The Rise and Fall of King Atas

The Rise and Fall of King Atas

          ‘Thoko,’ I said, ‘What are you learning at school nowadays? Anything interesting?’

          ‘It’s all so boring,’ she sighed. ‘Especially Civics. All this stuff about the constitution, the executive, parliament, judiciary, and so on. I’m beginning to think the whole thing was invented just to make the Grade Nine exams more difficult!’

          ‘So how would you make things more simple?’

          ‘I’d just put a king in charge of everything. Or better still, myself as queen!’

          ‘But hasn’t your teacher told you the cautionary tale of King Atas?’

          ‘No, who was he?’

          ‘King Atas lived long ago, when it was quite normal for the country to be ruled by a king. In those days they didn’t bother about a parliament or ministers or anything like that.’

          ‘So there was only one person to steal money from the people?’

          ‘Exactly,’ I agreed.

          ‘Ha ha!’ she laughed, clapping her hands. ‘Now you see why a king would be better!’

          ‘But in those days,’ I cautioned, ‘everybody had to do exactly as the king said, because he held all the power.’

          ‘But wasn’t it the people that gave him that power?’

          ‘Good gracious no,’ I said. ‘The power was given to him by God. Therefore the king’s word was law. His judgement was final. His power was absolute.’

          ‘And was King Atas a good king?’ Thoko wondered.

          ‘He started off alright,’ I admitted, ‘although rather annoyingly noisy and bossy. When he banged his spoon on the dining table and shouted Bring me more ice-cream, a servant had to bring it quick, otherwise he’d be fired, with immediate effect.

          ‘That’s just how little Nawiti shouts for ice-cream,’ laughed Thoko.

          ‘But it’s a much bigger problem when the king does it,’ I said.

          ‘There was nobody to control him,’ laughed Thoko, ‘because he was the one in control of everybody else.’

          ‘That’s not the only problem,’ I said. ‘A king is always surrounded by a coterie of flatterers and sycophants, who incite and encourage him, saying You can order anything O King, Your word is law. One day King Atas went so far as ordering an elephant to be brought to him, even though elephants are notoriously difficult to catch. When no elephant was brought within five minutes, he sacked all the game rangers.’

          ‘With immediate effect,’ suggested Thoko.

          ‘Of course. Another time he ordered the rain to stop, and when it didn’t, he fired all the meteorologists.’

          ‘Did he ever have any successes?’ laughed Thoko.

          ‘Oh yes, King Atas will always remain famous for his miracle of restoring water to the Holy Well at Ultimate Termination House.’

          ‘What sort of house was that?’

          ‘It was the most important place in the land. The UTH was where everybody went to die. The Holy Well contained the Holy Water for the Holy Sacrament of washing the bodies of the dead before being taken to Heaven. So a shortage of water would have been an insult to God.’

          ‘But King Atas managed to restore the water?’

          ‘The miracle is recorded in the scriptures. He just stood in front of the well and said In the name God and the King I order this well to supply water! Immediately there was a loud gurgling noise, as water rose up in the well and overflowed onto the ground. Whereupon the assembled crowd fell to their knees and raised their hands to Heaven.’

          ‘So now people had confidence in the king’s power?’

          ‘Exactly. And even the king himself was now confident that he could successfully order anything. The very next day he ordered six palaces to be built throughout the country, so that he could visit all his people and perform more miracles. But the people murmured that they needed food and not palaces.

          ‘The next day King Atas ordered a huge 40,000 capacity football stadium to be built in Shang’ombo. But there were murmurs that there were only 4,000 people in Shang’ombo and they didn’t even have a football club.

          ‘The next day King Atas ordered that an Atlantic cruise liner to be brought up the Zambezi, so that he could travel in a suitably regal style when visiting the remote and neglected Western Hinterland of his vast empire.’

          ‘Why couldn’t he travel by road?’ wondered Thoko.

          ‘In those days, long ago,’ I explained, ‘there were hardly any roads and the horse had not yet been invented.’

          ‘The next day King Atas ordered a university to be built in every village, so that the next generation could all become doctors and lawyers so that they would never have to be farmers like their unfortunate parents.

          ‘And the very next next day King Atas ordered a tall tower to be built at his palace, so that he could stand on top to inspect progress on all his new development projects. But when he climbed the tower he found that he could see no further than Kalingalinga.  Then his flatterers and bootlickers encouraged him, saying Just fly over the country, O King. Flap your arms and fly! You can do miracles! You have the power and glory of God! You are the King!’

          ‘And did he manage to fly?’ asked Thoko.

          ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘He flew straight to Heaven.’

          ‘So after that,’ said Thoko, ‘did the people decide to have a constitution?’

          ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They introduced a new system, with a parliament to control expenditure, a judiciary to control the executive, and a church to perform miracles.’

          ‘And did it work?’ Thoko wondered.

          ‘That,’ I admitted, ‘is another story.’

             

         

             

          

Flushed!

Flushed!

            ‘The news is over, switch it off!’ said Sara

          ‘Half a minute,’ I said, ‘something else is coming up!’

          ‘The screen is completely blank,’ Sara sneered.

          ‘No,’ I said, ‘I can definitely see something. Look carefully. I think there’s a woman in a red dress sitting in front of a red wall hung with red pictures and red curtains!’

          As Sara peered forward, a notice appeared at the bottom of the red screen saying The Honourable Ms Emery Chimbusu, Minister for Local Government and Toilets. ‘You see!’ I cried in triumph, ‘There is somebody there!’

          Sure enough, to prove me right, a set of white teeth appeared in the middle of the red wall, and began speaking. ‘I am pleased to inform you that tomorrow this nation will be taking part in the global commemoration of World Toilet Day.’

          ‘Poof,’ sneered Sara, ‘this is just a load of sh…’

          ‘Shush,’ I said. ‘This is a crucial aspect of developing our great nation...’

          ‘No house is complete,’ began the Honorable Ms Emery Chimbusu, ‘without a toilet. This is a matter on which we must all take action. Do not sit idly in front of your TV this evening. Jump up now, inspect your house and find out if your house has got a toilet!’

          ‘I’ve always wondered,’ I said to Sara, ‘about that big white vase where we planted the geraniums. Maybe that was supposed to be a toilet?’

          ‘Surely not,’ Sara laughed, ‘A chimbusu should be flat on the floor, not sitting up like a big flower pot.’

          ‘It’s a great pity,’ I said, ‘that the Minister didn’t think to illustrate her little talk with some pictures and diagrams, so that we might know what she’s talking about.’

          ‘If you cannot find a proper toilet in your house,’ the Minister for Toilets announced sternly, ‘this almost certainly means that you have been answering the call of nature in a wrong and unhygienic place. Some negligent and uncaring people are even known to be using plastic bags or cooking oil containers, with a view to emptying the contents over their political opponents and without police permission.’

          ‘That’s why we need the Public Order Act,’ I said, ‘to prevent all this shit flying around.’

          ‘That’s why the police have to wear helmets, visors and rubber boots, and hide behind those huge transparent shields,’ said Sara. ‘They have to protect themselves from flying lumps of cholera.’

          ‘Other furtive defecators,’ explained the Minister, ‘travel long distances to secret places to answer the call of nature, thereby exposing their most tender and vulnerable extremities to the depredation of wild animals, or even worse, to members of the opposition. This is most unhealthy.’

          ‘I am now beginning to understand why the police have to ban these so-called political rallies,’ I admitted. ‘These unfortunate social misfits are actually large congregations of nomadic crappers, looking for a site where they can unburden themselves, with the unintended consequence of spreading cholera instead of political ideas.

          ‘But the normal human function of defecation,’ continued the Minister for Toilets, ‘is supposed to be a moment for private reflection rather than public entertainment. That is why, under the government’s privatization policy, each individual householder is encouraged to build their own private facility.’

          ‘There’s privatization policy for you,’ said Sara. ‘The government won’t build public toilets.’

          ‘If people get together in public toilets,’ I suggested, ‘they might crap all over the government.’

          ‘Figures from the 2009 Demographic Toilet Survey,’ continued the minister, ‘indicate that we have only 762 toilets in a population of 13 million people.’

          ‘And half of those toilets must be in State House!’ I suggested.

          ‘Why do you think that?’ Sara wondered.

          ‘Because,’ I said, ‘the ruling class have to endure so many banquets, causing them to visit the toilet ten times a day, or even more frequently after feasts provided by the Indian High Commission. But your average villager, with starvation and constipation, only needs to go twice a year. The villager’s main expense is funerals, not toilets.’

          ‘We must realize,’ intoned Ms Chimbusu solemnly, ‘that the politics of toilets go back to the very beginning of the demand for social equality, and to the popular rallying cry of the freedom movement, One Man, One Toilet!’

          ‘She means One Person, One Toilet!’ Sara shouted.

          ‘Oh no she doesn’t,’ I hooted. ‘She means One Man, Four Wives, Thirty-five Children and One Toilet!’

           ‘Or Forty Prisoners and One Bucket!’ Sara hissed.

           ‘So I hereby declare,’ announced Ms Emery Chimbusu, ‘that my government will commemorate World Toilet Day by building a million toilets. The government will make toilet building grants available to all householders and will also expand the sewer system nationwide. In line with our action oriented approach, my government undertakes to complete this programme within ninety days!

          ‘Furthermore,’ announced Ms Emery, ‘this new National Toilet Initiative will provide a new means for distributing information on government programmes. By tomorrow, a copy of my speech will be hung on the wall of every toilet in the nation.’

          ‘Emery paper in every toilet!’ laughed Sara. ‘How abrasive! How irritating!’

          ‘Ha ha!’ I exclaimed, ‘this new programme will immediately be flushed down the toilet! That will make it a first!’

          ‘No it won't,’ said Sara. ‘It will make it a fourth!’

          ‘A fourth?’ I frowned. ‘Which were the others?’

          ‘First the Manifesto went down the toilet, and after that the Freedom of Information Act. As we speak the Draft Constitution is already going the same way. So the Toilet Initiative will be the fourth!’

          ‘No, it’s a first!’ I declared, raising my arms in triumph. ‘This is the first time that the toilet has been flushed down the toilet!’

       

Christine explains everything...

Christine explains everything…

     It was Sunday afternoon, and Sara and I were having a quiet cup of tea on the veranda when we heard a voice behind us. ‘Have you got a cup for me”

     ‘Christine!’ exclaimed Sara, rising to give her a hug. ‘So you really did get out of there! Congrats! Good on you my dear! Long overdue!’

     ‘Had a row with Michael?’ I wondered, as I poured Christine a cup of tea.

     ‘No no,’ she said, as she made herself comfortable, ‘there was nothing like that, Michael never misbehaves. He washes properly and always irons his own shirts. He’s such a sweetie. He’s my darling.’

     ‘That’s not what I see on TV,’ I laughed. ‘He’s always scowling and growling, huffing and puffing, hiring and firing and hissing and dissing.’

     ‘By the end of the day he’s exhausted ,’ Christine explained, ‘so by the time he gets back to me he’s a pussy cat. The problem is not Michael, the problem is State House. When we were in Rhodes Park it was just us and the children, but State House, it’s like living in a railway station. People tramping in and out all the time. Sometimes they even trample on me and don’t seem to notice.’

     ‘They’re not very nice people?’

     ‘That’s another thing,’ said Christine, as she plastered her scone with strawberry jam, ‘he’s got such a peculiar bunch of friends. It was alright when he met them in the National Assembly Motel Bar, but now they’re in my house!’

     ‘And in the government,’ I said.

     ‘I can’t stand that awful GBV,’ said Christine, ‘he’s a real menace.’

     ‘You mean GBM,’ I suggested.

     ‘I know what I mean,’ she replied grimly. ‘I used to work at the hospital.’

     ‘But surely you must like poor old Dotty Scotty?’ I suggested.

     ‘He seems quite harmless,’ admitted Christine, ‘but he’s a terrible nuisance. Once I found him weeping in the toilet at three o’clock in the morning. Apparently he’d got lost and couldn’t find the way out.’

     ‘But surely you must enjoy all those big parties,’ I said. ‘Like Heroes Day when they bring out all the dead heroes and everybody gets drunk.’

     ‘Party cadres belching and farting and vomiting everywhere. After the last one we had to go to Japan for a couple of weeks while the place was being fumigated.’

     ‘My God,’ I said, ‘then I’m not surprised you ran away.’

     ‘Oh no,’ laughed Christine. ‘That’s not why I ran away! I’m a tough lady!’

     ‘I knew it!’ I cried in triumph. ‘The Watchdog was right! Your darling sweetie Michael was cheating on you! You had to leave him!’

     ‘What!’ laughed Christine. ‘Michael has never cheated on me! My dear Michael! Never! Michael is not a womaniser! He’s not even a polygamist! He’s a serial monogamist!’

     Sara scowled at me. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you please just be quiet and listen to what Christine is trying to tell you?’

     ‘I believed all these rumours,’ I persisted. ‘I really thought you’d run away from Michael!’

     ‘Of course not!’ she laughed. ‘I would never run away from Michael! I’ve run away from State House!’

     ‘But why?’

     ‘I couldn’t stand being First Lady,’ said Christine, as her lips trembled and a tear ran down her face. Sara handed her a handkerchief.

     ‘There there,’ I said, putting my arm around her. ‘We all know it’s a silly job. But it’s a national duty. Somebody’s got to do it.’

     ‘All that opening of workshops,’ she sobbed, ‘attending traditional ceremonies or gluttonous banquets for indigestible dignitaries. It’s all so mindless, irritating and boring.’

     ‘Dotty Scotty doesn’t seem to mind,’ I said soothingly.

     ‘He’s an old man with nothing else to do,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m a young professional with promising career prospects! I’ve got a mind of my own! But I’ve been spending half my time reading speeches that I haven’t written, saying things that I don’t agree with, to people who aren’t  listening. I’ve been spending all my time smiling at people I don’t like.’

     ‘You have to support your man,’ I said.

     ‘Christine’s right, of course,’ Sara declared firmly. ‘As First Lady she had position without power. Her job was merely to glorify the power of the husband and the subordination of his wife. He was the master and she was his servant. She did not represent us women, but instead was made to represent men’s view of womanhood. She was purposely disempowered in order to make an example for the rest of us. An example of how to accept being downtrodden.’

     ‘Sounds very eloquent,’ I sneered, ‘but all Christine has actually done is to run away from her husband!’

     ‘Nonsense,’ snapped Christine. ‘My next project is to help my beloved Michael to also escape. He is trapped in there by a bunch of sharks and criminals, even though he’s well past retirement age. So next Tuesday I’m going back to State House under the pretext of receiving a donation of useless books, then I’m going to get him out through the tunnels.’

     ‘Have you thought this through?’ I sneered. ‘Do you realize that if you rescue our dear Michael from State House then the gang of sharks and criminals will take over, and the nation will plunge into rack and ruin?

     ‘Of course we’ve thought of that,’ snapped Christine. ‘Plans for the transition are well advanced. We plan to make Sara the next President and you, Kalaki, will be her First Gentleman!’

     ‘But,’ warned Sara, ‘don’t write about this in the newspaper!’

     ‘Doesn’t matter if he does,’ laughed Christine. ‘Nobody believes a word he says!’

 

Ukwa in Mufumbwe

Ukwa in Mufumbwe

            Monday evening, and Sara and I had settled down in front of the TV. ‘We now take you over to Mufumbwe,’ said Master Chambala. ‘Sensitive viewers should turn off their TVs.’

          ‘Ooh, I do love the Freak Show News,’ I declared. ‘They bring us such horrible stories.’

          ‘My God!’gasped Sara, as the TV picture showed the main street of a small threadbare town in the middle of nowhere. ‘That place can’t have changed since colonial times!’

          ‘It’s changed a lot,’ I laughed. ‘Fifty years ago it had bright shiny steel roofs, but now they’ve all gone rusty.’

          As we were talking the camera was focusing on a rising cloud of dust in the distance. Suddenly, out of this dust appeared a speeding convoy of Landcruisers with sirens wailing and green flags flying, finally coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the empty street. On the top of a gold-plated Landcruiser was the Royal Pabwata of King Ukwa, and sitting in the boat was the King himself, resplendent in his official ceremonial gold silk Chinese suit.

          The King rose slowly and regally to address the crowd. There wasn’t one. Quickly his coterie of sycophants and goons leapt out of their vehicles and began waving brown envelopes and green chitenges, and a few people began to cautiously venture out from behind their closed doors. In the meantime, the King’s chauffeur connected the battery of the Golden Royal Lancruiser to a microphone, which he then handed to the King.

          ‘This must be the first time they’ve seen electricity,’ said Sara.

          ‘It’ll soon be gone again,’ I sighed.

          King Ukwa was now standing in his Royal Pabwato scowling angrily at a motley crowd of about fifty people, mostly old people and small children, all very thin and wearing rags.

          ‘I have brought you your candidate!’ he shouted. Then, turning to one of his goons in black suit and dark glasses, he shouted ‘What have you done with my candidate?’

          As he spoke, two goons rushed forward dragging a small thin fellow with vacant uncoordinated rolling eyes and a loose mouth which dripped saliva. ‘What’s your name?’ shouted the King.

          ‘Musumbi, O King,’ whined the little fellow.

          ‘Mushula!’ shouted the King. ‘Kneel before your constituents.’

          ‘This is your new member of parliament,’ the King shouted at the sullen gathering. ‘Vote for him and you’ll all be rich! Vote for the other party and you’ll die in poverty! Any questions?’

          ‘Yes,’ shouted an old woman. ‘We’re all dying of thirst! There’s no water in the river!’

          ‘You don’t have to tell me that there’s no water in the river,’ shouted the King angrily. ‘Can’t you see that I had to bring my Royal Pabwato all the way by road because there is no water in the river? I have been inconvenienced far more than you!’

          ‘Why is there no water in the river?’ persisted the old woman.

          ‘Because you voted for the wrong party last time!’ shouted the King angrily. ‘That’s why you’ve got no development here! That’s why I’m giving you a second chance by bringing you this Mushula!’

          ‘Musumbi,’ said the goon.

          ‘His name is Pabwato,’ shouted the King, ‘that’s what matters.’

          ‘He looks a bit simple,’ said a voice from the back.

          ‘That’s why he’s representing you,’ shouted the king angrily. ‘You’re all a bit simple, that’s why you keep voting for the wrong party! That’s why you voted for the Movement for Mental Deficiency instead of Pabwato Fiasco!’

          ‘But why is there no water in the river?’ repeated the old woman.

          ‘You all know very well why you’ve got no water!’ replied the King angrily. ‘You’ve got no water because you live downstream from Chuminga, which had the sense to vote for me in the last election. So I have brought them development. I have built a dam for the Ching Chang rice plantation which will export rice to China. I have built a dam for the Fing Fang Fong Fish Farm and another dam for the Die Soon Crocodile Farm.’

          ‘Is there no water left over?’

          ‘Yes, plenty,’ smirked the King. ‘The excess water has been diverted to the leach plant at Kansanshi Mine, to make copper so that one day I shall be able to bring you electricity.’

          ‘When?’ said the old woman suspiciously.

          ‘After you have voted for Mushula,’ said the King.

          ‘Musumbi,’ groaned the goon.

          ‘Let me explain the situation in simple terms,’ growled the King. ‘Supposing you had only one cup of water left in your house, would you give that water to your own child or to a stranger?’

          ‘We all need water!’ shouted the old woman.

          ‘Development is about choices,’ sneered the King. ‘And the choice is yours. Vote Pabwato and I shall bring you water!’

          ‘Wrong way round!’ retorted the old woman. ‘Bring us water and we shall vote Pabwato!’ But as she was shouting six goons jumped on her and used their batons to beat her to the ground, and the remainder of the motley crowd ran away screaming.

          ‘My God!’ I said to Sara. ‘What’s happening?’

          ‘She’s committed a serious offence under the Public Order Act,’ Sara explained. ‘She’s protesting without a permit.’

­­­­­­_____________________________

          Friday evening TV News, and at last the announcement of the results: ‘In the Mufumbwe by-election the MMD candidate, Mr Stalwart Mulunshi, has won by a stunning margin of 8,549 votes, with the Pabwato candidate, Mr Simple Musumbi, scoring a perfect zero.’

          ‘That means,’ I said, ‘that he didn’t even vote for himself.’

          ‘Perhaps he was so intellectually challenged,’ laughed Sara, ‘that he forgot to register to vote.’