No royal wedding invite for me

I’m pissed off at these bloody imperialists.

It’s not enough that they built their wealth on the backs of our forefathers now they snub us when they have a wedding in the family. Not even acknowledging any of our many royals through an invite? They are just jealous that they have only one queen for all of Britain while we have a paramount chief, headman, queen, king, kaptein and a hompa for every clan in every tribe. The very gold they wear on their crown was hoeka stolen from our mines, at slave wages.We were not even afforded the chance to be fed at the British olupale (read Manchester) in community bowls like peasants.So you were also not invited? These bloody poms have no manners. How could they invite that David andVictoria Beckham, who could only manage a double digit IQ between the two of them, to the royal wedding but they left Barack Obama and the Rambler out? Is it because we are black? It’s time that we seriously rethink our membership of the Commonwealth. If our membership can’t even secure us a place at the top table of the wedding of the next king its time we show them the stiff middle finger. We can use the example of our friend Zimbabwe who stepped away from the mighty British empire in 2003 and is now flourishing economically and culturally.Good thing they decided to have it over in London otherwise we would just have rocked up – Namibian style – later than the bride at the church, without a wedding present, already half drunk and complaining bitterlyabout the lack of red meat and free booze at the reception. Yes, we do that even at Wambo weddings where the food and booze normally flowswithout limits. Have you noticed how we wouldrock up at the wedding wearing expensive new clothes but would have no wedding gift or at best a cheap-ass set of four plates from Pep? And the women normally make sure they come with the big handbag so they could take padkos or something to eat for the kids at home. Passop for the ice cream bowl or Tupperware bucket. ‘This food will just be thrown away, anyway,’ is the argument always. Maybe MI6 found out about our wiked ways. I can see why William and Kate might have doubts about inviting Namibians.And if we stay long enough at a wedding reception to make our name gat on the dance floor we do so with gusto. Making thirty year old cringe inducing disco moves on house tunesand gooi pantsula moves on kwaito songs. But even in our drunkest state I’m sure we would out perform David Cameron. I can see by the size of his forehead that that white boy can’t dance. Or maybe he can, like a white boy.And than there is always the drunk uncle who wants to grab hold of the mic and tell people how much he contributed to the reception but wasn’t seated at the head table. Causing an ugly scene as his close relatives try to stop him. Die skande…The pomp and circumstance that goes with a royal wedding is probably not for us. Give us a village do any weekend of the year and we’re happy. But a long weekend in London would have been a great outing. I might have even considered taking a bloody gift.

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