[imagesource:wikicommons]

It has been nippy on Cape Town’s Atlantic Seaboard in early July. I was reluctant to emerge from the covers this morning when my Great Dane whinnied to be let out for her morning constitutional. Although it has become clear to us that regular and careful maintenance of constitutionals is vital for large bodies with sensitive make-ups, and so I stumbled down the stairs to let her out.

I had my first shiver of the season in my holey T-shirt and boxers on the veranda while she took care of business. There really was a nasty nip in the air. And then a fusillade of canon shots boomed at us from the direction of Robben Island. I trained my binoculars on the offending vessels once I recovered from the initial shock – we have just returned from holidaying in KZN, and my nerves are frayed. Did I see a Union Jack fluttering from the flagpole of the stern of the closest Destroyer or was it someone else? A few tweaks on the focus dial revealed our invaders to be flying the Rising Sun flag of the Japanese navy. Pearl Harbour, in Cape Town? In 2024? I searched the sky but there were no Zeroes to be seen. And I couldn’t hear any explosions.

I was beginning to recover when the Noon Gunners began returning fire, back towards the invaders in the ocean. This triggered me even further, taking me back to an early morning drive to work along Ocean View Drive, with a bang babbelas on a Friday morning in a convertible with the roof down, when the Noon Gun began firing a 21-gun welcome to a British Battleship, literally over my head. Any canon, loaded or not with shot, makes a terrifying sound when let loose in a relentless volley over your head. This has been weaved into our DNA over centuries of warfare.

Mental turbulence ensued as I struggled to place myself correctly in time. I have been reading a novel about German U Boat activity around the Cape during World War Two which has penetrated my dreams. I had spent at least part of my REM sleep the night before trying to depth charge the bejesus out of a Wolf Pack of German submarines. Now the Japanese were here too? How would we safeguard the Merchant Navy in the Port?

Once I had recalibrated my mental calendar to the present, I wondered if the Japanese were again taking advantage of the prevarication of the Western Superpowers in a repeat of the 1930s after watching the two old fools making no sense in the US Presidential debate and claiming our rich fishing waters back from the Chinese. I have heard there has been a shortage of decent tuna in Japan lately, and the sardines are running up the East Coast. Was this a coincidence?

Hadn’t the Japanese heard the DA had taken over the Forestry, Fisheries and Environment Portfolio? Surely, they wouldn’t trifle with a grumpy Onse Helen after she had spent a frustrating few weeks of arguing with Cyril? Or did they sense that Angie Motshekga was suffering from PTSD after trying in vain to sort out the Department of Education and hadn’t got to grips with the workings of the defensive flotilla purchased by Msholoze and friends during the Arms Deal? They had already seen that docking in Simonstown is as easy as ghosting in like ships in the night and then loading a few lorries filled with arms in full view of the residents of Glen Cairn and then turning around and going home again.

Surely, they sensed the risk of thousands of retirees with nothing better to do than scan the sea and the internet for evidence of conspiracies?

Would the Japanese Naval officers set up a command centre at Papa San’s excellent Obi restaurant at the bottom of Long Street over boatloads of sushi and litres of Saki while the men were let loose on the flesh pots of Long Street with Yen to burn? Surely, they would regret the Long Street decision. It must contravene the health and safety regulations of the Japanese Navy. Japan is, after all, an ancient and civilized nation. Long Street is anything but.

I picked up my paintball gun and a can of pepper spray and raced for the Waterfront while my amygdala had a firm grip over my frontal cortex, expecting the guns of Fort Wynyard to be joining in the fun while Cape Town office workers turned their cars around to head for the suburbs. This genre has never been known for real Presbyterian industry, but since Covid, these truants will use any excuse to ‘work from home.’ Even an impending invasion.

I hoped for some evidence of aerial support but apparently, the South African Air Force used the last of the fuel reserves for Cyril’s inauguration flyover. Did he really need a second one? Decades of pomp and ceremonial largesse have finally come home to roost.

I arrived at the harbour wall on East Pier, in time to see the brutes cruising nonchalantly into port, whilst preparing mentally for decades of servitude in a harsh concentration camp. Sailors lined the decks of three ships while the only ship in our navy that still floats dithered out of range in the background.

There was no evidence of the cross-cultural bravery that the decent citizens of KZN had exhibited during the riots. Instead of barricades manned by bankers, and asset managers brandishing golf clubs, all I discovered were a few bored dock workers smoking marijuana whilst leaning on their spades.

My wife called while I was planning my next move, informing me that these ships were the JS Kashima and JS Shimakaze from the Japanese Maritime Self-Defence Force who were making a historic and peaceful visit to Cape Town. Their first visit since the Second World War. They will be open to the public for visits on 4 July.