.” No thinking about medics giving the strongest painkillers they have, because the person they’re trying to save has no skin any more. No envisaging how much courage and love it must take to run into a burning building because people are hurting in there, lungs scalded by every breath, while the fire comes closer.
No imagining being trapped under something and shouting at your children to go, run, leave me, get out, for God’s sake! No thinking how a child must feel when mommy or daddy is screaming at me. No thinking about the little ones that would have tried to pick up an over-hot hand and said, come Mommy, wake up Mommy, please Mommy...
No thinking about the terror, and the pain, multiplied so many times. No thinking about all the people that are never going home.
I have no time to mourn. I have no right to grieve. There is work to do.
Tears started rolling down Jo’s face as she tried to focus on one of the enlarged printouts. She couldn’t stop them. She also didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Oh, honey,” said Roberta, scooting over to put her arms around Jo. “Oh, sweet, let it out.”
Jo put her arms around her friend’s neck, holding too tightly, and started sobbing. Within moments, Roberta was also weeping.

Tsitsi arrives
“Oh, here you are,” said Tsitsi. She had been scuttling down the passage and glanced into the boardroom as she passed the doorway, since Xolo was sitting in the corridor next to the door. 
“Hello,” she said, as she entered the room, “I got here as quickly as I could.” She looked around. “Why are you sitting on the floor?” Then she looked at Jo more closely. “Why are you crying?”
“Am I, still?” asked Jo. “I thought I’d gotten it under control.” She wiped a hand over one eye, surprised to find it still wet. Then, with both hands, she rubbed her eyelashes dry with her fingertips, and ran the heels of her hands over her cheeks and down the sides of her nose. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It must have been rough at Ground Zero, I understand,” said Tsitsi, gently.
“Ja. For more than three thousand people, it was frikkin terrifying. We got off lightly,” replied Jo. She felt a new tear running down her cheek. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel like I’m crying. My eyes are just leaking against my will. But let’s get to work.”
“We’re sitting on the floor because this one,” said Roberta, cocking her head at Jo, “prefers to. And she wants to be able to see all the papers at a glance. But we’ve got the important ones fished out now, I’ll pin them to the wall so that we can sit at the table, on chairs, like normal people.”
Jo smiled gratefully at Roberta, the snarky joke had helped her regroup a bit. “Kay, I’ll go make some coffee,” she offered. “How do you take yours, Tsitsi?”
Tsitsi arched an eyebrow. This woman was definitely weird. Jo was wearing a white cheese-cloth shift, loose and cool, but Tsitsi realized it was all she was wearing. “Rooibos, please. No milk, two sugars,” she eventually responded.
“Mug or teacup?” asked Jo. “And do you want me to leave the teabag in?”
“Teacup. And yes, leave it in. I prefer it stewed black and cooled down before I drink it.”
“Some for you?” Jo asked Xolo as she left the room.
“I’m good, thanks, ma’am,” he responded.
Tsitsi pulled three chairs over to the boardroom table, on which Roberta, in stockinged feet, was kneeling to pin up a bunch of printouts she had selected from the myriad on the floor.
“You’re too polite to ask,” said Roberta, “so, yes, she’s always like this. You should see her when she’s been drinking. I love her to bits, but most of her screws are loose and the rest have already fallen out.”
“Then, why…?” Tsitsi wasn’t sure how to continue. She’d only ever interacted with Jo in the formal environment of cabinet and ministerial meetings. This off-the-clock, no shoes, sitting-on-the-floor version was unnerving.
“Because she wants to understand everything, and she doesn’t stop asking until the answers make sense. To her. It’s annoying, she lives in her own la-la land where everything is possible if you cut the money and the priorities fine enough. But she really does think how things affect other people with no thought about herself, and she sees each person as a unique soul who has something to teach her. I have to remind her that her family are also citizens and she’s neglecting them.” Roberta pointed to an A2 printout of an organogram in the corner furthest from the door. “Hand me that, please?”
Tsitsi picked it up and passed it to Roberta. “I don’t think I’m following,” she said.
“She’s an idiot savant who wants to know how many bricks and how much cement goes into every wall. And then she asks why it’s so expensive, when, if she built it herself and paid herself an average bricklayer’s wage, it would be a quarter of the price. By the end of this term, she’ll likely have turned up somewhere and asked some Ntate to teach her how to lay bricks. That’s how much she wants to learn.”
“I’m lost.” Tsitsi said. “I really don’t understand what you mean.”
“Jo will kill or die to make life better for everyone. Starting from shack-tenants. She says the money is already there, if the state keeps its tentacles out of free trade and does what it’s supposed to without graft. I have an inkling that she thinks government is entirely superfluous, apart from infrastructure, and maybe not even that. I do believe that she can, and will, sort out a lot of the problems in the five years.
“She’ll be back soon. Do you want to take off your shoes? I’m hoping to get this meeting done before she asks you if you mind her working naked.”
“What…” Tsitsi started to say, then “… no, never mind.” She looked down at her professional, tailored dress. It was a little constrictive around her waist and knees, and her demure, but expensive, high-heeled pumps suddenly seemed overkill. My feet are always uncomfortable, and eventually sweaty, under a boardroom table, she thought. And I’m working on a Friday between Christmas and New Year. Maybe the shoes can go.
She evaluated what Roberta was wearing. A sleek, navy, all-in-one pants-suit, made out of some material with a hint of shine. And stretchy. Roberta is wearing something that’ll look good and still be comfortable, even when she’s sitting on the floor. Her Manalo’s, navy and white platforms with clear plastic wedge heels, were tossed in a corner.
Jo walked back into the room carrying two mugs in one hand, and Tsitsi’s cup and saucer of rooibos in the other. She had a towel or something tossed over one shoulder.
“Here you go, Tsitsi,” she said, handing over the cup-and-saucer. Then she put the two mugs on the table, and sniffed one. She picked up the other and handed it to Roberta. “Your Blue Mountain.”
“Thanks,” said Roberta and took a sip. “Hot.”
“I sent Mzi home for a week,” Jo explained to Tsitsi. “She didn’t sleep at all the whole time we were in Jo’burg CBD. And no man who has never been a waiter can make me a decent cup of cheap instant coffee.”
“Hau!” said Xolo, leaning his head into the doorway. 
“Yes, that one you made me last month was perfect,” Jo laughed with him. “But I can’t have you guys fetching coffee. Mzi makes for me because she drinks coffee as often as I do.”
Jo looked up at the documents pinned to the wall. “Where’s the one about the estimated geographic spread of illegals? Ah, thanks…” she said, heading to the pile Roberta was pointing at. She brought it back to Roberta. Then she spread her towel on one of the chairs, and sat down at the table. 
Tsitsi, still nonplussed, thought for a moment and undid a couple of buttons at the waist of her dress. She kicked off her shoes and sat down too.
“We have to find somewhere for the evacuees, legal or not, to live,” started Tsitsi. She checked her phone to confirm, before continuing. “As at an hour ago, we have almost a hundred children that are probably orphaned, and we think there’s about three hundred people unaccounted for. That excludes the injured that are still in hospital. Some of them have not woken up yet. Does Prof have stats about the numbers in the hospitals?”
“Uhm, yes… That pile, right, Rob?” Jo hopped up and paged through a dismantled report. She returned with a spreadsheet.
They all scanned it. “Three hundred already released from hospital, another two hundred are still critical. Fifty-two more died,” read Roberta. 
“So maybe five hundred that will be released over the next week or two,” calculated Tsitsi. “Added to the two thousand seven hundred currently staying at Wits.”
“Do you have a breakdown of citizens, legal, and illegal foreigners?” asked Jo. “Whichever route we choose to deal with refugees, we still have to take care of our own people first.”
“Melissa and her team are collating the data as fast as they can, but we’ve only properly interviewed about a third of the evacuees so far. I hesitate to make an estimate…” grimaced Tsitsi.
“Ballpark, at least?” asked Jo.
“Only from the first thousand, then,” said Tsitsi, and looked down at a screenshot on her phone. “Two hundred and seventy-three families. A hundred and thirty families are citizens or permanent residents with children. Fifty-eight are legal immigrants, also with children. Forty-six are illegals, but very few children. The remainder aren’t really families, they’re young people, students or working, who shared accommodation, ninety-eight singletons in total.” She scrolled down. “Only thirty-nine of the families have somewhere to go.”
“So we have to make a plan for… pretty much eighty-five percent of the evacuees,” calculated Jo.
“And all the people that will be coming back to work in the new year,” pointed out Roberta. 
“Shit. You’re right. How many days can we still use Wits’s facilities? If we must, we’ll set up tented camps, but they won’t be terribly convenient for people who are able to get back to work. If we know we have another week or two, we can start relocating with less pressure.”
“Until midday of the 10th, maximum. After that, the house committees will begin returning to prepare for the first years,” Roberta answered without checking anything.
“Can we speed up work on one of the building refurbs?”
“One is almost done,” answered Tsitsi. “But we’ve already started advertising it and a quarter of the units have deposits paid to move in in February.”
“How many are unreserved?” Jo asked. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She thought. If only I could abracadabra housing from all the bricks we’re shitting.
“Around sixty. They’re substantial units, though. Ninety squares, three beds, two baths,” Tsitsi answered. “And they weren’t in terrible shape, if we fix plumbing and glazing and locks, and hold off on paint and plaster and flooring, we could get the last few done in record time. Not good enough for renting, but certainly no worse than those buildings probably looked before the fire.”
“I can’t believe I’m thinking this, never mind saying it,” Jo started hesitantly. “But ask the evacuees to each find two other families with whom they can share a unit that size. Only one lockable room per family, but two bathrooms at least, for what, twelve people? We can let them live rent-free for a bit, while they use their dividend to get back on their feet. Once we’ve used up the housing stock we have, we’ll evaluate the rest of the problem. What do you think?”
“Eish,” pondered Roberta. “Maybe. If one has no alternative, I suppose you could make it work.”
“Actually, many of the evacuees are developing friendships with their neighbours and the emergency workers,” ventured Tsitsi. “And we’ve done some swop-outs when people tracked down family and friends and asked to be moved closer to them. Free for a few months, instead of being homeless?”
“They’d have a support structure of people who know what they’ve been through,” commented Jo. “Maybe one parent can watch babies, and another takes older kids to school, so that those with jobs can keep doing them.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes. “It sucks, but it could be a good thing in the long run, if families work together.”
“Give me five to call Melissa,” requested Tsitsi, and swivelled her chair around to make the phone call.
Jo turned to Roberta. “Robbie, the orphans…”
“Sorry, what?” asked Roberta, having taken the gap to check her notifications. She had gone grey. 
“The orphans,” Jo reiterated. “The kids whose parents have not been found…”
“Jo, they’ve recovered more than two hundred bodies this morning. I don’t think those mommies and daddies will be found…”
“Over three hundred dead, then.” Jo sighed deeply. “So far.” She pushed back her chair and put her bare feet on the boardroom table, leaning back with her hands behind her head. She, too, was deathly pale.
“I wish you’d frikkin shave your armpits if you’re going to foist your near nudity on all of us,” Roberta lashed out. “Really?!” Then, more quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m being catty. But this is so big and so scary.”
“It is. No need to be sorry. Any word from Makhosi about when they can start issuing temporary paperwork?” 
“Still need to decide about the illegals,” answered Rob, “everything else is pretty much on target for starting this afternoon sometime.”
Tsitsi completed her call and turned back to face the other two women. “My team will start spreading the word and asking the questions about sharing housing. It’s only a hundred and eighty families, but it’s a start. What were you saying about papers?”
“How many evacuees managed to save their papers? IDs, passports. Do they have their PostBank cards?” Jo asked. 
Tsitsi’s eyes widened. “Shit. I’ll tell Melissa to ask about the PostBank cards,” she replied, and started texting. “Also phones, it doesn’t help that we have someone’s number if we can’t reach them on it because it’s a pile of melted slag.”
“No matter how I look at it, everything about this disaster was exacerbated by illegal immigrants,” said Jo. 
“I want to prioritise increased border security and deportation,” replied Roberta. “My heart bleeds for all the injured, but the number of illegals strained our medical resources to the limits. We can’t let it continue like this.” Roberta’s expression was conflicted.
“I honestly don’t think being tougher on illegal immigrants will make any difference,” said Jo, staring at a spot between a bar graph and a spreadsheet.
“You don’t want to be tougher on foreigners that broke our laws to be here in the first place? Are you kidding?” Roberta’s lip curled up on one side, the sneer that Jo knew meant that she was angry, and getting angrier.
“Ja, Jo, I don’t think that’ll be very popular,” agreed Tsitsi. “Foreigners, taking jobs, getting involved in crime, and under-cutting local businesses. Nobody likes them.”
“Except when they sell a boiled egg for a slightly lower price so that a mother can buy five instead of four. And they do it by living in their shops, and the whole family pitching in to get the work done. Or when they’ll work for less money and no benefits and no job security.” Jo had been thinking about this for years. 
She was met with sceptical expressions and stony silence.
“Look, I don’t think the jobs are ever going to come back. There is more and more automation. World-wide, productivity keeps increasing while jobs keep getting made redundant. The abnormal profit that has been made by the capital owners for centuries will remain concentrated in their hands unless we change something huge. Entrepreneurs must see their risk rewarded by profit, unless we want no entrepreneurs either. My thinking targets rent-seekers for taxation purposes.
“If basics are covered through UBI, our people can start selling their time and skills on a much more equal playing field. Or become entrepreneurs themselves. Or choose to work only during planting season and sell jewellery or CVs or nice thick woolly socks the rest of the time. Creative work, challenging work, rewarding work. The foreigners don’t have that choice, unless their outsider’s point of view allows them to start a new business, which they can now do, because all their prospective customers actually have some money.
“Historically, immigrants have always been the poor fuckers that must do the work no citizen wants. How crappy must your earlier options have been for you to sneak into a country, get a shitty job, and live in a hovel with too many other people? How do we have so little compassion for people who think the crumbs off our society’s table are enough to live on? 
“The US was built on taking all the desperate people nobody else wanted. They have eight times as much land as we do, and more than five times as many people. But their average space available per thousand people is only 20% percent higher than ours. And half of theirs is under snow half the time. Not to mention no free medical services, no maternity leave even.
“How many of our rural areas still don’t have running water? Do you really believe that all the young bright ones in the cities would rather be in Jozi than back on Grandpa’s farm? There is food to be planted in, and sold from, places that all the previous governments have conveniently forgotten about. There are economies to be grown, and genius to be discovered, if we simply worry about more than the conveniently-located rich.
“I’ll stop there and get back to the point.
“No matter how much good housing we make available, it’ll keep getting usurped and overwhelmed if we don’t have a way to control numbers of occupants, and quality standards versus price levels. And if everyone wants to live in the city, where there’s work, instead of the state enabling value-add where people already are.
“The only way to deal with the cartels and the pimps and the drug dealers is to make them more obvious by legitimising true refugees. Economic or political.”
“And you think you can do this?”
“I do. I think.” Jo pointed at a pie graph at the far right, part of Sally’s information. “Look at that. Almost half of illegal immigrants detained have no papers at all. How the hell do you apply for a passport if you don’t have a birth certificate? They don’t officially exist even in their home country. Then they’re stateless and they have to be released after 120 days in Lindela. Where they cost 50% more than the UBI each month they were detained. Not to mention the cost of law enforcement to get them there in the first place.
“A bunch more have expired papers. They jumped through a million hoops, probably at great expense, and weren’t able to get back in time to jump through them all again, for fear of losing a treasured job. I’d bet that is a pretty accurate surmise in many cases. I reckon, we invite them to apply for refugee status. We get all their fingerprints. We interview them extensively, with an interpreter if necessary, to get a detailed biography. Ask their home country for any information they have. They then have a few months to tell us who their citizen sponsor is, a spouse, or a family member, or an employer. If you’re here and not living with someone, and not working, I’m reluctantly prepared to assume that you’re surviving through crime.” 
“So you want to legalize all the illegal immigrants?! You are truly certifiably insane…!” Roberta’s sneer was literally jumping.
“They’re here anyway, Rob. Maybe only two million of them. But they’re off the radar because they have to hide. We don’t know who they are. We don’t know where they are. We send them to Lindela if we find them, and then we deport them, on our bill. Sometimes they haven’t been home in years.
“Next, we say ‘you can’t come back legally unless you pay for the cost of your earlier deportation.’ So, of course, they sneak in again. Don’t you see that the system isn’t working? As much as I want to protect the rights of our citizens, we’re not somehow a superior subset of humanity. And we’re worse off because we make illegals furtive.”
Tsitsi was ashen. “You’re saying we should give them permission to be here. For how long? For how many? And how?”
“We already have inactive refugee centres. We can make the process onerous in terms of time and co-operation, but not in terms of cost.”
“And then? That’s the stick. What’s the carrot?” Roberta wasn’t snarling anymore, at least, thought Jo.
“Then you’re legal, and employable. If you memorise your ID number, you’ll be traceable, with photo verification, even if your papers are lost or stolen. And if you keep your record absolutely clean for five years, you can apply for residency. Five years’ spotless residency, and then you can apply for citizenship. If you want to. With citizenship comes UBI.”
“And if we have your fingerprints, you may be linked to crimes. One could even run old cases against the refugees’ fingerprints.” Tsitsi chewed the tip of her little finger.
“To do that, we’d have to get the technology universal enough to match crime fingerprints against the Home Affairs database. They’ve been taking fingerprints for what, twenty years now?”
“Not sure,” answered Tsitsi. “They definitely took mine.”
“You’re quite a bit younger than we are,” commented Roberta. “They didn’t take mine.”
“But mine they did, somewhere along the line,” said Jo. “I don’t know how long ago, though. I’ve applied for two passports and one replacement ID over time.” 
“Actual criminals are unlikely to apply if they know fingerprints will be taken,” mused Roberta. “So anyone paperless, who is apprehended, needs extra scrutiny from the get-go.” She toyed with one pearl earring.
“I don’t like it. I’ll need to think about it,” Tsitsi said. “Makhosi is likely to be worst affected. And it does nothing for the affordable housing.”
“I concur,” said Roberta.
“We need a decision from the Cabinet in the next few hours. Or Makhosi will purposely allow a thousand illegals back into the grid, or post them to Lindela, where it’s unconstitutional to detain children or pregnant women. We’d be way better off if your people, Tsitsi, and Makhosi’s, get whatever information you can glean. In return for a permission slip.”
Tsitsi and Roberta were both thinking, and studiously avoiding Jo’s gaze.
“Will you Whatsapp everyone a short precis?” Jo asked. “Response needed asap, on possible process for formalizing illegals.” Roberta nodded. 
“What are the hold-ups from an affordable housing perspective? What about Municipal Appropriations buildings?” Jo asked Tsitsi.
“Some landlords are coming to the party on their own volition,” replied Tsitsi. “But not all, and not fast enough. And when we issue tenders for mega-projects, the Developers always focus on higher-income housing. They keep targeting the richer niches, despite the fact that housing stock for them is adequate.
“The Municipal Appropriations landlords seem to think that upgrading tiny units to bare habitability means they get to charge Sandton rents. Expecting housing to be clean and functional and reasonably priced is apparently too much to ask. Some of those buildings have been paid off for decades, delivering lucrative, easy rental streams from poor people too desperate to argue when the toilet stops working.
“I’m beginning to think that if we want decent basic housing, we’ll have to run the projects ourselves. Or more and more of the convenient land will end up being under unaffordable luxury units that stand empty four months out of a year.” Tsitsi thought for a moment. “That about sums it up.”
“Could you put together a presentation?” asked Jo. “I do want to evaluate all of that critically, with input from the others…”
“No problem,” replied Tsitsi. “Next CabMeet soon enough?”
Jo nodded, then looked at Roberta. “For next CabMeet: Formal, affordable rental housing in key areas, with enforceable occupation limits. And whether state should step in and cut out middlemen from a development point of view. People will still be able to use their first purchase where they want to, but getting the good job in the city shouldn’t mean having to live in squalor. 
“Next, report back on where we stand with rural water supply.
“Last, but definitely important long-term, do we need to review the formal disaster-response plans, and if so, how should they be improved? Particularly from Health’s perspective.”
Roberta nodded absent-mindedly, while scribbling.
“Could you two moderate the debate about Makhosi’s response to the illegals? That’s urgent, and I think my dodgy opinions are likely to add fuel to the fire instead of delivering a clean emergency strategy,” Jo asked the two women.
“Ja,” replied Roberta, sardonically, “I definitely agree. Okay with you, Tsitsi?”
Tsitsi nodded, then she and Roberta bowed their heads together and started to compare figures and discuss arguments.
Jo watched them for a minute, then got up for a walk to the nearest bathroom.
“They’re pissed off with me, but I outrank them, and Roberta currently hates me for it,” Jo said to Xolo, as she stepped out of the bathroom. Then, quietly, “Any way you could procure me a small joint?”
“Not a chance, ma’am,” replied the stoic mountain of a man.
“Could you try, at least?” Jo wheedled.
“No, ma’am, you’d take me on about it in the morning,” Xolo growled.
“I wouldn’t. Have I ever?”
“You’ve never asked, before, ma’am. How would I know? But you do pick fights anew the next day.”
“Granted. Okay, would you mind asking someone to get me some Nando’s extra hot wings?”
“With salad, or mash, ma’am?” Xolo intoned.
“Actually, chips, today. Some extra sauce, also extra hot, if they’re not difficult… And please get those two a whole chicken with chips or whatever, too. I’m worried they’ll bite me. How many more of us here today?”
“Ordinary security, ma’am. Plus me and Lucas, Thabo and Eddie. Maybe Mama Tsitsi’s driver.”
“Ask someone to get everyone something decent to eat. This will probably take a while.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Xolo said, and reached into his pocket. “Clear it with Siya?”
“Don’t bother. Let as many of us as still can have a holiday have it. You know where my personal card is?”
“Top drawer of your desk, under the paperclip tray.”
“You know the pin?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have I told you I’m honoured to have you on my detail?” Jo asked.
“No, ma’am. I’m glad to serve you, ma’am. Ma’am, you’re dancing about a bit, I think you’re about to pee on my pants. Please go before you burst.”
“Only if you respond right. Xolo, I’m Jo, pleased to know you.” She held out her right hand.
Was his craggy face almost smiling? Nah.
“Honoured to know you too, ma’am… Jo.” He shook her proffered hand. “Now go toilet, or we’ll all stay hungry.”
_ _ _

Illegal immigrants 2
“Makhosi is drafting the gazette declaration as we speak,” started Roberta, when Jo came in from the balcony with her box of take-away food. Roberta was delicately cutting up the chicken with a knife and fork, not getting even a smear of sauce on her pristine manicure. Plates and cutlery were waiting, and a proper set of salad spoons nestled in the salad. “Grab a plate,” she gestured.
“I eat my take-aways out the box, thank you,” answered Jo. “A friend of mine says that you don’t have grease up to your ears and elbows you haven’t enjoyed your junk food.”
“You savage,” commented Roberta, and sat down to eat.
“Cabinet is grudgingly agreed, in principle,” Tsitsi informed Jo. “For now, for the emergency. There’s going to have to be a lot of fine-tuning and negotiating, still, but everyone concurs that we need to collect information about the survivor illegals, at least.”
“No free-for-all at home affairs in January until all the T’s are crossed and I's dotted,” cautioned Roberta.
“I’ll take what I can get, for now,” Jo said, with a resigned look on her face. “What’s the process?”
“An extra categorization option of ‘displaced’ under visa type. We don’t want to use ‘refugee’ because of international convention, and because it’s probably not true in many cases.
“The social workers will complete interviews, and then take people to get their temporary Displaced visas. For now, Home Affairs won’t duplicate the interviews, in order to speed up the process, but Social and Justice will have to help them bash out a viable and sufficient process for later.”
“Ivo pointed out a problem, though,” said Roberta. “What if citizens want to apply for papers for family members they haven’t found yet? Before we identify the bodies, no-one will be sure who is missing and who died. If we are even able to identify all the bodies.”
“Or they won’t get a dividend they have started relying on…” Jo winced, and rubbed the back of her neck, her eyes closed. “It just gets shittier and shittier, doesn’t it?” she continued, looking up.
“Makhosi suggested we allow them to receive those, if the next-of-kin relationship can be verified. But the cards are inactive, and flagged as belonging to a missing person,” Tsitsi explained. “If we’re lucky, that person will apply on his own behalf and we can re-unite them. Else, if the person’s account shows no activity, via the original, active card, for two weeks, the kin can apply for access to the funds.”
“And register the probable death of their loved one, for the funeral payout. I see.”
“Makhosi and I think it’ll help tie up missing and injured people with the fatalities. Social has started seeing the patients, too,” added Tsitsi, to a nod from Jo.
“Next, Ivo says, what if DPs don’t want to be documented?” Roberta asked.
“Sorry, DPs?” interrupted Jo.
“Displaced Persons,” Roberta clarified, then continued. “His suggested solution is to offer them a once-off disaster grant if they get their papers and open a PostBank account. He also suggested giving each citizen family the same grant, as soon as they confirm their accounts.”
“Ivo suggested that? Pull the other one.” Jo said sceptically, while she licked her fingers and reached for some serviettes.
“He immediately saw the benefits of documenting DPs, both for his department and HAfMin,” said Roberta. “Makhosi says Home Affairs spends over a billion a year detaining and deporting illegals. And another half billion settling claims of wrongful detention. That doesn’t include SAPS resources and costs for identifying and arresting them.”
 “Sjoe. Consider me flabbergasted,” Jo said quietly. “How much are you all thinking?”
“A thousand per disaster-flagged account, excluding missing person accounts. Around three and a half million in total, at most. Slightly more than the cost of keeping a thousand people in Lindela for a month.”
“How much does PostBank have in the fairy godparent pool? Until we can divert it from Lindela’s savings or wherever?”
“Just under four billion, so no problem there. We’ll owe PostBank, with interest,” Tsitsi answered. “But if the survivors are able to start making their own arrangements immediately, it might take some pressure off of trying to house everyone.”
“And here I thought you all considered me the moron that wants to throw money at everything.” Jo pondered. “I don’t look forward to debating the greater problem, but this does seem like a good interim strategy. Thank you.”
“I’ll confirm your go-ahead, then,” said Roberta. “Makhosi and Thapelo say they can go live in three hours at the campus post office. If your team can start prioritising, Tsitsi, and liaise with Mapaseka?”
“I’ll give the instructions,” nodded Tsitsi. “Anything else? I’m not pressed for time, but we’re having some people over this evening, and I have some errands.”
“Just one more thing, please,” Jo asked. “The orphans, do you have any details? Age, language, citizenship?”
Tsitsi checked her phone. “Not among the details I’ve received already. I’ll ask. Why?”
“I’m considering fostering one or two. Brain fart, but surely every home would help?” Jo responded.
“Jo, you spend hardly any time with your own kids,” Roberta said archly.
“I know, but I do spend some time with them almost every day. They have fantastic people teaching them and stimulating them and taking them to do all kinds of exciting things. They’re privileged, even if I’m scarce. You don’t think the luckier orphans had mommies who went to work, instead of sitting at home jobless and miserable?”
Roberta shrugged.
“It’s just a thought. We have so much space. We’ll see how many need a new family, first. And I’d have to discuss it with G.”
Jo reached for her decanter of tap water with no ice, and drained the glass she poured from it in five swallows.
“We’ll talk if we need to, Tsitsi. You’re welcome to stay and gossip with us, but I have a feeling we’re just going depress each other as we dream up new problems to worry about. You’ll be fine finding me more of those whether you’re here or not.” Jo cracked a broken grin.
“I’ll see you CabMeet then, unless I need to come in sooner,” Tsitsi replied. “Happy New Year, ladies,” she smiled wryly.
“And to you,” replied Roberta. Jo waved.

D plus 115
CCMA date set
Abel stared at the SMS he had just received. A telephone number for the CCMA, requesting that he contact them in order for them to forward some documentation.
He dialled the Chief’s number for the hundredth time. Engaged.
Next, he phoned Tsego. She suggested that he use her e-mail address or fax number, because getting something this important posted to 2755, Extension 6, would take too long or might even get lost. Abel carefully made a note of her contact details. Tsego promised to print out the documents as soon as she received them, and to stop by after work.
Fatalistically, Abel tried the Chief again. Straight to voicemail.
He sighed, and then dialled the number on the SMS.
Ronald Dump
AGOA is coming – Mid March
“If he wants to visit us, let him pay tourist prices. I’m not interested.” 
“The leader of the free world, Jo. You’ll completely screw us if you don’t give him a hero’s welcome,” Roberta said in her most reasonable voice.
“Not interested,” said Jo.
“You’re not living in some sort of Utopia.” Roberta was getting angry.
“No, I’m not. Still not interested. Let him take his pretty wife to Cape Town and Kruger. I’ll bribe a good and thick-skinned game ranger to put up with them long enough to show them a leopard up close. We’ll consider it a bittersweet bonus if the lions find him too offensive to eat.”
“Really. And if the Queen wants to visit?” Roberta had her hands on her hips, looking fabulous, as always, despite her vexation and aggressive posture.
“She can bring along the Cullinan Diamond’s pieces and we’ll give her tea. Rooibos. And the nicest biltong we can find, if her teeth are real.”
“Are you drunk?” Roberta snapped, and scanned the office suspiciously.
“Unfortunately not,” said Jo in exasperation. “What’s the point, when we have real work to do? He’ll accuse me of legitimising refugee migrations. He’ll tell us he’ll put sanctions in place unless we cancel the unbeneficiated and foreign transfer taxes. Hell, he’ll probably have a shit-fit about the reduced refunds on over-priced imports and fire-sale prices paid for our exports. I bet he threatens to remove us from AGOA, too, because we no longer accept chicken which is one-third water.”
“Then you have to face him and smile at those threats,” insisted Roberta. “You might even get him to come around on one or two.” She paused, and twisted her mouth. “Nah, probably not.”
“He forgets what he said in his previous sentence. He changes policy more often than his underpants. There is absolutely nothing useful to be gained by subjecting myself to such torture.”
“So you’ll risk another down-grade by snubbing one of the most powerful men in the world.”
“We’ve already paid a third of next fiscal’s interest bill with savings from the UBI and the moratoriums. The GDP growth has backed up the VAT figures for November and December. When last have we seen four percent?”
“Twenty-four percent,” Roberta corrected.
“Deduct the inflation, remember. And next month we’ll start seeing what ProvTrans does, when the refunds start getting processed. There’s still only 62% of the population with UBI accounts, no way the other 38 are all unbanked and running cash businesses.”
“And with all the ghosts off the payroll we’re saving significantly, there, too. Okay, I get it. You still have to meet the man and shake his hand. I’m going to be a bulldog about this. It’s not negotiable.” Roberta sighed fatalistically.
“Meet him, only?” Jo’s questioning expression was also doubtful.
“We might get away with that. But we’ll have to organize some sort of grand tour so he doesn’t feel dissed.”
“Any ideas?” Jo leaned back.
“I only person I know personally that still defends him is your husband…” Roberta was trying not to smile.
“Hey, ja, maybe send Harry and Julius to take him to do boy things…” Jo deflated. “Nah, my husband will go to at least one strip club, and then what do we do with the wife?”
“Let’s hear, maybe she’d want to go see some women entrepreneurs or local designers’ fashion shows or something. Or maybe be a guest of honour at an awards ceremony.”
“Is one coming up at the right time? That’d be great. I’m no good talking about nails and shoes.” Jo considered again, for a few moments. “I do have to meet with him, don’t I?” she said with a sigh. “I can hear Harry’s voice in my head, although I don’t think he’d mind playing tour guide. If nothing else, maybe that man falls in love with South Africa like pretty much everyone else does.”
This time, Roberta did not hide her victorious grin.





 




 

Radical for Big Business
Sometime, somewhere
Jo’s musings
“Car guards and waiters with degrees. And no union with teeth.”
Jo’s sister, indulging in an exceedingly rare whiskey and water, responded. “Unions want their subscriptions. They only revolt when they’re forced to do something to justify their membership fees.”
Jo thought about the union based in the office block in Pretoria CBD. She’d heard the three leaders agree to pick a fight with steel manufacturers, one afternoon, during her lunch break. In the tea garden in the lobby. She only saw them there, in the tea garden, five or six days a month. Jo had assumed that she only saw them when they were taking a break. Until she took the lift to their floor during her lunch break, and found a dark, locked door. She had stopped on that floor, and knocked, on the way down to lunch, every few days for three months. 
“Doesn’t mean unions are bad,” slurred Jo. “If unions are bad, so are employees. People who are brave enough to take the risk themselves…”
“Are screwed over by the system. Black people can’t get life insurance. Pay exorbitant amounts for funeral policies.” Jo’s sister knocked back the last quarter of her whiskey and water. “You’re drunk, sissa. You may have been right, ten years ago, when you told me my industry is a slot machine. But it’s now worse.