SO there we were on Thursday, doing the heritage thing, burning meat in the Mahogany Ridge’s back yard and chewing the fat on the issues of the day and, for some odd reason, probably beer, there was great interest in the plight of the bodyguards tasked with protecting cabinet ministers.

Now admittedly it’s a big ask feeling sorry for these brutes but apparently they suffer hellish abuse at the hands of the very people they’re meant to protect. 

Sports and Recreation Minister Fikile Mbalula, according to reports, is one culprit. Mbaks takes the “recreation” part of the portfolio pretty seriously and often parties up a storm until the early hours of the morning. 

After loitering outside low dives for hours while Razzmatazz does his thing within its dark confines, his minders, on occasion, have had to sleep outside his house as there was no time to go home and rest up before the morning shift. 

Deputy Higher Education Minister Mduduzi Manana, a man with more than a passing interest in the sexual activities of students, is another party animal who gives his guards a hard time until the wee hours. But when they get whiny about it, Manana apparently just fires them.

Even worse, though, are Communications Minister Faith Muthambi and Deputy Minister of Arts and Culture Joyce Mabudafhasi who demand to be driven to Venda almost every weekend so their minders get to spend no time at home.

Can you imagine, Venda? What’s the attraction here? The place is a tip. It has no clubs or restaurants to speak of – nothing, at least, that Mbaks would be seen dead in – so there’s little chance of hanging around until the early hours of the morning while their ministers tear up the dance floors, lampshades on their heads. The boredom must be excruciating.

One bodyguard, speaking on condition of anonymity, told the Sunday Times that mooching about Limpopo was dangerous for their health. “Basically you have not time for your wife and children,” he said. “That is when you get police killing themselves and their wives and children.”

“Sometimes,” another guard revealed, “you take a minister shopping in the mall and then they ask you to push a trolley even though your job is to protect them. So in reality, if someone comes and hits them while you are busy pushing a trolley how are you going to protect them? Others even ask you to carry their handbags.”

One suggestion here would be to attach a blue light and a siren to the trolley. This would warn other shoppers to clear the aisles and the trolley may then be steered at speed in an aggressive manner as it jumps the queues at the tills. 

Shoppers may indeed be sorely tempted to slap the minister at such times, but with a blaring siren drowning out the announcement of yet another discounted special,  they’d be forced to reconsider. That wouldn’t be any ordinary oaf with a handbag, but a highly-trained member of the VIP Protection Unit with a handbag.

Still, it must be a bit humiliating to have to push a shopping trolley after driving the shiny black supercharged limo. Little wonder the guards have been complaining to their union. 

But, speaking of which, it’s now emerged – surprisingly – that the guards really do want to behave like normal motorists. But it is the ministers who insist on all that big-balls-to-the-floor 200km/h stuff. The reason for the speeding, apparently, is because ministers are late for appointments. But that’s not our fault. So why try and kill us?

Anyway, it’s clear that the bodyguards must embark on some sort of industrial action to drive home the point that they want a radical change to their working conditions and to be treated like normal human beings.

I’d suggest drawing up a list of demands. In addition to overtime, guards must get boredom pay whenever in Venda. Or Polokwane. If they must sleep outside ministers’ houses, allow them to at least put up a tent in the garden. Let them join in the fun whenever the minister goes clubbing. 

Consider a work-to-rule programme. Stick to the speed limits. Obey the rules of the road. Drive within the designated lane. Change the colour of the lights from blue to yellow. Drop the siren schtick. Play instead those corny tunes belted out by the ice-cream vans. Above all, don’t assault members of the public.

Be more aggressive in drawing attention to your cause. This could  . . .  on second thoughts, perhaps not. The last thing we need in this country is more steroid rage. Especially from this bunch.

This article first appeared in the Weekend Argus.