Elizabeth on Julius

As I have mentioned before, I think my domestic worker, Elizabeth, is secretly a revolutionary. She has never come to work with a babalaas and an ANC t-shirt, but I think she may be Julius Malema’s speech writer.

To understand the type of person Elizabeth is, you should read this post. Then you must imagine this short fat little black woman. She also has a German sense of humour. By this I don’t mean she pokes Jews in the ribs and laughs, but rather that she laughs at things nobody else finds funny, and then is VERY serious when something is genuinely funny. She also likes to run all the taps while I shower. First some hot water, so my shower goes cold, then some cold, so that I burn my testicles in the hot water. Then she waits a little while so that I have enough time to get the temperature just right, and shampoo in my eyes before she flushes the toilet and drinking all the cold water from the Greater Johannesburg region, so that I go to work with giant red blisters.

This morning, while getting dressed, I couldn’t find a pair of socks that match. The fact that I found socks at all was amazing! Socks last a grand total of thirty eight seconds in my house. I’m not sure if my washing machine is actually a sock wormhole to another dimension, where socks live and party on a beach like in that advert, but they certainly don’t like living at my house. They are the socks you get from Edgars where the toe and the heel of the pair of socks are each a different colour, so that they can be easily matched. I began to wonder why none of them had been properly matched. Being colour blind made this even more difficult. Every sock looked like it might match, until I actually put them on, only to find that they didn’t. So with a huge pile of non matching socks, and me still sock-less I went to find my intrepid life organiser.

I found her organising the kitchen. She was organising the bread in the toaster, the butter, the slices of cheese and tomato, the roast beef, and the chutney. All in all it looked like a very tasty breakfast. I asked Elizabeth if she was very busy, or if she could spare a few minutes. She told me she was very busy, but she would spare me a few minutes. Lucky me. I asked her if she paid any attention to what she was doing when she matched up socks. She said no. I asked her why, she said because it doesn’t matter. I was about to tell her does she know how infuriating it is to go through all of my socks, only to find that none of them match, but then I realised I was about to argue with Elizabeth. About socks. And she doesn’t care.

This is what makes me think she writes Julius’s speeches. Sure, in our conversation she hadn’t called me a white capitalist, or threatened to nationalise my wardrobe, but she had done something quite spectacular. In three sentences, she had me ready to argue about my socks. It’s no coincidence that every time Julius opens his mouth, people immediately start arguing. Whether he is talking about the rich whites and the poor blacks, the poor whites and the rich blacks, his love for JZ and the ANC or woodwork, Juju’s public rants are very well formulated, and therefore cannot be his own words.

I’ve got my eye on you Elizabeth…