Shrouded in secrecy, mystery and controversy, Zuma’s new private homestead in Nkandla has been the centrepiece for over expenditure and misuse of public funds in the last month. Erecting a fence so steadfast even the most hardened Mongolian couldn’t penetrate the extremities, we as the public, his loyal minions and servants, can only dream of what treasures lie inside the Zulu palace. But, in MyCityByNight’s unwavering quest for truth, I managed to dodge the battalion of guards during their coffee break at the newly built Vida, and wormed my way through the barrage of security cameras, laser turrets and chained hyenas, in order to bring you an insight as to how your Monarch lives his private life. What we witnessed was opulence, depravity and a locked door simply labelled “Yoghurt Room”. I will never unsee the horrors of Nkandla, but I can share them with you.
The first room I entered was Jacob’s bedroom. This was clearly where he came to breed. The walls were coated in the same material Ron Jeremy uses to make his thongs, and the floor laden with the hair of Vietnamese women. The giant six poster bed, big enough to host an under-13 rugby match, did not have your stereotypical mirrors on the roof; instead it featured a large video screen that just played a looped video of Helen Zille’s face as she took long and slow drags of a cigarette, never breaking eye contact. The musky aroma permeating the air was a mixture of sweat, lubricant and Chanel’s new fragrance “Water Buffalo No. 5”. I immediately knew why his family was so large; there was an undeniable sexual fervour that was now pulsating through my every vein. I had to leave before Helen sucking on a Marlboro caused me to burst.
As I got into the newly renovated lift, estimated to cost tax payers over R2 million, a beautician awaited me. Without consent, or indeed any desire, she began lathering my entire body in shaving cream. “What treachery is this?” I exclaimed in shocked expletives, before being calmed down and told that all visitors are given “intimate attention” when on the estate. I exited the elevator looking like one of those lab rats they grow ears on, without any additional genetically grown aural devices. I did feel a bit sexy though.
My newly found streamline physique meandered down the passage, quietly observing the pictures adorning the velveteen walls. A plaque beneath one of the photos read “Halloween ‘08” and featured Jay-Z and his Zimbo partner in crime Bob poorly dressed as Starsky and Hutch. If I ever see Mugabe in a polar neck again, it will be too soon. As I continued through the passage I noticed a door ajar, with a mixture of loud groans and 80’s Johnny Clegg tunes radiating through the airwaves. I slyly peeked my nose inside and I will regret that for the rest of my life. I witnessed Jacob and Kgalema, shirtless, dishing out one-for-one face slaps. I wasn’t sure if they were enjoying it, but this was undeniably Mzanzi’s political turbine in motion. I left uncertain if I was in a Saw movie. In fact if Julius Malema in a creepy clown suite rode up to me at that point on a tricycle and asked me if I wanted to play a game, my bowels would probably have released.
I walked past a Weigh-Less room and a gym, but none of the family ever goes in there.
At the end of the corridor a light shone like a holy grail. I was enamoured by its awe and wonder, and drawn to its incandescent glow and welcoming aura. The Kitchen: where the magic of Nkandla truly happens. I was initially sceptic about the hygienic attributes of having a Jacuzzi in an area typically used to prepare food, but the overwhelming lust and sexuality really is the foundation of the homestead. While many Saffas believe that the Prez dines on authentically South African dishes, this is patently untrue. There was a noted absence of offal, samp and beans, or ritualistic animal slaughter. Instead well manicured Latino women prepared imported whale meat for tacos. And we thought Jay-Z was cosying up to the Chinese for foreign investment, how naïve were we, right?
Suddenly the door burst open, and a bombardment of soldiers, clearly finished with their Vida Lattes, violently threw me from the residence. The harsh sun quickly blistered my eyes. What the hell did I just see? I never imagined that 290 million Rand of tax payers hard earned income could be used with such epic frivolity. And I missed the helipad, medi-clinic (with an apparently fantastic, and much needed, natal programme), the wedding chapel and the money counting room! Its scary to think what goes on behind those walls; I just hope one day I’ll get to see more of the private house I helped pay for.
*Follow @Stroobz on Twitter as steals from the rich and gives to the relatively affluent middle class just trying to make a down payment on their first mortgage. As well teaching elderly pensioners to fire a pistol.