The traffic crossing Argyle Road was bumper-to-bumper when I drove home a few Fridays ago. Motorists were behaving splendidly in spite of the fact that the last stretch of road between the sweatshop and home seems to take forever at the start of the weekend.

Such is the lot of the working classes. Anyway, it was about 4:30pm and everything was fine and dandy until a colossal ego came screaming up the road in a convoy of seven luxury cars, six motorbike outriders, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

It was a spectacular, scary sight. You know what it's like with sirens : they elicit a feeling of dread. We're all anxious to move over because our minds associate the sound with somebody in need. As children we're taught that a siren blaring is a fireman or an ambulance speeding off to an emergency.

Well, apparently not anymore. There are some in the ruling elite, be they politicians or fat-cat bureaucrats, insistent on living the Banana Republic cartoon strip. It would be funny if it weren't so serious.

Back to the siren and the source of my spectacular outrage : the motorists hastily moved over to the side of the road, fearing the worst. And was it an ambulance or a fire-truck?

Fat chance - it was a politician in a fleet of expensive cars, paid for by the very taxpayers who has to shove over.

You couldn't take in much as the convoy raced past. People scuttled to the side of the road, although I craned my neck to see who the main dude was. All I saw was mean-looking security officers yelling into walkie-talkies. I've seen those types before : they're mostly wankers who wear cheap suits and wrap-around sunglasses and act like Clint Eastwood. They feel important because they're from the VIP Protection Unit and they get their kicks from shoving people out of the way and playing with the siren.

So, I looked at this lot screaming through Morningside and wondered what the national emergency was. Like other motorists I was paralysed with fear for the first five minutes after John Wayne and his posse swept past at breakneck speed.

But, when I got it all together again, I thought I should find out who this very important person was in the convoy. I drove directly to King's House, the government mansion on the top of the Berea. The friendly doorman there said, yes, he too had heard the sirens, but, no, there was no president or minister at the palatial estate.

So, the next best place to look was the nearby home of a fiend of the politicians.

And bingo... who should be at the luxury pad of Shabir Shaik? Well, the idiots who had just scared the hell out of everyone. There they all were, taking in the splendid views offered at the beautiful home of the extraordinary Durban businessman whose claim to fame is top buddies in the ANC and a couple of multi-million rand Government contracts.

The security contingent was as calm as can be, camped out on Shaik's manicured lawn. They showed none of the urgency they had displayed minutes earlier, speeding across Argyle Road.

I wonder what matters of grave national importance had necessitated getting there at lightning speed?

The city police said the escort was required for Deputy President Jacob Zuma.

Zuma's spokesperson would not say whether the boss was doing what most of us do on a Friday afternoon - visiting a mate for a beer - or attending to a matter of national importance.

I'm sure it was very serious stuff, the discussions that took place in Innes Road at about 4.35pm that Friday.

And I'm sure the security contingent will say they had to use the sirens, break the speed limit and move motorists out of the way. Not because the Deputy President is a big deal, of course, but because his life is under constant threat.

Bullshit! Because if you really want to protect the person in your charge from an assassin, you wouldn't create such a spectacle of light, speed and sound. Your wouldn't draw attention to yourself.

But hey, I just can't picture our blessed cabinet ministers and their lackeys driving around in battered old Unos. No, you can't cram that much self-importance into anything smaller than a Mercedes Benz or a five series BMW.

With acknowledgements to Greg Arde and The Saturday Independant.