Gabon Fever!

Gabon Fever!

I was sitting in the waiting room when I heard the doctor call my name. I slung my Chipolopolo scarf around my neck, wrapped myself in the national flag, picked up my vuvuzela, and marched unsteadily in the direction of the doctor’s surgery.

Dr Rawat was waiting for me at the door. ‘Come in, Kalaki,’ she said, as I stumbled into the room and fell laughing into a chair. Rawat sat down and looked at me so seriously that I couldn’t stop laughing.

But finally I managed to get control of myself and stood up straight. Then I slowly lifted my vuvuzela to my lips and gave her a good blast in her right ear. ‘Ha ha!’ I shouted, as I swung my scarf around my head, ‘We won!’

‘Kalaki,’ she said, ‘you look terrible!’

I leant towards her and put my finger to my lips. ‘Don’t kubeba!’ I whispered.

‘Go and lie down on the bed,’ she said sternly.

‘Oh doctor,’ I said, putting my arm around her shoulder, ‘I didn’t know you cared!’

‘I do care for you, Kalaki,’ she said kindly, ‘it’s my job. But I only wish I could get some help from you.’

‘You’re the one that’s being paid to do it,’ I laughed, ‘I’ve got my own problems.’

She held me down on the bed while she examined me. ‘Your pulse is 150, your temperature is 40.3, your blood pressure is 240 over 140 and your eyes are very bloodshot!’

‘Be Jesus!’ I exclaimed. ‘Am I dead already? And it’s only yesterday I was as fit as a fiddle, or possibly two fiddles! Tell me doctor, give it to me straight! I’m a brave man when I’ve got the spirit in me! Shall I live to see the World Cup? Or shall I fall victim to a prophesy from TB  Joshua?’

‘You’re suffering from Gabon Fever,’ she declared solemnly. ‘It’s all over!’

‘All over!’ I gasped. ‘The final curtain?’

‘No, Kalaki,’ she laughed, ‘I meant it’s all over everywhere?’

‘What?’ I said, pulling up my trouser leg, ‘am I coming out in a rash?’

‘I mean Gabon Fever has spread all over Zambia!’ she laughed. ‘Come back and sit in the chair, and I’ll give you some medicine.’ She leant back to the shelf behind her and took down a little bottle of red pills. ‘You take two of these three times a day, and you should be alright by the end of the week.’

‘God bless you doctor,’ I said. ‘If only I’d brought my sainted mother to see you, she’d still be with us today.’

‘But no alcohol while you’re taking the pills,’ said Dr Rawat, smiling sweetly.

‘What!’ I shouted, leaning over and catching her by her stethoscope, ‘You silly old bat! I’ve told you never to give me pills that can’t be washed down with alcohol! You can stick your pills up your vuvuzela!’

‘Calm yourself, Kalaki,’ she said as she deftly disengaged herself, ‘It’s one of the symptoms of Gabon Fever. Lack of respect for authority!’

‘What d’you  mean, you cheeky little quack! I’ve never had any respect for authority!’

‘That’s why there was such chaos when the team arrived,’ explained Rawat. ‘Gabon Fever! The fans were on the runway, up the control tower, everywhere! The police couldn’t do anything!’

‘Ha ha,’ I cackled, ‘What can they do! All they know is tear gas and guns! If they do anything they just cause a riot!’

‘Driven by Gabon Fever,’ continued the doctor, ‘the fans ignored the police, ignored all the rules of the road and ignored all the government ministers!’

‘Ha ha,’ I shouted, jumping onto my seat and blowing my vuvuzela. ‘See how Dotty Scotty was left opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water! See how we declared a public holiday for ourselves and left the schools and factories empty!’

‘Get down now Kalaki. I’ve got other patients waiting.’

‘See how the government tried to take the credit, when all they had done was to try to sack the coach!’

‘Please, Kalaki, just swallow two of these pills!’

‘Let them show us the Gabon Disaster Report, then we shall see how the government can help football!’

‘Please, Kalaki, this is a non-political hospital!’

But I blew my vuvuzela in her face. ‘See how the bogus bishops tried to take the credit, saying their prayers had been answered! Saying God had favoured us! But we blew our vuvuzelas in their faces, and instead thanked our boys for their determination and skill!’

‘Kalaki, get down from this chair!’

Down I jumped, off the chair and into the corridor, blowing my vuvuzela as hard as I could.

When I opened my eyes I found myself surrounded by a bile-green plastic curtain. Sara was sitting at the side of my bed. She put her hand on my forehead. ‘You’ve come round at last,’ she said, ‘you’ve had a bad attack of Gabon Fever.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘When you blew your vuvuzela, your eyes popped clean out of their sockets.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘I was just scoring two penalties.’

‘The other patients were so frightened,’ said Sara, ‘that they all ran away. One fellow who hadn’t walked for years jumped out of his wheelchair and ran straight out through the gate!’

‘That wasn’t my fault! They were just going to join the celebrations!’

‘You infected them with Gabon Fever!’

‘Did I?’

‘You did.’

‘Oh Good!’    

Reshuffled

Reshuffled

‘Turn on the news,’ said Sara, ‘I can’t wait to hear the latest on Constable Chilufya’s reshuffles!’

As I turned on the TV, there he sat, in yet another new suit, unsmiling behind the huge arrangements of flowers.’

‘Following my reshuffles of last night,’ began the Constable, ‘I have had complaints from Southern Province that I should not have put Chirundu as part of Lusaka Province, nor moved Itezhi Tezhi to Central Province. Since this is a listening government, I have now moved Chirundu District from Lusaka to Eastern Province, and I have picked up Itezhi Tezhi from Central Province and dropped it into Western Province.

‘In line with the Provincial Fiasco policy of decentralization, and in conformity with my usual practice of wide consultation, I have asked each of my provincial ministers to suggest which of the Southern Province districts they would like to be moved to their province.’

‘In my opinion,’ said Sara, ‘a tourist attraction like Mosi-o-Tunya should be moved to Lusaka.’

‘And what’s more,’ I said, ‘It could solve the water shortage in Ng’ombe.’

‘This decentralization policy,’ declared the Constable gravely, ‘is also affecting local government. As part of this new policy of devolving power to the people I have instructed the Minister of Local Government to instruct the Mayor of Lusaka to instruct his councilors that, with immediate effect, I have moved Kabulonga to Kaunda Square, Kaunda Square to Rhodes Park, and Rhodes Park to Kabulonga.’

‘The Constable has just moved to a bigger house,’ said Sara.

‘With immediate effect,’ I laughed.

‘And now,’ said the Constable, ‘I come to some of the wider consequences of my decentralization policy which also touch on our policy of abolishing school fees.’

‘Ah ha!’ said Sara. ‘Now this is something! I never thought he’d do it!’

‘Since we have a large surplus of educated young people,’ declared the Great Leader, ‘we are not only abolishing school fees, but also abolishing schools. With immediate effect.’

‘How is this decentralization?’ I wondered.

‘Just wait for it,’ laughed Sara.

‘Education will no longer be centralized in schools. Instead young people will be given an opportunity to decentralize their education by individually seeking entrepreneurial and other life-changing experiences. All school buildings will be turned into prisons for members of the previous government.’

‘Instead of providing boring punishment for children,’ said Sara, ‘schools can now do the same job for adults.’

‘In order to keep the former Minister of Education employed,’ continued the Constable, ‘I have instead given him the portfolios of Netball, Artwork, Gender and Other Entertainments.’

‘I wonder if he consulted the women about that,’ said Sara.

‘And now,’ declared the Constable, ‘I come to the more central aspects of my decentralization policy. I have decided that we cannot have our centre of government in a central capital city which is centralized at the centre, because this contradicts our policy of decentralization. Therefore, with immediate effect, I am moving the capital to Mpika. Plans have already been laid for building this new capital, which will be completed in only two months, starting in March and finishing in December.’

‘March to December!’ squealed Sara, clapping her hands. ‘That’s nine months!

‘I think you missed the news on Monday,’ I laughed, ‘when he reshuffled the months.’

‘This building of a new capital,’ continued the Constable remorselessly, ‘is also in conformity with our election promise to increase employment in the country. A tender has already been awarded to Fling Up Company Ltd of Shanghai, which has already been awarded an extra 500,000 visas and work permits.’

‘What!’ shouted Sara. ‘What about jobs for Zambians?’

‘Of course,’ declared the Constable, ‘this building of a new capital city will not only boost our economy, but will put new strains on the labour market. Therefore I have decided to reshuffle the Labour portfolio…’

‘Again!’ shouted Sara. ‘It was reshuffled only last week!’

‘I have been very disappointed with the work of Feckless Shamika. Within the past ten days I have twice appointed him to the Labour portfolio, but each time he has failed to reach his office…’

‘He has been reshuffled to so many portfolios in the past two weeks,’ said Sara, ‘and the poor fellow can’t walk very fast because he’s very old and confused. No sooner had he shuffled off in the direction of one office than somebody told him that he had been reshuffled, and he would then have to shuffle off in the direction of another office. He never managed to reach any of them.’

‘… Therefore,' said the Constable, 'I am now appointing the former Chinese Ambassador, Comrade Wok Fo Less, as the new Minister of Labour.  I have the greatest respect for the work of Comrade Wok, who served as my very able advisor during the very public nervous breakdown of a former Minister of Labour,  Mr Chipembele Kamwilimwili.

‘While I am away working at the New State House in Mpika, Comrade Wok Fo Less will be working at the Old State House to supervise the immigration of all the Chinese bricklayers and labourers and their relatives who …’

‘Comrade Wok Fo Less is in charge at State House!’ shouted Sara angrily. ‘What sort of decentralization  is this?’

‘Chinese decentralization,’ I replied. ‘A very successful policy. We have just been made a province of China.’

____________________________________________________

[Kalaki's thanks go to his friends who contributed to the Facebook discussion on reshuffles, and especially to those whose ideas he pinched] 

The Minister's Visit

The Minister’s Visit

What a scene it was at Shoprite Manda Hill!  Suddenly the ZNBC camera crew arrived and set up their lights, right in front of the checkout counters. Next came a bunch of security men, black suits and dark glasses, jabbering into their walkie-talkies, and forming a menacing circle in front of the cameras. Then down from his upstairs office came the managing director, Mr Johannesburg Kurtz, to see what was going on. Finally, there was a roll of drums, and trotting into the shop came a huge fat rhinoceros of a man, squeezed into a bright blue suit three sizes too small for him.

A shiver of excitement went through the crowd of shoppers, as they began to crowd around this impromptu theatre, wondering what was going to happen next.

The rhinoceros took a step towards Mr Kurtz, who put out his hand to greet him. But the rhinoceros ignored the hand and instead stabbed a short fat finger into Kurtz’s chest and barked into his face ‘Do you know who I am?’

The hapless Mr Kurtz leaned backwards, trying to escape the stench of bad breath. ‘I don’t doubt that you’re about to tell me.’

‘Don’t think you can be rude to me!’ squealed the rhinoceros, now spitting fire into Kurtz’s face. ‘I’m the Honorable Mr Chipembele Kambilimbili, Minister for Labour, Factory Inspections, Work Permits and Instant Deportations.’

Now Chipembele pushed his finger up Kurtz’s nose, as Kurtz raised himself on his toes to try to save himself from this embarrassing intrusion into his person. ‘You wouldn’t be allowed to be rude to a minister in your own country!’

‘Well actually,’ said Kurtz, as he finally managed to lift his nose off from the end of Chipembele’s finger, ‘that’s not entirely true, because in my country…’

‘Well you’re not in your country now!’ squealed Chipembele, ‘You’re in my country. And here you have to be polite to the minister!’

‘Certainly sir,’ said Kurtz, bowing slightly. ‘Is there any matter in which I can be of assistance? Are you returning some foodstuffs which were not entirely up to your expectation? Some ice-cream that was too cold? Some chocolate that proved too sweet? A bottle of wine, perhaps, which tasted of alcohol?’

A ripple of mirth went round the audience.

Chipembele put his mouth up against Kurtz’s ear and screamed ‘Ever since you arrested my nephew for stealing a tube of toothpaste I’ve been waiting to get even with you. And now I’ve come to sort you out! I’m here to inspect your shop!’

‘Certainly sir,’ replied Kurtz, ‘Let me first show you our extensive range of toothpastes, all at competitive prices.’

‘But not free of charge,’ said a voice from the audience, as everybody laughed and clapped.

But Chipembele now ignored Kurtz, and instead bent down to the cashier at the checkout counter. ‘How much do they pay you my dear?’

‘Twenty thousand a day,’ she replied sadly.

‘Just as I thought!’ shouted the minister. ‘Slavery! I hereby increase your wage by 100%! You will now receive two million a day! With immediate effect!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘A man of action!’

After the cheering had died down, Kurtz said ‘I think you’ll find a 100% increase on twenty pins brings the daily wage from twenty to forty pins.’

‘Boo!’ laughed the crowd. ‘Deport him!’

‘Everybody knows,’ scoffed Chipembele, as he turned to the crowd, ‘that a 100% increase means adding two zeros, so twenty thousand becomes two million! We employ foreigners who can’t even do arithmetic, while our own graduates remain unemployed!’

‘Revoke his work permit!’ shouted the crowd, as they laughed and clapped.

Now the minister, encouraged by the crowd, was warming to his task. He turned to the woman who had been just about to pay for her grocery. ‘How much are you being charged for all this?’

‘Three hundred and twenty thousand,’ replied the woman.

‘See how this Kurtz robs us!’ shouted Chipembele. ‘He knows very well that my government has just knocked off three zeros, and the right price should now be three hundred and twenty kwacha!’ He turned back to the customer, saying ‘Just give the cashier a one thousand note.’ Then turning to the cashier, he said ‘Now you give her change of six hundred and eighty kwacha.’

‘Hurray!’ laughed the crowd. ‘More money in our pockets!’

‘And look at this!’ Chipembele crowed, as he picked up a tin of sardines. ‘It says expiry date June 2016!’ Then he put his finger into the ring on the tin, and ripped off the lid. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as he lifted a sardine high into the air for all to see, ‘These sardines are all dead! They suffocated! They expired a long time ago!’

‘Even the chickens!’ laughed the crowd. ‘They’ve all expired!’

Then Chipembele swaggered up to Kurtz and tipped the contents of the tin over his head. Kurtz stood there patiently, wearing a wry smile, and wondering what might happen next, as the sardine oil dripped down his face.

And what happened next was even more surprising. The film director leapt out from behind the camera, shook Kurtz by the hand. ‘Well done!’ he said, as everybody cheered. ‘You have just appeared on Candid Camera!’

‘Good God!’ laughed Kurtz. ‘I never guessed! That ugly fat fellow really looks like Chipembele! I really thought he was the Minister of Labour and Whatever!’

‘And so he was!’ laughed the director. ‘But there was another reshuffle last week, and now he’s the Minister for Comedy and Error. We’re putting his comedy show on TV every night.’

‘I’ll watch out for it,’ said Kurtz. ‘What’s it called?’

‘It’s called The News,’ he replied.