The Fear of King Fear

The Fear of King Fear

            ‘How’s the maths coming along?’ I asked Thoko.

          ‘Terribly,’ she said sadly. ‘I don’t know the difference between indices and indecision.’

          ‘Well just tell the teacher you don’t understand it and ask for help.’

          ‘Hah!’ scoffed Thoko. ‘You don’t know Mr Zulu. His attitude is that if we can’t understand what he’s scribbling on the blackboard, then we are too stupid and shouldn’t be in his class. He even punishes us if we get the answer wrong. He’s really frightening.’

          ‘He rules by fear,’ I suggested.

          ‘Exactly,’ she agreed. ‘We are so frightened of him that we can’t think.’

          ‘But he doesn’t want you to think,’ I said. ‘His idea is that your job is just to follow the mathematical rules that he gives you.’

          ‘Is that how it was when you were at school, Grandpa?’

          ‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘I went to a boys’ secondary school where most of the teachers ruled by fear, and we hated them. And of course we never learnt anything from them, except to hate the subject they were teaching.’

          ‘What about the headmaster?’ she wondered.

          ‘Ho ho,’ I laughed. ‘If there’s one way of bringing out the worst in a teacher, it’s by making them the headteacher. They either turn into King Money or King Fear. King Money does the job for the pleasure of stealing from the PTA, but King Fear is more dangerous, he does the job for the pleasure of exercising power and humiliating his victims.’

          ‘So which one did you get?’

          ‘I got King Fear, in the shape of the dreaded Mr Tremble, all six foot four inches of him, complete with a first class degree in philosophy from Oxford, and a huge voice to match. Everybody used to tremble in front of him, even the teachers. He ruled by fear. His word was law. He ordered the teachers what to do, they ordered the prefects, and the prefects ordered the rest of us. It was academic terrorism, a bureaucracy of bullies, with each one bullying the one below. At the apex stood King Fear, who enjoyed undisguised sadistic pleasure from whipping the tender bottoms of little boys.’

          ‘Are you making all this up, Grandpa? This was a boys’ school in England! I thought England was a democratic country!’

          ‘The school had a very democratic vocabulary, but what was actually going on was something else entirely. The School Prospectus spoke of students learning to think for themselves, discovery learning, learning from others in group work, independent thought, freedom of expression, and so on. That book was so beautiful it could bring tears to your eyes.’

          ‘Like the Zambian Constitution,’ suggested Thoko.

          ‘Exactly,’ I laughed. ‘Most beautiful of all was the separation of powers between the headmaster, the Board of Governors, the staff meeting, the prefects and the School Council.’

          ‘But in practice the headmaster appointed all of them, and fired anybody who disagreed with him.’

          ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘The nice School Prospectus wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. All that mattered were the School Rules, just as they had been written by the medieval monk who had founded the school in 1584, long before the English ever heard the word democracy.’

          ‘Just like our Public Order Act,’ laughed Thoko.

          ‘Exactly,’ I said.

          ‘So did Terrible Tremble come to a terrible end?’ wondered Thoko.

          ‘Of course,’ I laughed, ‘just as all dictators do.’

          ‘What happened?’

          ‘One morning, all thousand of us were standing quietly in the school hall, waiting for Terrible Tremble to arrive to conduct Morning Assembly. But he was late.’

          ‘Everybody had to be punctual except the Big Man,’ suggested Thoko.

          ‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘But then a funny thing happened. The school wag, a tall sixthformer called Wagstaff, came onto the stage dressed like the headmaster in suit and gown, and began doing a perfect parody of Terrible Tremble, saying It is with grave disquiet and anger that I have to report that earlier this morning, in this very hall, a sixth former had the temerity to stand on this very stage and address a meeting of dissidents and malcontents, and all this was done without first seeking permission from the School Council, as is clearly required in the School Rules.’

‘How we laughed and cheered as Wagstaff’s arms now began to flail around just like those of Terrible Tremble Tornado in a temper, his hair falling down over his eyes and his face turning purple, shouting There is within this school a covert and evil lunatic fringe that is working day and night to ruin our school’s reputation and to subvert all legitimate authority. I therefore have no choice except to exercise the powers vested in me and declare a state of emergency. Now Wagstaff began shake and scream Prefects are hereby ordered to hold all boys in this hall until such time as the culprits report to my office, whereupon I shall ensure that they are immediately expelled and their future careers entirely ruined!

‘Hurray!’ we all laughed as Wagstaff left the stage, to be replaced by the real Tremble, looking more Terrible than usual, and performing an excellent parody of Wagstaff, although looking even more ridiculous.’

‘And everybody just kept laughing?’ suggested Thoko.

‘Yes,’ I laughed. ‘We laughed and cheered until he turned and went back to his office. Later that morning we heard the siren of the ambulance that took him away. He’d had a nervous breakdown. The very thing feared most by every King Fear had actually happened to him.’

‘To be laughed at?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That’s always the end of a King Fear. Once everybody starts laughing, they’re finished.’            

Winter and Given

Winter and Given

            ‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘tell me a story that I’ve never heard before.’

          ‘All the best stories are in the Good Book,’ I said. ‘So I shall tell you one which can be found in the Gospel according St Kalaki, the story of Winter and Given.’

          ‘Who were they?’ asked Nawiti.

          ‘They were the two sons of the old King Mada.’

          ‘Why was he called Mada?’ laughed Nawiti. 'Was he madder than all the others?’

          ‘Definitely not,’ I laughed. ‘All kings were equally mad in those days.’

          ‘Perhaps Mada was short for Madala?’ she suggested.

          ‘He was certainly very old,’ I admitted. ‘But his original name was supposed to have been Adam, but the mischievous Registrar of Births, Clown Andeleki, deliberately wrote it the wrong way round.’

          ‘I suppose the king favoured one son over the other,’ suggested Nawiti. 'In these sort of stories they usually do.'

          ‘You’ve guessed right,’ I admitted. ‘And the king’s favourite was Winter.’

‘And did Winter know that?’

‘Oh yes, he knew it alright, because every morning he would look into his magic mirror and ask it

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who’s the next king of us all?

And every morning the mirror would reply

Thou, O prince will take the throne,

The king loves you as his own.

‘And did the king really love him?’ wondered Nawiti?

‘Yes he did,’ I admitted, ‘because the king knew that Winter was his own flesh and blood. On the other hand there was general suspicion that Given had been fathered by the Archangel Gabriel, who was known to have had a brief but heavenly affair with the Queen. Which was why he was called Given by the people, because he had been given by God.’

‘So why was the other prince called Winter?’

‘Because he was cold and heartless. He was a schemer who sent a shiver down people’s spines. One day he might shake hands with you and look you in the eye with a friendly smile, and the next day send his police cadres to lock you up.’

‘Yes,’ said Nawiti, sitting up in bed and clapping her hands. ‘He had the makings of a real king!’

‘But one morning,’ I said, ‘he was having his morning shave when, as usual, he checked with his magic mirror, saying

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who’s the next king of us all?

          But he fell backwards onto the floor when the mirror replied

Prince Given shall take the throne

The people love him as their own.

‘And was it true?’ asked Nawiti. ‘Did the people love Given?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘He was a real man of the people. He didn’t just sit in the palace and scheme, like his evil brother. He lived amongst the people and listened to their problems, and did what he could to solve them. He didn’t live like a pompous prince, he lived like a humble human.’

‘That’s because he was given by God,’ said Nawiti.

‘Undoubtedly,’ I agreed.

‘So what did Winter do now?’

‘One day,’ I said, ‘the king announced that he had to choose between his two sons and officially announce his heir. Therefore, declared the king, each son would be sent on a one-week hunting expedition, and the one who came back to the palace with the best prize would be named as the Crown Prince.’

‘So what was the result?’

‘A week later, Prince Given arrived first before the king and his Royal Council with a huge eland over his shoulders, staggered down the long Royal Hall, and dropped the carcass of the huge beast at the feet of the king, as all the Council cheered.

‘Half an hour later Prince Winter arrived carrying a little plate with a slaughtered chicken on it. He walked insolently down the hall and put the chicken on the floor in front of the king, as all the Council sneered and threw their stinking shoes at the despised prince.’

‘He had been too frightened to go into the forest,’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Of course’, I said. ‘In fact he was even too scared to slit the throat of the chicken. His mother had to do it for him.’

‘So Given became the Crown Prince?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Winter now addressed the entire Council, saying My brother here has committed a grievous offence against his father the king. It is well known that only the king himself is allowed to hunt and kill eland. His bringing of this carcass here is a deliberate challenge to the king’s authority, and clear evidence that he has corrupted ZAWA, and has been plotting with the people to usurp the powers of the king. Worse still, he has misused his authority in an attempt to dishonestly and illegally capture the position of Crown Prince, and he must be punished accordingly.

‘A low murmur of dissent arose from the entire Council as the king now rose to speak. My son Prince Winter is correct. I have always said that we must follow the rule of law and root out corruption. Given is hereby stripped of his royal rank and exiled from this land forever. My beloved son, Prince Winter, has shown his loyalty to my person and his respect for the law. I declare him to be our Crown Prince!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘But what about the magic mirror’s prophecy?’

‘Quite right,’ I said. ‘This was not the end of the story. Tomorrow night I shall tell you all about the happy ending.’  

Political Weather Forecast

Political Weather Forecast

            The news had just finished when onto the screen leapt the energetic Peggy T Zulu of the Meteorological Department, dangerously packed into a tight jacket and trousers. She immediately began aggressively prodding a rather stagnant map of Zambia, as if she was trying to move it into the Atlantic Ocean.

          ‘At this time of year we like to give a long-term political weather forecast,’ she began, ‘so that our farmers can take the right decisions on whether to plant their crops, or instead emigrate.’

          ‘She’s been wearing that same suit for the past ten years,’ Sara scoffed, ‘she looks as if she’s about to burst out of it. ’

          ‘Inflation has been going at more than ten percent a year,’ I said, ‘I’m surprised the stitches are still holding. But did you hear what she said – a political weather forecast?’

          ‘Everything is political nowadays,’ laughed Sara. ‘Even the weather.’

          ‘Look at the mess we have here,’ declared Peggy, as she banged her fist into a confused area of depression over Barotseland.  ‘Politics is just like the weather, a mindless sequence of patterns and trends which are completely outside the control of humanity, and best understood by meteorologists rather than political scientists.’

          ‘Let’s see,’ laughed Sara, ‘if she can predict the unpredictable.’

          ‘The recent unseasonal flow of hot air from the north,’ said Peggy, pointing menacingly at Mpika, ‘is most unseasonal, and has completely upset our normal weather patterns. This is indicative of a serious change in the political climate. Whereas politicians may imagine that they are rebasing the climate, the sudden and catastrophic oscillations in basic indicators such as political temperature and the confluence of hot air and high pressure around by-elections are strongly indicative of a severe and destructive climate swing, away from the previous regular patterns which brought investor confidence and tourists.’

          ‘Very good,’ Sara laughed. ‘The investors and tourists can bugger off.’

          ‘These strange shifts and disturbances are indicative that the political climate has swung out of control in an alarming way. The attempt to rebase the political climate has had the unintended effect of leading to the debasing of politics, with consequent degradation of the political system. This has been particularly noticeable in way the dreaded Shushushu has swept through the bank accounts and telephone records of opposition politicians, also sweeping them away like dry leaves in a typhoon, and leaving the National Assembly as an empty windswept monument to an earlier age when the weather was kinder and more negotiable.

          ‘The rebasing of the temperature scale from degrees Centigrade to degrees Wynter has frozen all activity in government institutions, especially the judiciary, leaving all judicial decisions to be taken by the very few individuals who understand how Wynter works. Such distortions in the system should have been corrected by the ACC, the Action on Climate Change, but this noble institution has also fallen victim to the dreaded Wynter and is now frozen completely solid.’

          ‘She’s not telling us anything we don’t know already,’ Sara snarled. ‘Where is the prediction on what happens next?’

          ‘With the institutions of the state frozen by these changes in the political climate,’ declared Peggy, pointing  dramatically to the cold front sweeping in from the Antarctic, ‘the question now is whether there is sufficient institutional structure to hold the nation together, or whether individual provinces will separate from each other as tectonic plates drift apart causing big fissures between one province and another, or whether tsunamis will cause some provinces to float away, or whether a huge volcanic eruption will create a new province in the centre of Central Province.’

          ‘Would that require the creation of new districts?’ Sara wondered.

          ‘Following present patterns,’ Peggy continued, ‘I predict a big cloud hanging over State House after Chipolopolo is sent home early from Afcon, causing the team to be rebased in Southampton. This will destroy the last remnants of national unity and cohesion, leaving no political structure to resist the inevitable forces of geological and meteorological change. I therefore confidently predict that within 90 days we shall see an earthquake cause the secession of Barotseland, and Eastern Province becoming part of Malawi, to which it has always belonged, just as Luapula will return to the Congo. Within the same 90 days Cycle Mata will become the king of the new monarchy of Muchingaland, a job for which he is better fitted, and HaHa will become the owner of a large cattle ranch known as Southern Province.’

‘You see,’ laughed Sara. ‘Under this government, things can really change in only 90 days!’

‘Konkola Copper Mines,’ continued Peggy, ‘will be bought by the Chinese, and the Copperbelt will then become a province of China. Due to the freezing of all the water in the Zambezi because of Wynter rebasing, ZESCO power outages will become longer and longer until…’

          But suddenly the very lively and entertaining face of Peggy disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by the heavy and wooden features of Kenneth Maduma. ‘Here is a late item of news, just come in. The Minister of Misinformation, the Honourable Komedy Seka Seka, has just announced the suspension of the Director of the Meteorological Department, and the commencement of an investigation by the ACC into allegations that the Department has been publishing false information on climate change.’

          ‘Oh good,’ laughed Sara. ‘Action on climate change at last!’     

            

Michael's New Year Message

Michael’s New Year Message

            I knocked on the door and went straight in. He was sitting upright in his armchair, wearing his full dress uniform as Commander-in-Chief, with gold braid, and a long row of medals for bravery awarded during the long and arduous Third Term Campaign.

          ‘Hah, Spectator Kalaki,’ he greeted me gruffly, ‘if you’re looking for a job you’re too awkward, too cheeky and no good at licking boots. And also you’re too late, the hiring has ended, the re-shuffling is complete and the firing has now begun.’

          ‘Happy New Year, Michael,’ I replied cheerily. ‘I just popped in to see if you have a New Year Message for your people.’

          ‘Look Kalaki,’ he replied sternly, ‘I am now your president, you can’t be calling me Michael anymore.’

          ‘Happy New Year, Mr President,’ I said, ‘and do you have a New Year Message for your people?’

          ‘This is not America,’ he said sternly, ‘this is a former British Colony. You must address me as Your Excellency Dr Michael Chilufya Sata MBR.’

          ‘But Your Excellency, when did you acquire an excellent doctorate, Your Exellency?’

          ‘Your friend Doctor Dotty Scotty found it on www.doctorate.com for only ten dollars. That’s why I can’t fire him, he’s the only one in the government who knows how to use the internet.’

          ‘And what about MBR, Your Excellency? Has the Queen made you a Member of British Royalty in her New Years Honours List?’

          He sat up very straight and puffed out his chest. ‘MBR means I am a Member of British Railways, in recognition of my ten years distinguished service as a platform sweeper.’

          ‘Congratulations Your Most Excellent Excellency,’ I said, as I bowed graciously before such excellence. ‘And now that I have finally found the right form of address when speaking to such a newly distinguished personage, can we return to my earlier question of whether you have any New Year Message for your people?’

          ‘My dear Kalaki, you seem to have a strange view of how government works. After my election I spoke to the people, thanking them for their very wise decision in electing me. Should I ever decide to hold another election, I shall certainly speak to them again, to warn them of the dire consequences of not voting for me. In the meantime there is no need for them to concern themselves with the work of government, since politics is for politicians. Therefore, for the foreseeable future, I see no need for me to say anything.’

          ‘But you yourself, Your Most Excellent Excellency, formerly known as Michael, how do you think you are doing?’

          ‘Very well, my dear Kalaki, very well indeed. I’ve had a bit of a prostate problem which affected the kidneys, and I’ve got a bit of a dicky ticker. But with the entire health budget dedicated to lengthening my life, and the entire security budget dedicated to shortening the lives of my enemies, I expect to remain in power indefinitely, or possibly longer. And thank you, my dear Kalaki, for your concern for my health and welfare.’

          ‘Well, ahrum, ah, Your Excellently Healthy Excellency, what I meant to ask was how do you think your government is doing? I mean, people are saying you promised to do everything in 90 days and you have done nothing in 400 days.’

          Despite the great weight of his massive uniform with all its gold braid and medals, His Excellent Excellency now leapt to his feet with a roar and attacked the thin air within an invisible sword. ‘People who say such things are enemies of the nation and I shall deal with them! The opposition parties are deliberately opposing me, and of course I shall not make progress until I have destroyed them!’

          ‘And how will you do that?’

          ‘Don’t you know that this corrupt country is rotten to the core? Everybody has a record of corruption, and I have a dossier on all of them! My face is now on every wall, and is watching everybody. Even you Kakaki, if I want to fix you, I have twenty-three counts against you. Join me and I shall forgive,’ he shouted, as he marched around the room with an energetic goose-step, ‘Oppose me and you are finished! That is how I shall unite the nation to implement my election promises! Ha ha!’

          ‘But Your Most Excellent Excellency,’ I protested, as he slumped back into his armchair, exhausted by his spirited attack upon the thin air, ‘It seems that there are also divisions within your own party!’

          ‘There are some malcontents and delinquents who harbour thoughts of leadership, instead of submitting themselves to the Great Leader of Destiny who has been appointed by God to cleanse this country of filth and corruption!’ he shouted, as his limbs jerked and his face twitched. ‘These rogue elements will be cleansed, purged and eliminated until I reign supreme!’

          ‘But what about the Rule of Law?’

          ‘Exactly. Now at last you have a sensible question. In the days of the colonial government the British Lion understood the Rule of Roar! Those were the days when the enemies of the nation trembled at the firm smack of government! And now, at last, the Rule of Roar is back!’

          ‘And finally, Your Most Excellent Roaring Excellency,’ I said, ‘please allow me to repeat my earlier question. Do you have any New Year Message for the long suffering people of this country?’

          ‘Yes I do,’ he roared, now standing up and thrusting a straight arm salute into my face. ‘Tell them that they have nothing to fear so long as they are loyal to their Great Leader!’