Darling where is my dinner
Two professors went to the same faculty board meeting. Like all faculty board meetings time wasters with words were more than those who came to ease the business of the board. There were those who found out the missing comma the misplaced semi-colon and pointed out all the occurrences of ‘to went’ especially when it occurs as ‘to fought’. Work that an averagely trained secretary could do. Then there were the knit-pickers who knew when some obscure Latin phrase came into the English language and what arguments Samuel Johnson provided to make sure it stayed in the language. “And by the way,” he added totally unnecessarily, but he needed to waste people’s time, “I don’t mean the Samuel Johnson of “The History of the Yorubas.” And he laughed ha ha ha!!! “Was there another one?” This from professor of Religious Knowledge who had been sleeping. The English professor who had blocked every candidate for professor in his department for one reason or another began a detailed biographical lecture on the English Samuel Johnson at the end of which he began a detailed biographical foot note on the Yoruba Samuel Johnson. At which point the bearded Marxist of the university raised a point of order.
“Which point of order?” The one and only English professor shouted. “You think this is the House of Commons?” “Or a common house?” interjected the new member of staff who has been reprimanded for a lack of respect for elders. “In my society elders are not respected for having grown old without making and contribution to their age except to count the figures. We respect elders who have achieved.” There then ensued a philosophical discussion about societies and how they treat their elders. At some point the deputy dean told the dean that the meeting has lasted for two and a half hours already and we have not read the minutes of the last meeting. The Dean, a legendary democrat who believed that every person must have his, or, and this is important, or her say. On that point the old subject of addressing female lecturers with PhD and married as Dr. Mrs. XYZ. “Being married is an added plus,” interrupted the termagant of the university village, who remained single by choice.
The Dean asked his deputy where could he take hold of the discussion? “You can go back to the point where the FO wanted to read the minutes of the previous faculty board meeting”. “When you are seated in this seat you can cut short people as you like.” “So how long are these irrelevancies going to go on for?” At this point the Marxist requested that the house should be holding one meeting. Perhaps the faculty board meeting should be suspended while the Dean and his deputy finish their meeting. At this point hell broke loose. Everybody was now speaking.
The one who recently returned from some obscure university in Asia wondered why he bothered to stay on in this primitive high school called university? The Marxist overheard him and retorted to the effect that he could not go back there because he was sacked. “Just mind your own business. Don’t put your mouth in my own matter.” It was at this point that the two professors make signs at each other, stood up and left the room muttering to and ears that cared to hear that faculty board meeting was not worth attending.
Outside, they got into their car and drove quietly home. He opened the door and she entered. They both went directly to the sitting room, dumped their papers anywhere whatever and slumped into two easy chairs facing each other.
It was past six thirty and darkness come promptly at twenty to seven. He then sat up and asked her: “Darling, where is my dinner?”
She had picked up the remote control to turn on the television set. She stopped and put the remote control away.
“Where are we coming from?”
“The university where we both attended the faculty board meeting.”
“When did we arrive home?”
“At the same time. What have all these lawyering got to do with the simple question: Where is my dinner?
The other example occurs in South Africa. Their romance began in exile and it was fabulous. They worked on the production of radical placards together. They sang the revolutionary songs together.
“Freedom for you and freedom for me
Everywhere there must be freedom.”
On the picket line they were the first to answer to
“What do we want?”
“When do we want it?”
Then there was the hurry-hurry return home and the hurry-hurry wedding and hurry to Cape Town and the back to Pretoria where the spoils of victory was up for grabs. They both ended as ministers in the same cabinet.
He was not happy about her appointment as a minister. He had hope that she could be deployed somewhere else. Like being made ambassador to Australia while he took care of one or more ministry back home. Problem was that the President always had an eye for her. Was he or was he not her last boyfriend before he ended with her.
One weary night both ministers arrived home at the same time, dumped their ministerial baggage anywhere how. One checked the fridge, the other checked the kitchen. They both came out with nothing. He turned to her and asked the almighty question: “Darling, where is my diner?”
“Listen my Love we have just attended the same cabinet meeting in which all we did was give contracts to relatives, to old school mates, to ex-lovers and I don’t know who. If I knew that this was what a national cabinet was amounted to I could have gone to teach in a bush school.”
“But you love the blue lights, the outriders, the vehicles six in front and seven at the back, the seventh being the ambulance to pick up the money on the return journey.”
“You love the jetting from one capital to another. And you return and ask me about your dinner. This is a new world. Tell me if you were gay would you ask him where is your dinner?” Technology my Dear. No moless!”