Alas, poor Edward Zuma, cheated even by death

Edward of kwaDakwadunuse fell short of being a dead revolutionary on Wednesday midnight.

I had never paid much attention to this particular son of Jacob over the past few years since he started doing media interviews. While he worked hard to position himself as the black sheep of the family, nothing he did or said had ever roused my interest - until he offered himself as a sacrifice for his father. Bearing in mind that his father had not offered to immolate his son, I did find myself wondering about the true motivation for Edward's flirting with death.

I am not opposed to anyone volunteering to die for a cause they believe in. It is admirable. But Edward challenged the police to only execute their duties after killing him, even saying he was ready to confront them with all his "gadgets". Now that is insane.

The many supporters who swore to prevent his father's arrest have seemingly disbanded, with even most of the veterans of Umkhonto having vanished from their campsite at the gates of the compound.

I doubt Edward noticed this, what with him being preoccupied with arrangements for his funeral. There was no doubt he would die. By any calculation, the odds were stacked against him. Especially considering that the only weapon, I mean gadget, he was wielding was a smoothly carved stick!

July 7 was to become the most intriguing night so far this year. Citizens across the country were glued to their screens. Heck, I bet even Jacob Zuma himself was sitting on the edge of his Nguni-skin couch, watching with bated breath to see if he would be arrested. For Edward, however, the days preceding that exciting night must have been the most significant in his quest to be the Martyr of iNkandla.

With Nkandla being a national key point and all, we were not privy to the goings-on beyond the tall fences of the compound. I could only rely on my creative mind to figure out what a man would do in the build-up to the day and hour of his death.

First thing would be to choose a prime spot in the backyard for his grave, of course. Somewhere on the high ground, visible to passersby to ensure the locals always point at the tombstone and tell of the great sacrifice of Edward.

Then of course he would have to go to his father's state-of-the-art kraal, assess the cattle as they stroll through the culvert and choose the best bull to be slaughtered for that delicious KZN signature funeral beef stew. It is a rare honour for any man to be afforded an opportunity to pick the star of their own funeral stew.

I bet he is one of those family members who are told 'Hlalaphansi Edward!' at family meetings when he finally decides to stand up and speak out of turn after his raised hand has been skipped over nine times

I doubt he would have called a family meeting to pass on his last words, though. Chances are that nobody would indulge him if he asked for their audience on a Tuesday afternoon. Yes, he is the self-appointed family spokesperson, but if the past week's events taught us anything, it is that Edward has no idea what goes on inside that yard. In fact, I bet he is one of those family members who are told "Hlalaphansi Edward!" at family meetings when he finally decides to stand up and speak out of turn after his raised hand has been skipped over nine times.

Oh, and his gadgets. I guess he called for them all to be brought to him, got a young boy to clean them and line them up, ready for use against the forces of Bheki Cele.

Then he would have to dictate the epitaph to his wife: "Here lies Edward, a struggle hero who died protecting his father with all his gadgets."

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His will! Ask Zuma if he can instruct Dali to do his will real quick.

Draft his funeral programme and ensure that room is made for journalists from all media houses and radio stations.

Ask his dad one more time why nobody ever tells him what is going on in this house.

Instruct his wife to ensure that Ramaphosa is not invited to the funeral!

Ask that his ANC T-shirt is ironed, so that he dies clad in colours of liberation.

Then, on Wednesday, take some courage from liquids at the bar to demonstrate why that compound is called kwaDakwadunuse, pick a stick for the day, and dazzle journalists till midnight.

Maybe it's a good thing he didn't die as planned. I imagine he would turn in his grave on realising that after such a great sacrifice only 49 people were allowed at his funeral.