A Fake Certificate

A Fake Certificate

‘Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘you are faced with a charge of obtaining employment with a fake certificate. What do you have to say for yourself?’

     ‘My Lord,’ I pleaded, ‘how was I to know it was fake? It was handed to me by the Yunza Chancellor himself at a public Graduation Ceremony in front of thousands of graduates and their relatives.’

     ‘But you Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘you obviously knew very well that you had miserably failed your exams in Physical Statistics.’

     ‘Of course I knew that, My Lord. But my degree certificate said that I had obtained a degree in Political Satire.’

     ‘Surely it much have occurred you, Kalaki, that you were the unfortunate victim of a typographical error, and that you should have owned up?’

     ‘On the contrary,’ I explained, ‘my respect for our highest institution of learning was such that it never occurred to me that an entire senate of learned academics could make such an elementary blunder.’

     ‘But did you not notice that your certificate said Political Satire instead of Physical Statistics?’

     ‘Indeed I did, My Lord. And I was much pleased and flattered that Yunza had finally recognized my imaginative sense of humour in the subversive messages I had written on every available wall during my five years of secret nocturnal campus roaming.’

     ‘You imagined,’ scoffed the judge, ‘that you had been conferred with a degree for writing filthy graffiti on lavatory walls?’

     ‘My Lord,’ I protested, ‘you have given a most unsympathetic description of my hard work at Yunza, ever busy fomenting an exciting counter-culture. And how could I doubt my success when I received a degree in Political Satire from none other than the Chancellor, who personally congratulated me.’

     The judge looked genuinely puzzled. ‘So you were now really persuaded that you could write Political Satire?’

     ‘At that time I had the highest respect for Yunza,’ I replied firmly, ‘and they had declared me qualified in Political Satire with First Class Honors!’

     ‘Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘I have seen the offending certificate, and I suggest to you that the words to which you refer actually read First Class Horrors!’

     ‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘I fear you must have slightly misread the rather difficult gothic script.’

     The judge now put his head in his hands and sighed. ‘So you now went out into world with your new certificate, looking for a job.’

     ‘That’s right My Lord. But this was during the One Party State, when the profession of Political Satire was entirely banned, along with Terrorism, Bomb Making and Having an Opinion. For twenty years I was entirely unemployed.’

     ‘And did you write satire during this period?’

     ‘Certainly not. As a university graduate I now needed a large salary before doing any work.’

     ‘But finally you went to the new Boast Newspaper and showed them your certificate?’

     ‘Yes. And they employed me immediately as a political satirist because they have great respect for university certificates.’

     ‘But then,’ said the judge, ‘came the fateful day, twenty years later, when a letter came from Yunza saying that your certificate was erroneous.’

     ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I replied, wiping a tear from my face. ‘The letter explained that the clerical officer who wrote my certificate was illiterate, and that he had obtained his job with a fake certificate. He had confessed the whole thing on his deathbed, forty years later.’

     ‘So you were fired,’ said the judge.

     ‘Yes. The editor was furious, saying that the fake certificate had deceived him into thinking I was writing satire, when I had actually been writing rubbish.’

     ‘Kalaki, you’re just a fake, and you know it!’

     I leant towards him from the dock and looked at him sternly. ‘Because of this fake clerical officer, half the graduates in this country are fake. That’s why the country is in such a mess!’

     ‘It’s you that’s before this court,’ retorted the judge, ‘so don’t concern yourself with the others. Normally, in a case like this, I would send you back to Yunza to do your degree properly.’

     ‘But in my case?’

     ‘In your case, investigations show that you got into Yunza on a fake Form 5 certificate, in the name of Kalaliki instead of Kalaki. So I should send you back to Luanshya Secondary School to repeat your Form V.’

     ‘But in my case?’

     ‘In your case, records show a discrepancy between your actual Grade VII results and the marks on your secondary school entry form. In the normal course of events, I should send you back to Grade I at Mpatumatu Primary School.’

     ‘But in my case?’ I asked hopefully.

     ‘In your case, Kalaki,’ said the judge in a kindly voice, ‘since you have just been appointed the New Minister for Certification, I find you not guilty!’

     Now the whole courtroom burst into applause and cheers, prompting more cheers from the theatre audience. As the actors all lined up to bow to the audience, our director Stewart Crehan came on stage and bowed, to more applause.

     A young woman now walked out from the wings and stood centre stage. Stewart put his arm affectionately round her shoulder and looked towards the audience, saying ‘Kulenga Mapwepwe would have liked to have written this play, but unfortunately she wasn’t qualified because she didn’t have a certificate!’

     How we all laughed and cheered!

Marie Antoinette

Marie Antoinette

‘Come and sit down, Kalaki,’ she said, as she stood up from her desk, shook my hand, and pointed me in the direction of a plush green leather armchair. Then she hobbled towards her well-stocked cocktail cabinet. ‘What can I get you to drink? I know you like a drop of brandy.’

     ‘A double Klipdrift would do me fine,’ I replied.

     ‘We can do better than that in the minister’s  office,’ she cackled. ‘How about a double liqueur cognac? I’ve got a lovely twelve-year old Marie Antoinette here, how about that?’

     ‘That’ll do fine,’ I admitted.

     I was in the office of the Minister for Controlling the Poor, the dreaded Professor Clueless Cluo, a little wrinkled old woman, about four feet tall, but precariously  balanced on a pair of six inch high heels and wearing a miniskirt.

     She came back with the bottle and two elegant cut glass tumblers, put them on the walnut coffee table, and settled herself into the other armchair. ‘Well, Kalaki,’ she said, ‘are you still trying to see the funny side of life?’

     ‘Is there any other side?’ I laughed. ‘Take that nice big bottle of Marie Antoinette, for example. How can it be legal to sell a large amount of brandy in a big bottle, but illegal to sell a small amount in a little plastic sachet?’

     ‘So that’s why you’ve come,’ she laughed, ‘You want to know why I banned tujilijili.’

     ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘As the President-for-Life of the Zambia National Union of Brandy Drinkers, I am very concerned that this constitutes an attack on the poorer members of our great union, which has always stood for One Zambia One Drinker.’

     ‘My dear Kalaki,’ she sighed, ‘you’re way out of date. Times have changed since independence. Nowadays, we who are privileged to rule have a duty to control the terrible excesses of the lower classes.’

     ‘You mean the working class?’

     ‘Much lower than that,’ she said, as she took another swig of her cognac. ‘They drink so much that they can’t work.’

     ‘I rather thought,’ I said, ‘that they drink because they can’t find work. It gives them something else to do.’

     ‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughed. ‘There’s plenty of work, but they can’t do it because they’re always drunk. That’s why we’re having to bring in the Chinese.’

     ‘Half a minute,’ I said. ‘Let’s get back to my original point. There has to be some consistency in the law. According to the law, neither selling alcohol nor drinking alcohol is illegal. So how can it be an offence to sell a small amount in a sachet, but not an offence to sell a large amount in a bottle. Surely the larger amount is more dangerous?’

     ‘You’ve missed the point as usual,’ laughed Clueless Cluo. ‘The lower classes can’t afford a big bottle for twenty-five pin, so they have to buy small sachets at one pin each.’

     ‘So banning tujilijili will keep the lower classes sober?’

     ‘Exactly,’ she replied. ‘Help yourself to another drop of Marie Antoinette.’

     ‘Thanks,’ I said, as I refilled my glass. ‘But your policy still allows the ruling class to get drunk, and mess up the country horribly!’

     ‘We who are privileged to govern,’ explained Clueless Cluo, ‘are of course more educated and civilized than the lower classes. We know how to control our drinking. Besides, we don’t have to work with our hands or control machines, so it doesn’t matter if we’re not completely sober.’

     ‘The work of the upper class is just to sit and think,’ I suggested.

     ‘Exactly,’ she agreed. ‘We have to think how to control the poor and improve their miserable lives. And such elevated thinking needs imagination, which is much improved by a drop of brandy. In fact, it was only after drinking a full bottle of cognac that I came up with the marvelous idea of banning tujilijili.’ So saying, she tottered over to the cocktail cabinet to fetch another bottle of Marie Antoinette.

     ‘But you seem to have changed your party policy,’ I said. ‘During the election campaign you were giving tujilijili to the unemployed so that they would vote for you.’

     ‘Obviously we couldn’t give them jobs before we got into government, so instead we had to give them tujilijili to keep them happy.’

     ‘But now you’re in government, you still haven’t given them jobs.’

     ‘Don’t be dull, Kalaki. I’ve already told you that we have to get them off the tujilijili before they can be fit for employment. Nobody wants to employ a drunk.’

     ‘I know what you mean,’ I said sadly, as I took another gulp of the excellent Marie Antoinette.

     But all the time we had been talking there was a growing noise outside, and suddenly the Impermanent Secretary appeared in the doorway, bowing and clapping his hands.        ‘Please, Honourable Professor Doctor Madam Minister Sah, there’s a mob at the gate!’

     ‘What’s wrong with them this time?’ she shouted.

     ‘Madam, they say they’ve got no tujilijili!’

     ‘Send in the police to sort them out!’ ordered the minister.

     ‘Please Honorable Professor Minister,’ he whined, ‘it was the police who confiscated all the tujilijili, so now they’re all drunk!’

     Clueless Cluo staggered unsteadily to the window, and raised her glass of cognac in the direction of the distant protestors. ‘No tujilijili? she asked sarcastically, ‘then why don't they take Marie Antoinette!’ So saying, she fell off her high heels, flat on the floor. Out cold.

     I turned to the Impermanent Secretary. ‘Splendid idea!’ I said. ‘Go and deliver Marie Antoinette to the crowd!’

An Untimely Death

An Untimely Death

‘What is an untimely death?’ asked Thoko.

     ‘I think,’ I said, scratching my head, ‘that God has set a definite date when He’s coming to get you. So if you die sooner, or even later, your death must be untimely.’

     ‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ she retorted. ‘You’re suggesting that the departed person has managed to defy God’s will, and has managed to change the pre-ordained date of departure. That just ain’t possible, because God is all knowing and all powerful.’

     ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I would agree that such a thing is extremely improbable, but it’s not entirely impossible. Perhaps you have never heard of the strange untimely death of King Umpire in Malabwe.’

     ‘Umpire!’ laughed Thoko. ‘Was he a referee?’

     ‘Any good king has to be a good umpire,’ I explained. ‘Every country always has different opposing parties, such as the Ups and the Downs, the North and the South, the Capitalists and the Workers, the Thinkers and the Bonkers. A king has to be the Umpire, so he can mediate between the two sides, get them all to work together for everybody’s general benefit, in order to achieve One Malabwe One Nation.’

     ‘So did the people say King Umpire’s death was untimely because he died before he had finished his good work?’

     ‘Oh no, they definitely never said anything like that. You see the problem with him was that, although he worked for many years as a good Umpire, in the end he got corrupted.’

     ‘So what happened?’ wondered Thoko. ‘Did the Umpire turn into Backfire?’

     ‘It was more horrific than that,’ I said sadly. ‘Umpire turned into a Vampire!’

     ‘On no!’ squealed Thoko. ‘How did that happen?’

     ‘It happened because he had surrounded himself with bootlickers, sychophants and praise singers. So one day his personal sangoma said to him, O King, you are such a wise Umpire, you must rule Malabwe for ever! Now the king, who had an exceptionally high regard for his own abilities, replied Of course you are right, I only wish I could, but it is not possible.

     ‘The sangoma didn’t reply. But he knew different. He knew that the secret of everlasting life was to drink human blood.

     ‘That night a beautiful young woman slipped into the king’s bedroom, and she wasn’t wearing much, except a very nice smile.’

     ‘Oh dear,’ said Thoko, ‘she was a vampire.’

     ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And so the king also became a vampire, and developed a terrible thirst for human blood.’

     ‘But on the other hand,’ Thoko pointed out, ‘if he lived forever he could also rule forever, and the Malabwian people would always be happy with his wise rule!’

     ‘It wasn’t as simple as that,’ I explained. ‘In the daytime he remained the wise King Umpire, but during the night he became the terrible King Vampire. During the day he smiled and cut ribbons, laid foundations stones and inspected guards of honour. But at night he prowled the shadows of the back streets, waiting to pounce on innocent virgins, sinking his long incisor teeth into their jugular veins, and sucking the blood out of them.’

     ‘So now he wasn’t so popular?’

     ‘The people soon found out that there were two kings – the Wise Umpire and the Thirsty Vampire. The first was working for the people, but the second was sucking their blood. Things went seriously wrong when the king tried to suck the blood out of the American ambassador. All the donors fled, and the king was left with insufficient money to run the country.’

     ‘So hadn’t the king now passed his sell-by date?’ wondered Thoko. ‘What had happened to God’s pre-ordained date for his departure?’

     ‘Tut tut,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t your mother send you to church to understand these things? The king was now outside God’s control. He had joined the Devil so that he could live forever. But as the life of the king was getting longer and longer, the life of the people was getting shorter and shorter. His blood supply was running out.’

     ‘So did the people rise against his bloody government?’

     ‘When they went to protest in Uhuru Square, the Vampire King sent his police with their guns. There was such a bloodbath that the king and all his ministers, parasites, bloodsuckers and vampires had a very good feast.’

     ‘Couldn’t anybody stop him?’ asked Thoko

     ‘The country could only be saved by Princess Wobbly Juicy, because she was the only member of the royal household who had not become a vampire.’

     ‘How had she managed to protect herself?’

     ‘She was so fat that the king couldn’t find any of her veins. She managed to escape from the palace, and went on a long journey to plead with the famous Prophet Tuberculosis, popularly known as TB. Her mission was successful, for he immediately predicted a miracle within 60 days.’

     ‘You mean death within sixty days.’

     ‘Exactly. And sure enough, at mid-day on the fifty-ninth day, as the king was sleeping peacefully in his coffin, a flash of lightening struck the palace, breaking the roof beams into many large splinters. One of these splinters went straight through the heart of the king. And that, of course, is the only way to kill a vampire.’

     ‘So was that an untimely death?’ asked Thoko.

     ‘Of course it was! Most untimely! A vampire is supposed to live forever! But King Vampire died very young, at the age of only eighty-eight!’

The Truth about Michael

The Truth about Michael

‘So from your point of view,’ I said, ‘All this talk about Michael’s health was just the idle chatter of the unemployed?’

     ‘Politics,’ explained Christine, ‘is for politicians. We have a parliament for idle chatter, where politicians chatter on behalf of everybody else, so that the remainder of the country can get on with their work and shut up.’

     ‘Or at least not talk about Michael!’

     ‘Exactly.’

     ‘But tell me, why did Michael go to India? Was it for medical treatment?’

     ‘Of course not. He went there to look for investors, to give work to the unemployed, in order to stop them chattering, so that he can have some peace.’

     ‘Even so,’ I said. ‘If he was looking for investors, why did he spend so much time at Gujarat Central Hospital?’

     ‘Look, Kalaki, what do you know about finding investors?  If you were looking for investors, where would you go?’

     ‘An investment bank in New Delhi?’

     ‘There you are!’ she laughed, as she poured me another cup of tea. ‘See how little you know! Investors don’t sit in offices! Nowadays they are so rich and decadent that they spend most of their time in hospital, recovering from the diseases of affluence such as obesity, high blood pressure, or the more exotic forms of sexually transmitted diseases. They are using their vast wealth to linger on, far beyond their allotted lifespan, because they know that when they die they will surely to go to Hell.’

     ‘But why Gujarat Central Hospital?’

     ‘Because it specializes in the diseases of dying and stinking capitalism. It is reckoned that Gujarat Central Hospital has the world’s highest concentration of capitalists per square metre.’

     ‘But Dotty Scotty told parliament that Michael had gone to India on a private visit, for a holiday.’

     ‘Of course there was that too,’ agreed Christine. ‘Perhaps you don’t realize, Kalaki, that a hospital is a grand place for a holiday. The air is clean and free of germs, and you can jog up and down the corridors which run for miles. And Gujuarat Central Hospital has a swimming pool, gymnasium, massage parlour, several restaurants and cinemas, and so on.’

     ‘So Michael had plenty of time to relax?’

     ‘Well, you know Michael, he can’t relax. He soon found that there were many heads of state living in Gujarat Central. Before long he was fixing up international trade deals, to import water from Bangladesh, export slave labour to the Siberian salt mines, and so on.’

     ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘What were these heads of state doing there?’

     ‘Many of them were recovering from bullet wounds, or taking refuge from the International Criminal Court, or merely taking a holiday from the suffocating love of their grateful citizens. Others were having secret treatment because they didn’t want to admit that they were sick.’

     ‘Good gracious,’ I said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. So with all these eminent people to meet, Michael must have had a marvelous time.’

     ‘Ever busy, my Michael,’ replied Christine, proudly. ‘When he saw how many Zambian doctors were working at the Gujarat Central, he gathered them all into the medical lecture theatre and gave them a little pep talk, telling them what they could expect if they ever came back home to Zambia.’

     ‘What did he tell them?’

     ‘He told that he had been forced to travel all the way to Gujarat to seek medical attention because they had run away from their own country. They had deserted sick Zambians at home in order to attend to the health of foreigners, which was treachery, and that if they ever came home they would be charged with treason.’

     ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘Our friend Michael is such an honest person. Whatever comes into his head, he will say it, just like that!’

     ‘And he has such a marvelous imagination,’ she said proudly. ‘He has been thinking about the problem of bringing back these doctors to Zambia, and he’s going to make an announcement this afternoon. He’s decided to reshuffle Gujarat Province to Zambia, in exchange for Western Province, which will go to India. This will solve our doctor shortage and the Barotse problem at a stroke.’

     ‘Brilliant,’ I agreed. ‘The Zambian doctors can come home, and the Barotse can break away, so everybody will be happy!’

     ‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘Michael’s such an agreeable fellow, very easy to get along with.’

     Just then Michael put his head round the door. ‘I’m off to reshuffle a few provinces, see you later!’ Then he noticed me. ‘Hullo Kalaki,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dead.’

     ‘How did the operation go?’ I asked.

     ‘Complete success,’ he replied, as he disappeared from sight.

     ‘The operation to find new investors,’ Christine explained, ‘was a great success.’

     ‘I must be off,’ I said, as I stood up and put my notebook in my pocket. We shook hands, and I gave her a little kiss on each cheek. ‘What’s it like, being the First Lady?’

     ‘It’s just a title,’ she laughed, ‘there’s no job!’

     ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I've enjoyed having a bit of idle chatter with one of the unemployed.’