A discussion late one night in the President’s office
IT WAS late at night after a long day, so the President needed someone to take a second look at his weekly internet letter.
He handed it to an adviser, who read it through. “Mind if I cut it back a little bit?” the adviser asked. “This miniskirt metaphor is a bit overdone.”
“I rather liked that,” the President said, pouring himself another whisky. “That’s the sort of touch that has them calling me the poet-president.”
“Yeah, but, they will be calling you the miniskirt president, sir, with due respect, and I’m not sure that’s what you had in mind for Women’s Day. Besides, the letter is a bit long and you can have a go at these journalists and their hospital story without stretching it out.”
“Oh, come on,” the President said, snatching the copy back. “ What’s the point of all this power if I can’t have a bit of presidential licence?”
“Well, chief, be careful. You’re challenging their figures on the baby deaths, but these reporters have spent three months hanging out at this hospital, interviewing staff, taking photos, seeing some bad things. See this stuff about a placenta falling out of a woman in the kitchen because she hadn’t been properly treated? It’s not pretty.”
“But their figures are wrong. You know they’re just blowing this up to sell newspapers.”
“Their figures come from the hospital itself. And they have minutes of meetings in which the staff are saying the same things.”
The phone rang.
“It’s the comms people, sir.”
“Oh, gosh. What bit of theatre are these people thinking up for me now? Can’t they leave me to get on with some real work?”
The communications office had a suggestion: “Mr President, we can turn this Frere Hospital story to our advantage. Let’s get on a plane first thing tomorrow, fly out and you can go and look for yourself. You’ll show you really care, and we can start preparing measures you’ll announce immediately to fix the hospital. Trevor has that budget surplus he’s been wondering what to do with … and you can pop in and see your mom at the same time”. (Note from editor: This is over the top, Harber. You’re stretching our credulity. Cut the stuff about his mother.)
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the President said. “You know I hate that kind of stunt. It’ll just be a photo op. I’ll leave that stuff to the old man.”
“Not if you make it real, sir. You speak from the heart, you talk to nurses and patients, and you tell them that you will be coming back in six months to see that things are better.”
Another adviser chipped in: “He’s got a point, sir. We have these protests breaking out everywhere about service delivery and we need a way to get the message across that we care about these things, even if we can’t solve them quickly. If you’re out there doing something, people will listen when you ask them to be patient.”
“But don’t I have to see the president of somewhere-or-other tomorrow? “
“Take him with you. You can talk to him on the plane. And he’ll be impressed, sir. He’ll enjoy the photo op.”
Essop burst into the room, helped himself to a long shot of whisky, and blurted out: “Have you seen what those damn reporters are saying in Eastern Cape? And I thought that Oppelt woman was one of us.”
“Oh, shut up, Essop. I’m sick of your bile, day after day,” the President said. “It’s time we made some friends.”
He turned back to the phone. “And does this mean every time a newspaper reports a hospital problem, I have to fly in with the chequebook?”
“No, sir. That’s the minister’s job, sir. Or maybe she’ll send the deputy minister. She loves this sort of stuff. By the way, sir, Madlala-Routledge’s already on her way down there.”
“Really? That woman’s ahead of the game, hey? Get her on the phone and tell her to wait for me.”
“She’ll do whatever you tell her, sir.” - Anton Harber