Dear Meghan Markle, the queen of Harry’s heart, when I first saw you as Rachel Zane in Suits I thought, “that goose is from Fairways”.
And then it clicked: you look like my Parkwood cousin, Elizabeth Verwey. The same noble brow and mute, golden-masala complexion. (Parkwood is next to Fairways so I was only out by a Foschini account distance).
My association with your future-in-laws began when your Harry’s timer, Charles, Prince of Wales, and the Duchess of Cornwall, Camilla Parker Bowles, visited our cathedral in November 2011.
I am sure Archbishop Thabo Makgoba shared my conviction that a donation to the cathedral’s roof repair project would arrive from Clarence House. We remain prayerful.
We had a bromance groove going and so an invitation would further endear you to the older, Mountbatten-Windsor’s royal heart. Just imagine the prince, seated in the chapel at Windsor Castle, thinking: “I wonder how Michael is doing?” And at that moment in I walk, a light-skin brother from Africa. What joy would flush the royal face. A seat in one of the pews near the front would be nice as my eyesight is not so good.
It’s so lovely that your wedding gives a nod to Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. And who isn’t. But don’t fret, if your father, Thomas, is not there to walk you down the aisle, take comfort from knowing that my late father-in-law wasn’t at our wedding either. Apparently, he was waiting outside one of the other four Anglican churches in Mitchells Plain and not at Christ the Mediator, in Portland where Bishop Charles Albertyn did the nuptials. Apparently
On hearing of my royal possibility, Juliette Kolbe Bourne of Pinelands told me, “I was invited but declined on account of the newborn.” (I think she’s lying). And because she shares a birthday, July 1, with late Princess Di, “I am always considered during special occasions.”
I am sure your momma would enjoy my company. And I could show her some jazz moves - Cape Town’s nod to the salsa - at the reception.
You would have seen our cathedral featured on the BBC when we held a memorial service for Mama Winnie Madikizela-Mandela.
Father Peter John Pearson would definitely have caught your eye. He was the Moorish-looking fellow who enamoured the congregation with his recall of his first encounter with Mama Winnie. It was something about how he had held an umbrella over one of the most loved of revolutionary heads of our Struggle.
You might recall me repeating Father Pearson’s words, “time is a colonial concept”. This was when he exceeded his “only 3-minutes” speech by a Namaqualand mile. I was only quoting him on the colonial stuff as I am really fond of the Queen.
By the time Ramadaan began this week I knew, due to an administrative oversight no doubt, your invite would not reach me in time. I’d already had the second alteration made to my diamond black zoot suit which I bought just after Easter at House of Monatics in Salt River. It was ready for collection from Boeta Isghak Newman in Heideveld after the Friday Jumu’ah.
I want you to know that, despite my disappointment, I and all the people of the Cape Flats east of the Liesbeek River, are way beyond proud of you. You represent us so beautifully.
By the way, did your mommy attend Immaculata High in the 1970s? There was a Doria there. Or maybe it was Dorcas. Anyway, if she did then, it’s ma good that she left the country after the 1976 riots. Otherwise she might have ended up married to Joey Tjappies Fourie.
He carried the speaker-boxes for Eli’s Coming at his Jolly Carp gigs. (Tjappies had two eyes tattooed on his derrière and when his trousers slipped down, you could read, “Djy loe’ nog” on both cheeks).
I promise not to rename any of your airports while I am in the UK and will refrain from mentioning the Cullinan diamonds when meeting the Queen.
Just for future reference: I don’t mind travelling economy class.
Sala salaam (cos it’s mos pwasa time here by us).