Lock, Stock, a few thousand farms, 9 wives and Johnnie Walker Blue Label.

The trouble with Africa is not it's willingness to better itself - rather it's disillusionment as to what actually needs to be corrected. For example, what is the point of structuring NEPAD as an economic growth solution, when half the members are downright thieves? The word 'corruption' has evolved from accusatory into a compliment; to say that Robert Mugabe is corrupt is like saying that George Dubya is inexperienced politician. When a President says, 'I believe that a time will come when man and fish live in perfect harmony,' or 'People all over the world need to be treated equally - Americans, Africans, Spaniards and Grecians,' and, 'I ask myself, why, in America do 70% of our imports come from other countries,' it is certainly not an indication nor an example of inexperience. It is firstly, a Sunday school lesson for Grade 1 pupils. Secondly a lesson in 'how-not-to-make-a-tool-out-of-myself-in-front-of-a-thousand-people' for 13-15 year old aspiring toastmasters and, thirdly, an example of complete ignorance with regard to the evolution of the English language (Julius Caesar would have tickled him, but unfortunately he died a few thousand years ago - today, we refer to them as 'Greeks'). Robert Mugabe is insane, and his billion-dollar penis extension has cost the lives and farms of many innocent people. At the recent World Summit, he took center stage not with brilliant ideas for sustainable development (as was the supposed intention of the summit), but with another hissing display of demonic arrogance. Watching him behind the microphone was a terrifying experience; for a few seconds, I thought that Adolf Hitler, having re-invented himself as Axel Foley, was alive and walking amongst us. 'Shut up Meesta Tonni Bler', and everything else.

King Mswati III of Swaziland is another disillusioned African leader. How the Swazi Parliament has handled the recent 'kidnapping' of his 9th wife and his weekend purchase of a R500 million private jet (equivalent to the entire education budget of the tiny landlocked country) is beyond belief. The War in Afghanistan highlighted the treatment of women, particularly under the Taliban regime. Unless women are willing to be treated like slaves and concubines, there can be no excuse for modern day implementation of these crazy and unfair customs. Sexual discrimination and chauvinism are now dismissible offences - equality, zero tolerance toward malicious racism and constructive offering are now part and parcel of 21st century living. King Mswati III's behavior regarding the abduction of an under-aged girl with the intention of adding her to his harem was nothing less than disgusting.

The fact that he 'over-ruled' the justice system in the first place speaks volumes of the responsibility certain African leaders have toward their countries and people.

The recent arrest of Tom Vorster, alleged head of a right-wing organization, the 'Boeremag', confirmed people's fears that the extreme right of this country are starting to operate in that secret Osama style - everyone suddenly becomes a target and South Africa is no longer the haven it was last year. My, oh, my - this man deserves nothing less than a public execution. Not only do we now worry about our potentially suicidal PAGAD friends in Cape Town, but, sadly, our old foes who caused this country so many problems are up to their tricks again.

Within this, I want to tell you about a story that happened in Durban last week. On Saturday night, I was having a few drinks with a friend in the News Café next to Musgrave Center. Inside the restaurant and adjacent to the bar, sits a beautifully restored cabinet containing a selection of Johnnie Walker's finest (I hope none of our politicians are reading this). Johnnie Red, Black, Gold and, the big one, Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Whilst we sat and talked in the outside area, a car screeched around the corner at about 100km/h, ramped the pavement and parked directly outside the entrance (so much so that it was blocking people coming/going). At first it had all the ingredients of an armed robbery, but on second glance that thought rubbed out. How many armed robbers do you know who drive the new BMW 745i? The thing looked like a beached yellow whale, lying on the pavement for everyone to see. The driver's door opens and out steps a large bespectacled Indian man. The only thing worse than the site of this embarrassment was the music pumping from the stereo - 'Cotton-Eye Joe'. The passenger doors open and out step two girls - dressed to the nines (Shireej - the that being the name that happens to be on the number plate - is considerably less-formal, wearing leather strops, board shorts and a Billabong T-shirt). If attention is what they wanted, then attention is what they got. My faith in humankind won't let me go near the possible truth that other patrons were actually impressed - this is the type of eyesore that kills tree-huggers or muesli - warriors on the spot. Now, there is nothing with indulging in handmade shirts, French wines, gold tequila for everyone, Mediterranean holidays and expensive mistresses - but this is completely off the board, down the drain and the live version of 'The art of bad taste and other ways to waste your money.' At that moment, I wouldn't have been surprised to see a copy of 'My Family and other animals' on the passenger seat.

Shireej does not know anyone, but that does not stop him picking up a 'reserved' sign placed upon a table and tossing it to the ground. The waitress pleads for him to wait - but it is to no avail. Instead, he wants to pay an extra R200.00 for the table - at the end. Clement Buthulezi, my buddy and production manager, has been eyeing the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label since he arrived in Durban. When I see our Indian gent whispering to the waiter and handing over a card, my worst fears start festering into reality.

The cabinet is opened, the bottle is gingerly removed from its casing and starts moving slowly toward the table in the nervous waiter's arms. I hold Clement's head toward me - such a humble individual does not deserve to be subjected to this sort of vulgarity. The girls are given a glass, to which they sip and grimace immediately, 'Can we have some coke with this?' Now, when you are going down, go down properly - not that I would ever dream of being in that position but if I was, this is how it would end; 'No, you may not. You do not drink this because it tastes nice, right, you drink it because it costs R90, 00 a shot.' Shireej smiles and lifts his fingers. The waiters, under the impression that this might be a Bollywood celebrity, follow suit and very soon, three cans of Coke Light and two bottles of appletiser decorate the table. The unfolding cruelty is noticed by Clement who sums the situation up perfectly. 'This is the type of man who masturbates at weddings.' I hesitated to add 'and constantly smells of urine.'

Shireej's phone rings and I can see him actually increasing the ring volume whilst pretending to see who's calling. "Eh, Abu broer, don' tok sheet men, jus' fukkin' sell it.'

As the word 'fukkin' exits his mouth, his arms shoot across the table. Apparently the most important lessons are learnt in slow motion; when his arm shot across the table, I believe he miscalculated his reach. Instead of falling short of Johnnie Blue, he hit him in the center, sending the bottle crashing onto the wooden benches and finally shattering on the floor. A well-known South African, sitting at the next table with his girlfriend, began the aftermath with applause and a whistle. Clement followed suit and soon both female companions turned red and headed for the bathrooms.

The best however, was yet to come. After he started wiping the golden nectar with his hands and then licking them, the waiter returned with another bottle. I saw his bottom lip quiver and watched him shake his head. Both ladies returned from the bathroom walked out, squeezing past the minuet space that his yellow Beemer had left at the entrance. The waiter then whispered into Shireej's ear and held up his credit card (Shireej, whose usual expression is that of a man staring into a mirror, contemplating his reflection and not being displeased by what he sees, was visibly shocked). 'Try again, there must be some sort of a problem.' A few minutes later, the waiter returned, this time with his manager in tow. 'This is racism!' 'No, it's not,' whispered the well known South African seated next door to us, 'it's embarrassment'.

We left as Shireej and the manager departed for his office. Clement ascertained that they would probably talk, a few deals would be offered and if everything failed, Shireej would resort to sentences which would no doubt end, nine times out of ten, with, '…okay then I'll stab you.' The imagination is a dangerous thing and sleeping dogs are better left to lie.

What this symbolizes in terms of behavior is not uncommon to that of Robert Mugabe, Tom Vorster and King Mswati III. Crass behavior, ethno-centricity and aggressive natures are what we are left with, once the true characters have been evaluated. It is these qualities, recognized by anyone who assesses Southern Africa, which stunt us from good intention on paper to delivering the better physical picture. We are trying to prove our worth and our intent by talking. These three individuals are walking examples of the traits we are trying so hard convince the rest of the world we don't have or rather, we've left behind.

The hotel I stayed at in Durban was chaos. When I arrived, the receptionist was busy praying on his mat. After 20 minutes of looking into the glass cases of watches, jewelry, Bollywood VCD's and other gadgets that had clearly fallen off a truck in Dubai, the man stood up and gave me quick lesson in Arabic greetings. I was shit at them, apparently. There was a dispenser in the shower, offering a combination of soap, shampoo and gel (all at the same time) and a lone 1liter coke bottle stood next to the toilet. I went to bed and had two nightmares, naturally. The first featured me finding 'Osama was here' carved into the floor underneath the bed. The second saw Shireej charging toward me (with that coke bottle next to the toilet in hand) through the lobby of the Park Hyatt whilst I shared a Johnnie Walker Blue with a youthful Sophia Loren (who'd just lost 40 years). Can you just see it - 220 pounds of sales techniques and market trading, wearing khaki buffalo boots (metal toecaps on the outside) with a fish finger bag tied around his shoulder?

The imagination is a dangerous thing indeed.