Why, in the name of God, won't someone bring Jacob Zuma his machine gun? I can no longer stand by and watch the man suffer like this. Has he not been through enough?

There is an organisation called the Friends of Jacob Zuma, and yet not one of its members is willing to do as he asks. Some friends.

Jacob Zuma has anywhere between two and five wives. But what good is that if none will go the extra mile? Who brings him his pint of Ijuba after another exhausting live concert outside the Pietermartizburg High Court? As a proud Zulu man, he cannot be expected to fetch his own sorghum beer and automatic weapon.

Jacob Zuma is clearly someone who treasures his machine gun above all else. So what of it? He doesn't ask for much. All he wants is his machine gun.

And maybe the presidency.

I don't want to sound churlish, but it might help if he told us where he left the damn thing. It must be somewhere. He definitely started out with one, otherwise he would be singing, "bring me a machine gun". By referring to his machine gun in the possessive, he is telling us that he already has one, but that he has either mislaid it or somebody has moved it from where he last saw it.

Perhaps his machine gun is at his mother-in-law's house. Maybe he can't remember which mother-in-law.

Maybe none of them ever want to see him again after that nasty business with woman, and he is too afraid to call them up and ask if any of them have seen his machine gun.

If I got bust cheating on Brenda, I wouldn't dare phone her mother and ask if I could come around and pick up that half bottle of absinthe I left behind when we had the wake for her brother.

I know what Jacob Zuma is going through. Some of you will snort and say that a white man can never put himself in a black man's shoes. Well, let me tell you something. Loss is a great unifier. Loss transcends race. It is only through loss that we all stand naked before our gods.

And while I am grateful that Jacob Zuma has so far managed to keep his clothes on, I do feel his pain. When I was little, I had a teddy. This was one of the privileges that white boys enjoyed at the expense of other ethnic groups and I am not proud of it.

I lost this teddy through circumstances that I am not yet ready to talk about. It is enough to say that the loss left me devastated. Brenda tells me that some nights I still shout out in my sleep, "Bring me my teddy bear!" If I had grown up speaking isiZulu, I would shout out, "Awuleth' teddy bear wam!" Again, this shows that loss transcends even language barriers.

So let nobody dare tell me I don't know what it is like to lose something dear to me. It does not matter whether it is a machine gun or a one-eyed teddy with a tear in his bum. The overwhelming sense of loss is the same.

This is why I say that if anybody out there has Jacob Zuma's machine gun, or knows of its whereabouts, I implore you to take it to him. If you don't have transport, please contact me and I will arrange for it to be collected. I am even prepared to pick it up myself.

However, I am not all that keen on delivering it personally. If I had been looking for my machine gun for as long as he has, I would want to use it immediately.

I have long since given up on ever seeing my teddy again, but I will not rest until Jacob Zuma is reunited with his machine gun.

I am sure I am not alone when I say I live for the day that our future president stands up and sings:

"Bring me my machine gun
do not hold me back.
Bring me my machine gun
or I will blow my stack.
Bring me my …
Oh. Thank you.
It's about bloody time.
Now I have my machine gun
I am going to need some bullets."

Ted and I got together over a case of Cobra this past weekend to come up with ways of helping Jacob Zuma. Ted suggested we hire a psychic. "Maybe she can tell us where he left it," he said.

I said it would be easier to find another machine gun and give it to Jacob Zuma for Christmas. Another great idea, another case of beer.

"I know where to go," said Ted.

The first taxi driver we accosted obligingly reached under his back seat and brought out an AK-47. "This isn't technically a machine gun, is it?" asked Ted.

"So what?" I snapped. "Should we get him a Gatling gun? A water-cooled Browning? Those things weigh a ton. How is he going to dance?"

The aspiring arms dealer gave us the Kalashnikov for R150 and two cigarettes and we drove home terrifying the life out of pedestrians and BMW drivers.

In celebratory mood, we cracked open another case and I did an impromptu Zuma shuffle, stopping only after it became painfully obvious that white men lack both rhythm and stamina.

Comrade Jacob, if you are reading this, your machine gun, well, submachine gun, is on its way. I don't expect anything in return. Actually, I have taken quite a shine to defence, so "Terror" Lekota's post might be nice. I'll keep 2009 free.

freebentrovato@yahoo.com

With acknowledgements to Ben Trovato and Cape Times.