Millions intended to be spent on the health needs of Eastern Cape residents have gone missing from d.
I see letters, thousands of them, trying to squeeze themselves through many an agony aunt's door. Some are hoping to get read first, but the funniest thing is the thought that struck me: "Let me write to Amanda, she will be able to help me."
My response would most probably be: "Do you wanna screw your life up some more?"
You can't stop or laugh at lost souls. Incidents happen to send otherwise sane people to write to agony aunts for advice on matters that defy logic. I once read a letter stating: "I'm at my wits' end trying to get along with my mother-in-law but she is a bitch of no description."
Who does not know that it's the mothers of our men that have exclusive rights? Some letters are rhetorical, filled with questions that answer themselves:
My man's ex won't move on. She harasses my man no end. I'm thinking of getting a hitman for her. But given my luck, I would threaten such evil and the next thing she would put a bullet in her own head and make me the primary suspect.
I'm seeking solutions here, not trying to add fuel to the raging flames. I need someone to tell me why she still calls on his birthday and has a suitcase in his flat.
I have kicked that suitcase, spoken to it to send clear messages to the owner. I have threatened to burn it and came close to pouring hazardous chemicals on it, yet it remains steadfast in its evil mission.
It seems to think that one of these good days someone is going to open it and hang up her clothes. I suppose the next episode would see them holding hands watching the sunset and living happily ever after.
I know I'm not a bad person, otherwise I would have burnt the suitcase. I'm made to feel that I'm being psychotic when I ask if this suitcase is ever going to get out.
But it's not just the suitcase. It's also the sniffles when she calls. She is always trying to sound as if she's plagued with malaria or worse. She even tried to befriend me when she realised I was on the brink of changing his number.
She clearly got that number from someone who promised to love and honour her in mental sickness. Now, Sis Dolly, I ask with a heart drenched in wine: Does he encourage her to phone him because it makes him feel better to have a stalker who can send me into a spin?
So I did what a very clear thinking South African with human rights would have done - I phoned back to ask what gives.
"Why are you always calling him if you guys are through?" I asked. With the most laid-back voice she told me she wasn't the one calling.
"He's the one that calls to interrogate me about my life. I have long moved on and I must say I'm very happy where I am (she sounded as if she were on a beach sipping wine). He's all yours and I left him for a good reason and that reason is still there, I'm afraid. So feel free dear, I'm not a threat."
So silly me, it was all in my head when I knew better. Yeah, right. I don't have a hole in my head. You only call people you feel you have some unfinished business with. I have been there when he receives some of these calls, plus the suitcase is there, and don't forget the sniffles.
He would like me to believe that he's as innocent as a newborn baby in this situation, but I'm wise enough to know he could be the devil himself. So, Sis Dolly, I've been contemplating pulling Can Themba's The Suit on him.
Remember the story of the woman whose husband pounced on her and a punk who escaped naked, leaving his suit behind? The husband made no riot about the matter. He dragged the suit out of the bedroom to make it represent its owner. Wherever they went, the suit was there.
The woman had to care for it, carry it with her and even talk to it. When they sat down for meals, the suit waited patiently for its serving. When neighbours and strangers enquired about the mysterious suit, the husband gladly let the wife explain and only God knows what her explanations were. The wife eventually committed suicide.
I would make him carry that cheap suitcase if it wasn't so heavy. I'm sure she has some pots and pans at the bottom of that coffin-like suitcase.
The more I seek advice from my work-consumed friends, the more I realise that this is all but a game and I'm just a pawn.
These two are fighting an old cold war and want to see who's going to come out a winner. It's sick because this spectator has another thing coming for them and it's going to be worse than the suit story.