The national democratic resolution

Written by Kaburu
Wednesday, 01 June 2011 14:46

I made a new year’s resolution: “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!” In short, I resolved to become a communist. But I immediately struck a reef; I knew nothing about communism, except that it apparently led to untold riches. But how? Bravely, I embarked on a journey of discovery that was hopefully to bring fruition to my resolution, moral high ground to my social and political standing and millions to my bank account.

It all went swimmingly at first. Every single communist I met was loaded beyond belief. And they were amazed, nay ecstatic, to discover a 100% comrade Boer. My socialist education was going well, and I avidly aspired to the day when we would achieve full communism. And then, on the night before I was to receive my party card, my new comrades threw a party for me. I’d never seen nor drunk so much vodka and Coke in my life. The next morning, while I was in a barely functional haze, it hit me: What comes between socialism and full communism? Alcoholism. Bugger! The imperialist press was right! One of the first lines of The Internationale howled through my head as I poured coffee with a shaking hand... “Arise, ye wretched of the earth!”

Why was I suddenly confused?

I thought to myself: capitalism is defined as the exploitation of man by man. Communism is defined as the exact opposite. Okay. All good so far. But my hangover was now so catastrophic that I contemplated offing myself, and I recalled the last words shouted by every communist before he commits suicide: “Comrades! Don’t shoot!” My thoughts drifted to my youth. While I was still in school, I was asked what I was going to study at university. I replied: “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.” But my new comrades told me that when they were asked the same question, they replied: “I don’t know. They haven’t told me yet.”

Curses! This wasn’t helping! I tried to focus on the counter-revolutionary morning paper. Ah, the Youth League expounding on sexual rights for the young. Disaster! How were we communists to control the birth rate if the means of production remained in private hands? And here, an article concerning the comrade trade unions: “Why are we building socialism? It’s better than working!” Shit! I was late for work!

In the traffic I thought about why I was still working for the class enemy and hating my job. I could have been a scientist, for Trotsky’s sake! Wait a minute. Isn’t Marxism-Leninism a science? No. They would have tested it on animals first. Blast! All right, an artist then. Yes. I would heroically depict the struggle in the patriotic and glorious social-realist style. Let’s see: impressionists paint what they see. Expressionists paint what they feel. Social realists paint what they’re told.

Bliksem! A musician! Ooh yes, I could hang around with a guitar in coffee bars being swooned at by Youth League girls! Drat! My capitalist-pig brother, a cellist, had once remarked that the definition of a Russian string quartet was a Soviet orchestra returning from a US tour. Pfah! Why should I believe his mischievous utterances? We comrades all know that American capitalism is teetering on the edge of the abyss. Any day now communism will overtake it! A luta continua! And then the comrade metro police officers pulled me over with the union-agreed method: a wave and a wink.

“Why do the metro police always come in threes?” I asked myself. After a minute the answer dawned on me: one could read, one could write, and the other was there to keep an eye on the two intellectuals. Trapped! As I stood shivering in the morning cold, digging in my wallet for a contribution to the workers, I decided that when we comrades achieved full communism there would be no need for police. By then everyone would have learnt how to arrest themselves. Take that, bourgeoisie pigs!

As I toiled for the oppressor that morning, a Zimbabwean comrade co-worker mentioned that he had just returned from his ZANU PF Youth League committee meeting in Harare. The comrade secretary told them that comrade Mugabe was still struggling to achieve full communism. Discipline would see the country to a glorious future! One day, people won’t have to queue for pap! The comrades apparently replied “What’s pap?”

Unperturbed, the comrade secretary went further by saying that the shortage of flour was because they’d started adding it to bread. When my Zimbabwean comrade left my cubicle I noticed he was limping, and I asked if he’d lost a shoe. He said no, he’d found one. Stout comrade! That night, like any good alcoholic, the guilt hit me. How could I make jokes about communism? Wasn’t I being counter-revolutionary?

Nah, I told myself, even comrades in high government positions are telling reactionary jokes in an attempt to stay close to the masses. And then I started wondering what would happen if comrade Julius becomes president? What would happen to the farms? Would he collectivise them? The sheep would emigrate! At the border they would be stopped, and the guard would ask why they were leaving. The sheep would say that comrade Julius had ordered the arrest of all elephants. The guard would say “But you aren’t elephants!” And the sheep would bleat “Try telling comrade Julius that!” Lenin’s beard! Talking sheep! It was time to get help. I phoned Communists Anonymous but got a recording stating that the comrade councillors were in a committee meeting debating the means of filling in the duplicate paperwork for the actual requisition of a telephone apparatus.

Bollocks to that, and so much for resolutions. I went out and bought a Monopoly set.