On the Wednesday this book was couriered to me, it was exactly a week since Bajabulile Swazi Tshabalala had resigned from her position as senior vice president at the African Development Bank (AfDB), headquartered in Abidjan, Ivory Coast.
She reported directly to the head honcho of the bank, Dr Akinwumi Adesina, a Nigerian national.
Swazi - I take liberties here by addressing her as such, thanks to the generous sprinkling of first-name terms in this book, which isn’t about her - is not leaving for external greener pastures, no. Her resignation letter effective from October 1 2024 has to do with the fact that she’s prepping herself up to take over from Adesina.
The bank’s rules and regulations insist on this protocol.
My interest in Swazi is piqued by the fact that she’s not only South African, but born and bred in Soweto.
Her commerce degrees, including an MBA, are from universities in the USA.
Her candidacy for the Presidency of the bank is backed by the Cabinet.
I started reading the book but found myself going back to the Swazi story a few times.
I even Googled her pictures and took note of her dimples!
Back to the book because it’s what this write-up is about.
In the book, Morati Sello (’call me Mo’) goes to Australia on an exchange programme facilitated by the Thabo Mbeki government with The Original Bank of Australia.
Mo could be any boy or girl from the dusty streets of the sprawling township with a degree from Wits University and a background in student politics.
The writer has chiseled out Mo from a very familiar profile. He is a Kaizer Chiefs fan who likes the music of Sade and charmed his way into the hearts of female students on the ticket of his Adonis looks and acing his course.
His life story is of that one boy or girl in your street who chose books over the booze. His student political activism earns him a seat at the table - as it turns out, many tables, inevitably the only black face at dinner, especially on the five-week sabbatical Down Under.
If you think Australia is about the ubiquitous kangaroos, beer-quaffing Bruce, and the South African expat, you have another thing coming.
This is not the land of Oz that Mo discovers.
I do not know of many guys from Soweto who fail to get lucky with Gerda in Benoni, only to score big when they find themselves in foreign lands. Such is the luck of Morati that he samples the Afrikaner lesbian in a ménage à trois.
Lucky bugger!
The book bears an SNL warning because Mo does more bonking than banking on this assignment.
When he finds time to come up for air from between the sheets, he Skypes home to his soon-to-be ex-wife Nomakhwezi, the mother of his two kids.
Morati is himself one of only two kids with a high-flier of a sister, Dikeledi, who is SA Ambassador to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, with eyes on a posting to Canada.
Morati is in Australia to learn from the best at The O Bank, long-time supporters of the Struggle.
“The Original Bank of Australia and the South African government had, in fact, struck up a relationship that would see a few hand-picked senior black executives like Morati, mentored into running big financial institutions before they returned to South Africa as designated Chief Executive Officers of state-owned development financial institutions.”
How much he adds to his banking nous remains to be seen when he returns to lead the mooted bank for SMMEs.
What the reader is left in no doubt of is his prowess apropos the horizontal gymnastics.
In a cliche, he leaves no stone unturned. Not that he didn’t give it a thought but the only people - totalling two, who escape his marauding manhood, are an attractive teenager and a nun.
What his prospective conquests see in his mien to single him out as a sex machine will get many young men from the townships to book flight tickets to Australia.
My apologies to Ms Tshabalala. It is Satan, oops, The Sweetest Taboo, that got me wondering what she does in her downtime.
A shot of fine single-malt whisky is just the tonic to help cleanse me of these sordid thoughts.
The Star