Kalaki's Korner

Presidential Appointments

2012-01-24T17:54:00.002+02:00

Presidential Appointments

The Presidentwas tired. He had spent a long day behind his desk, dealing with the long queueof job-seekers. He had done all he could to give them suitable jobs, sending the mostcrooked and dangerous as ambassadors to faraway places such as Outer Mongoliaor Canada. But just as he thought his day’s work was done, and he was almost noddingoff in his chair, he was jerked awake by a banging on the door. ‘Come in,’ heshouted, with some exasperation.

To his surprise,a donkey trotted into the room, stood in front of him and said ‘Hee haw!’ Evenby the general standards of the queue of bootlickers, thought the President,this one looks particularly hopeless and dull. Perhaps he could send the poorfellow to Malawi.

‘Yes,’ said the President,what can I do for you?’

‘I am DueProcess,’ said the donkey.

‘So what job doyou want?’ asked the President wearily.

‘I want to be thesupervisor of all your ministers and permanent secretaries,’ declared thedonkey, ‘to make sure that they follow all the correct rules and procedures.’

‘What!’ shoutedthe President, rousing himself from his chair and chasing the cheeky donkey outof the room, ‘That’s my job! I’m the one to supervise the government! Get out!’

As the donkey’shooves clattered down the corridor, the President returned to find a huge fish eagleperched on a chair.

‘And who do youthink you are?’ shouted the President.

‘I am a legal eagle,’said the fish eagle solemnly. ‘My name is Rule of Law, and it is my job to make sure that thelaw is administered fairly, without any witchhunting or favouritism, or bribingof the judiciary.’

‘Unless you’re interestedin prosecuting my enemies,’ sneered the President, as he opened the French windowwide, ‘you’d better look for a job elsewhere!’

But as the legaleagle flew out, in walked another strange bird. An ostrich! ‘Jesus wept!' screamed the President. ‘What do you want? All the jobs are filled for today! Getout!’

‘My name is Transparency,’said the ostrich calmly. ‘My job is to look at everything your government isdoing. With my huge transparent eyes and long neck, I can look into every nookand cranny to make sure you are doing what is required by Due Process and Ruleof Law.’

The Presidentstood there with the French window still open. ‘Your two friendshave already left,’ he said sarcastically, ‘so I suggest that you follow them.And quick! Before I call security!’

The Presidentnow slumped back into his seat, thoroughly exhausted. ‘My God,’ he sighed tohimself, ‘All the years I sought this job, never realizing what was involved.’He closed his eyes and thought back to happier times, when he was unemployed.

Then he heard aloud snort. He opened one eye. There was a huge elephant. ‘My name is Old Constitution,’said the elephant sternly, ‘and I am here to make sure that you keep your oathof office, and do all the things that I tell you to do, and none of the things thatI tell you not to do!’

‘Get out ofhere!’ screamed the President, as he leapt on his desk and began prodding theelephant with the national flag. ‘I’ve set up a commission of inquiry toinvestigate you. You can’t come here while you are under investigation! Thecommission has been asked to report on how to reduce your power and size so that you never again try to throw your weight about! Get out!’

The Presidentfelt a satisfying feeling of Presidential power as Old Constitution suddenlydisappeared from the scene. But worse was to come. As the President was still standing on hisdesk, a huge crocodile came out from underneath, and opened its jaws wide.

‘Who are you?’said the President bravely. ‘Are you Freedom of Information? Gender Equality? Accountability?I don’t fear any of you! I’m the President! I’m the one in charge! Go away! Getout!’

‘My name isCorruption,’ laughed the crocodile. ‘And I am going to eat you up!’

‘I chased allthe other animals,’ sneered the President. ‘Now it’s your turn!’

‘Ha ha,’ laughedhe crocodile, ‘you don't seem to realise your problem. It’s because you chased away my enemies, Due Process, the Ruleof Law and Transparency, that you’ve now got me, Corruption, instead.’

But as the President looked down into the beguiling hypnotic eyes of the crocodile he began to feel dizzy, and lost his balance.He felt himself falling down, down, down into the throat of the crocodile…

__________________________________

‘Aaarrgh!’ The Presidentwoke up with a start and sat bolt upright in the bed, immediately waking upthe First Lady. ‘Another bad dream, darling?’

‘I’ve just been swallowedby a crocodile! Assassinated!’

His wife calmlytook his pulse and temperature. ‘Don’t worry dear, you’re definitely stillalive. So you haven’t been assassinated! It must have been a bad dream.’

The Presidentthrew his arms around her neck. ‘You don’t know what it was like!’ he sobbed. ‘Therewere all these terrible animals. Due Process! Rule of Law! Transparency! I was so frightened!’

‘Don’t worry, mydear,’ she said gently, as she patted his little fat belly. ‘Those are allmythical animals. They’re only seen in dreams. They don’t exist in real life! Nobody worries about them!’

‘But what about thecrocodile?’

‘Oh he’s realenough,’ she agreed. ‘But don’t worry, I can inoculate you against him!’ Sosaying, she took a syringe out of her bag and gave him a jab.

‘Ouch!’

‘Don’t worrydear, now you’ve got immunity!’

After that, the Presidentwas reassured. He went back to sleep with a smile on his face. He knew that hewas now safe.

But was he?

The Graveyard

2012-01-17T20:46:00.000+02:00

The Graveyard

We had decidedto skip the funeral service and go straight to Leopards Hill Cemetery. As Saraput it, ‘I can’t stand another priest explaining that death is a great mystery.If he can’t explain it, he should just shut up, or go into some other line ofbusiness.’

But when we gotto the graveyard, our funeral party still hadn’t arrived. ‘The priest’sexplanation of his ignorance must be taking longer than usual,’ said Sara.

‘Knowledge issweet and simple,’ I laughed. ‘But ignorance is long and complicated, andinterspersed with endless metaphors of dubious relevance.’

As we weretalking, we became aware of a most unusual sight. Dispersed amongst the gravesin front of us were some fifty men in orange overalls, all slashing at theelephant grass and weeds that previously concealed the graves. As we stoodtransfixed by this unprecedented sight, from behind a distant gravestonestepped the figure of a tiny woman dressed in a bright green shiny ballgown. Onher head was a long straight muzungu wig, and her mouth was bright red like abloody open wound.

‘Aarrgh!’ Icried, staggering backwards. ‘A ghost! The ghost of a murdered dwarf!’

I might have hitthe ground had I not fallen into the waiting arms of one of the flower sellers,as Sara also nearly fell over, laughing at me. ‘That’s not a ghost,’ she hooted,‘it’s Clueless Cluo, Minister of Vocal Government!’

‘She may beClueless Cluo,’ I gasped, ‘but what’s she doing popping out of a grave?’

‘She's supervisingthe clean-up of the graveyard,’ said the flower seller, who turned out to beNjovu, whom Sara employs to look after her mother’s grave.

‘Njovu,’ saidSara, ‘let’s go and have a look at gogo’s grave, and see if you’re keeping itproperly. Then maybe you can have another twenty pin.’

‘Half a minute!’I protested, as I now recovered my composure, ‘what’s a whole Minister of VocalGovernment doing here, supervising the cleaning up of the graveyard?’

‘It’s only tenyears,’ explained Sara, ‘since she was Minister of Death, and sent a lot ofpeople here. Being a kind hearted woman, she’s very keen to see that they’reall being looked after nicely.’

‘That’s not it,’declared Njovu bluntly. ‘As Minister of Vocal Government her job is to clean upthe streets, remove the vendors and return control of markets and bus stationsto the councils.’

‘Exactly mypoint,’ I said. ‘So what’s she doing here?’

‘The presidentstepped in and stopped her. Those vendors and kaponya were the ones who votedfor him, so he sent her to look after the graveyards instead.’

‘A very fittingswitch of priorities,’ laughed Sara, as we began walking towards gogo’s grave.‘This is the graveyard of all their promises.’

As we were walking,we came to a freshly dug grave, with withering flowers on top. But instead of amound of earth, the ground was sunken down. ‘Whose grave is this?’ I asked theknowledgeable Njovu.

‘The Kwacha,’ hereplied sadly. ‘Everyday the soil has dropped further down.’

‘What causes itto sink?’

‘Some peoplesay,’ said Njovu, ‘that every time the president opens his mouth, the Kwachasinks further.’

Next we came toa new gravestone, whose newly carved epitaph proclaimed Here lies the once honorable Sebastopol Juju SC, TAW, Former Ministerof Inquiries, Stitchups and Witchhunts.

‘Oh dear,’ Isaid, ‘I didn’t realize he’d passed on. What happened?’

‘One day lastweek,’ said Njovu, ‘he solemnly declared, hand on heart, that if thisgovernment tried to bury the New Constitution, it would be over his dead body.The next day he was gone.’

‘Juju was veryold,’ said Sara. ‘Maybe it was just a strange coincidence.’

The next epitaphread Here lies Mother Justice, who wasburied here by her faithful servant, Earnbest Sakata.

‘He can’t havebeen a very faithful servant if he let her die,’ I scoffed.

‘At the funeralservice he explained that there wasn’t enough money to keep her alive,’ saidNjovu.

‘What happenedto the money?’

‘He ate it allhimself.’

‘Herelies Dotty Scotty, his body preserved in alcohol,’ saidthe next epitaph.

‘What killedhim?’ I asked.

‘One day poorold tottery Dotty Scotty poured a totty, then raised his glass and sagelydeclared that a political party can lastonly ten years. Unknown to the unfortunate fellow, he uttered these wordson the tenth anniversary of the formation of his own party, and consequently droppeddead on spot.'

As we weretalking there was a terrible sound of wailing, then along came a lorry carryinga coffin draped in black, mourners all dressed in black, moving at speedtowards an open grave that had a very old headstone.

‘Who’s funeralis that?’ I asked Njovu.

‘The NewConstitution,’ he sighed. ‘Originally murdered by the government in 1973. But eachnew government digs him up and promises resurrection.’

‘Why was he murdered?’

‘Because hespoke for the people instead of the government.’

‘But when he isresurrected,’ said Sara, ‘he might do the same again.’

‘Exactly,’ saidNjobu. ‘That’s why he soon get's reburied.’

‘And now he’sbeing reburied yet again!’ said Sara. ‘Do you think that the government reallytried to resurrect him?’

‘So they claim,’ saidNjovu. ‘They even employed four Catholic Bishops, who very much believe inresurrection, and have studied it all their lives.’

‘But theyfailed. What reason did they give?’

‘They said that deathis a great mystery.’

The Supermarket

2012-01-10T18:14:00.000+02:00

The Supermarket

‘A double,’ I said to the barman. ‘The usual will do!’

‘And the samefor me!’ said a voice behind my ear.

I turned roundlike a flash to see who was seeking subsidy from my meager resources. ‘Fintufingi Bantubonse!’ I exclaimed. ‘Ihaven’t seen you for years! What are you doing nowadays?’

‘Still teachingstatistics at UNZA,’ he said sadly. ‘Every year I’m a year older, and everyyear my teaching notes are a year older, but every year the students are thesame age.’

‘I thought you’dbe drinking at Crapsodys, not here at the Anzac Arms! I laughed. ‘I know youcould retire if you wanted! Isn’t it your family that owns BantubonseSupermarket? Must be a little goldmine!’

‘That’s all youknow,’ said Bantubonse sadly, as he gulped his brandy. ‘Unfortunately all mymoney is in your imagination. When my father died he left the shop equally toall his children. We thought we were only three, me and my two sisters. But atthe funeral, another seventeen turned up!’

‘Oh dear, I am sorry,’I said. ‘Funerals can be so upsetting. But even so, a five percent share of theprofits must come in very handy. A nice little money-spinner like that! Cheaton the VAT! Cook the books for the ZRA! Nice little house in Kabulonga! Drinkyourself to death on cognac! What a lovely way to go! How I envy you!’

‘How little youknow, Kalaki. All I have is a five percent share in a very large overdraft.’ Atear rolled down his cheek and into his glass, further polluting the filthymixture of industrial alcohol which Duncan Gilbert and Mortuary presume to callbrandy.

‘My dear fellow,’I said, putting my arm around his shoulder, ‘what happened?’

‘It all beganfour years ago,’ he began, ‘when we appointed a fellow called Nyamasoya asManager. He seemed to be a very pleasant fellow. Very experienced in business.He had once run his own company.’

‘What happenedto his company?’

‘That’s what weforgot to ask.’

‘So things beganto go wrong?’

‘Terribly. Hebled us dry. He employed all his own relatives as shop assistants, and theywere all thieves. We found out too late that he was into all sorts of deals. Hewould buy stuff from the Chinese at a high price and then sell it at costprice. We only discovered later that he was getting a twenty percent back-handerunder the counter.’

‘So you firedhim?’

‘Of course. Butnot until he owned twenty mansions on the Leopards Hill Road, and we owned atwenty billion overdraft at the National Ripoff Bank.’

‘So you employedsomebody else?’

‘Fellow calledSuper Chilufya.’

‘Why him?’

‘To get rid ofthe dreadful Nyamasoya.’

‘No, I mean whydid you choose Super Chilufya?’

‘He was the onlyapplicant. Very old, far beyond retirement age, but we had no choice.’

‘What was hisprevious occupation?’

‘Businessconsultant.’

‘Oh dear,’ Isaid. ‘But he promised to put the business back on its feet?’

‘His promiseswere marvelous. Everything would be back to normal in ninety days. He promisedto get back the stolen money. He also promised that he would employ relativesof the shareholders as his shop assistants, that he would get rid of all thestreet vendors outside the shop, and that he would prevent the ShanghaiSupermarket from stealing all our trade. He even promised that he would makeenough profit to pay the school fees for all the shareholders’children, whichpresently number one hundred and thirty-four.’

‘More money inyour pockets!’

‘Exactly!’

‘And has he kepthis promises?’

‘Far from it! Hehas closed the shop!’

‘What! Closedthe shop! Why!’

‘He says thatthe first priority is to get back all the stolen money from the previousmanagement. So he has sent all his new shop assistants to dig in the gardens ofthe previous shop assistants to see if they can find any Chinese bicyclesburied in their gardens.’

‘So at least hedid appoint the new shop assistants!’

‘Oh yes, he didthat alright. But only from amongst his own friends and relatives. Most of themare very old and doddery.’

‘I’m still notclear why he had to close the shop.’

‘He says he firstneeds recover the stolen money to use as working capital to re-stock the shop.’

‘So no money topay your children’s school fees?’

‘No, and schoolfees are going up.’

‘And no money inyour pocket?’

‘We’re beingbled dry by the overdraft, which is increasing every day.’

‘And has hecleared away the street traders?’

‘Since the shopis closed, he says that they might as well stay where they are.’

‘And what aboutthe Shanghai Supermarket?’

‘It’s doing aroaring trade. They’re exporting dollars to Shanghai by the million.’

‘And what doesSuper Chalufya do all day? Does he just sit in his closed shop?’

‘Oh no. I’ll sayone thing for him, he’s always very busy. He works hard collectingthe evidence against the previous management as the basis for making detailed allegationsat various police stations.’

‘What was thejob of this Chilufya before he became a business consultant?’

‘He was a policeconstable.’

Constable Chilufya's New Year Resolutions

2012-01-04T17:01:00.001+02:00

Constable Chilufya’s
New YearResolutions

ConstableChilufya sat motionless at his massive desk, admiring the huge picture of hisown stern face on the opposite wall. Suddenly this famous man of action leaptinto action, as he firmly and resolutely pressed one of the buttons on hisdesk.

Almostimmediately there was a timid knock on the huge mukwa door, and then, as thedoor slowly creaked open, there appeared the figure of a trembling adviser, thehapless Mr Wobbly Wamwenso, Presidential Adviser for Inadvertently AmusingAnnouncements.

‘You’re late!’shouted Chilufya, ‘You should have been here three minutes ago with yourproposed draft of my Ten New Year Resolutions.’

‘Sorry YourExcellency. Here they are Your Excellency,’ squealed Wobbly Wamwenso, as hequickly traversed the acre of excellent Persian carpet in front of HisExcellency’s excellent desk. His wobbly knees knocked together loudly, and hishand shook as he offered Chilufya a fluttering sheet of paper, and tried not topiddle on the Persian carpet.

‘What!’ roaredChilufya. ‘Only one miserable page! You’re supposed to have been working onthis since the end of September! Is that all you can produce! Let me have alook!’ he snarled as he snatched the sheet of paper and looked at it. ‘What!Only ten resolutions! The nation expects a lot more promises from a man of myenormous promise! Sit down!’

Poor littleWamwenso had to kneel down on the carpet because Chilufya’s huge throne was the onlychair in the room.

Now Chilufyabegan to read in a loud derisive tone. ‘First Resolution: I shall continue the war against corruption. Is that all you cansay?’ roared Chilufya. ‘Which corruption? Corruption is everywhere! What you should have said is that I shall continue the fight against corruption in the previous government.’

‘What aboutcorruption in this government?’ whimpered Wamwenso.

‘That’s the jobof the next government,’ shouted Chilufya. 'Now the Second Resolution: I shall introduce the new constitutionwithin 90 days. Within 90 days of what? What you mean is that I shallintroduce the new constitution within 90 days of my retirement!

‘The next one iseven worse! I shall introduce thewindfall tax. Windfall tax? What is this, you miserable halfwit?’

‘I’ve no idea,Your Excellency. I just read about it in the newspaper.’

‘You idiot, you meanthe rainfall tax. The revenue collected from this tax will be invested in theMeteorological Department to enable them to plan and implement a programme of increasedrainfall in future.

‘And the nextone, I shall increase the number of womenin my cabinet? Can’t you even finisha sentence? I shall increase the numberof women … provided that they promise not toprovoke gender violence by talking about gender equality.’

‘My apologies,Your Excellency, I foolishly overlooked your abhorrence of gender violence.’

‘And even morefoolish is the Fifth Resolution: I shalluphold the rule of law. You mean uphold the rule of law by telling the police who to arrest and by instructingthe judges on which ones are guilty.

‘Sorry, Ioverlooked that bit.’

‘As a man ofaction I need to say how I am going to implement my promises. Now look at the nextone: I promise to protect the security ofthe nation. You have completely omitted to say by putting the Shushushu to spy on all the opposition members of parliamentwho are undermining the security of the nation by criticizing the government.

‘And the Seventhis even worse. I shall ensure fullemployment for all. All of whom? All the unemployed? We can’t possiblyemploy all these lazy people! I can only promise full employment to the Chinesebecause they work hard and bring development.’

‘Development,yes Your Excellency, sorry Your Excellency, I’d forgotten about that.’

‘Sorry is notgood enough, you dunderhead,’ Chilufya shouted angrily. ‘You’re incompetent!Useless! You’re fired, with immediate effect!’

Poor Wobbly Wamwensoturned and made his wobbly way towards the door, leaving behind a wet patch onthe Persian carpet.

He had nearlyreached the door when he heard another coarse shout from the Mighty Chilufya: ‘Waita minute, I have just seen your Eighth Resolution: I solemnly promise that I shall implement all of my New Year Resolutions,subject to my presidential discretion on whether to take action or not. Perhapsyou’re not quite as stupid as I had thought. Come back here!’

Wobbly Wamwensocame wobbling back to the same damp spot on the carpet that he had left only a minuteearlier. ‘I hereby revoke your dismissal,’ declared Chilufya, ‘and you arehereby re-appointed as a Senior Presidential Adviser, with immediate effect!

‘And now,’continued Chilufya, ‘Let us look more calmly at New Year Resolution NumberNine. I promise to remain steadfast inall my decisions and never to flip-flop or U-turn.’

Constable Chilufya stoodthere silent, slowly turning purple in the face. Finally he exploded with a scream.‘Get out you cheeky chakolwa! Get out! You’re fired! With immediateeffect!’

Chilufya wasstill trying to calm himself down when the First Lady put her head round thedoor. ‘I’ve got The Boast on thephone asking for your New Year Resolutions. What shall I tell them?

‘Tell them,’replied Chilufya, ‘that I have only one resolution. I have resolved to give jobs to everybody.’

‘Yes, dear, ifyou say so.’

Now Chilufya wasagain alone in his office. ‘That’sright,’ he growled at the closed door, ‘I have resolved to give jobs toeverybody … except presidential advisers!’

Ninety Days

2011-12-21T09:12:00.000+02:00

Ninety Days

This morning Ihad nearly finished my breakfast before my dear husband appeared. D’you knowwhy? He was trying to decide which tie to put on. Sometimes he tries on twentydifferent ties before he comes to a definite decision. He changes his ties evenmore often than he changes his ministers.

I had nearlyfinished my toast and marmalade when he finally appeared, flicking specks of invisibledust from his lapel. ‘Good morning, darling,’ I said.

‘If you say so,’he replied. ‘What’s in the papers this morning?’

‘The Boast has got a long editorial…’

‘That’s nothingnew,’ he chuckled, ‘It always has a long editorial. Nobody to edit the editor,that’s the problem.’

‘Ninety days of broken promises.’

‘What did yousay dear?’

‘That’s thetitle of the editorial. Ninety days ofbroken promises.’

‘Would you mind,my dear,’ he replied, ‘pouring me a cup of tea.’

‘Ninety days of broken promises,’ I repeated, as Ipoured him a cup to tea.

‘Who’s been breakingtheir promises?’

‘You, mydearest. He’s talking about you.’

He hung his headfor a moment. Then looked up, and looked me straight in the eye. I’m veryworried. Everybody will be talking about it.’

‘Talking aboutwhat, darling?’

‘This green tie.My mother always told me never to wear green with blue. Does it clash? I hadput on the red one, but it seem rather dull. Rather Mwanawasarish. Should Ichange it before I appear before the cameras?’

My poor darling,I thought. All these years he’s been preparing for this job, but now he’sfinally got there, it all seems too much for him. All those years he was out ofwork, and I was buying him all those suits and ties, so he could parade infront of the mirror, practicing how to look presidential. All those years ofpractice, but still he can’t quite get it right.

‘Look darling,’I said slowly, ‘I’m sure you’ll get over your tie problems eventually. But inthe meantime, the editor seems to be worried about other things. All thosethings you promised to do in ninety days, and they just haven’t happened.

‘What is thesilly fellow talking about? I’ve appointedninety commissions to investigate ninety members of the previous government.Already they’ve worked for ninety days and found Dollar Sillier with ninety motorbikes,Shitulene Musokelela with ninety salaries, and Nyamasoya with ninety houses. Weeven found Awful Litako with ninety billion in his belly after he tried toswallow the evidence. This editor had better shut up, or I’ll come looking forhis ninety strange motor vehicles!’

‘But what aboutthe new constitution in ninety days?’

‘No problemthere. Within the stipulated ninety days I had appointed a commission ofnon-experts to make recommendations on the composition of a committee ofexperts to make recommendations to me personally on a road-map for aconstitutional process so that I can, at my sole discretion, put theserecommendations before the cabinet who can then, if they so wish, makerecommendations to parliament so that parliament can then decide whether or notwe should have a referendum so that the people themselves can decide whether ornot we should have a new constitution making process which will then…’

But my poor dearhusband’s voice tailed off, as his attention seemed to wander. After a longpause, he suddenly said ‘If I’m going to keep this green tie, then I shouldchange into my dark brown suit.’

‘You know bestdarling,’ I replied. ‘The editor is also raising the question of your directiveto authorise street trading, which he says contravenes the law. He is wonderingwhether the law is still made by act of parliament, or is now being made bydecree in State House.’

My dear husbandwas now looking philosophically at the ceiling. ‘When it comes to wondering,there are so many thinks to wonder about. After my very successful minibus tripin Livingstone, I am now wondering whether to save fuel by travelling bybicycle.’

‘But darling,what about security?’

‘I could stillhave the six Mercs and twelve motorcycles in front and behind, and a helicopteroverhead, in case of any act of subversion by the treasonable chiefs in NorthWestern Province.’

‘But darling,’ Ipersisted, trying to get him back on track, ‘don’t you need to answer the editor when he complains that youpromised people that if they all voted for you then they would all be given jobs.’

‘That’s adeliberate misquote,’ sighed my dear husband. ‘What I actually said was that ifthey all voted for me then they would all give me a job. I must say I’m sograteful to you, my dear, for looking after me during those long years ofunemployment.’

‘Thank you,darling. You know I love you so much. But just one last thing, before you gooff and do a bit of hiring and firing, don’t you think you should make someresponse to these complaints about ninetydays of broken promises?’

‘If you like, mydear, I shall appoint a commission of enquiry to investigate which newspapershave been complaining during the past ninety days, and to make recommendationson which editors should be fired.’

‘But beforethat, darling, don’t forget to change your tie.’

‘Not my tie. Mysuit. I’m going to change the suit.’

‘Yes, dear. Youknow best.’

The Chilufya Comedy Show

2011-12-14T08:22:00.004+02:00

The Chilufya Comedy Show

‘Come quick,’ Sara shouted, ‘you’re missing the Chilufya Comedy Show!’ I rushed to the sitting room, and settled down in front of the TV.

There on the screen, standing behind his famous desk, surrounded by his comedy team, with a stern expression on his face, was our favourite comedian, Constable Chilufya.

In front of the desk stood a bent old man with a bald head. His left hand clutched a stick to prevent him falling over, but his right hand was raised high, holding a bible. Saliva dribbled down his chin as he pronounced the sacred oath of office, ‘I solemnly swear to keep government secrets.’

‘And I hope you do,’ said Constable Chilufya severely. ‘I don’t want any loose or careless talk in my government. For example, yesterday I overheard somebody gossiping that the previous minister was receiving three salaries, that his qualifications were fake, and that he was previously fired from Yunza for stealing students’ bicycles. Now this is the sort of information which must be kept strictly secret, otherwise it could undermine investor confidence.’

‘Ha ha,’ I laughed. ‘His humour has a fine sense of irony.’

‘Yes,’ laughed Sara. ‘And I like the way he keeps a straight face.’

‘Yes, Your Most Sacred Excellency,’ said the poor old man, as he tried to step backwards but tripped over his own walking stick. The Protocol Officer managed to catch him as he fell, and carry him out of the room.’

‘You see,’ said Constable Chilufya, ‘how soft hearted I am to re-appoint these ancient hangovers from an earlier age. Their pension funds were looted by the previous fake government, so I can only keep them alive by giving them fake jobs in my government.’

‘Even his lackeys,’ I laughed, ‘they also manage to keep straight faces.’

‘It's all part of the discipline of the comedy team,’ explained Sara. ‘But see how some of them are looking at their boots, or looking out of the window. They’re actually bursting to laugh, but they know they mustn’t! The whole joke is to make it look serious!’

As we were talking, the consummate comedian turned with deadpan expression to his next victim. ‘Mr Kwindili, as the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, you need to be respectful and diplomatic towards your subordinates. If you don’t respect your subordinates, they will never respect you.’ But having said that, Constable Chilufya looked slowly and menacingly around the room. ‘Talking of subordinates,’ he said, ‘where is my Secretary to the Cabinet this morning? The incompetent buffoon has been avoiding me ever since I discovered that he allowed a fake buyer to steal fake gold from right under his fat nose. Find the slippery fellow and bring him here immediately!’

Now up stepped up an old woman in a faded PF chitenge. She held the bible high, saying ‘I swear to find jobs for all my relatives.’

‘He’s actually appointing a woman!’ I exclaimed.

‘See what job she gets,’ Sara sneered.

‘Mrs Bwalya, I mean, er, Ms Kabanshi, I have appointed you to a very responsible position in the Ministry of Finance, as Chief Cleaner. But I have to warn you right now not to misuse your position in order to poke your nose in wrong places, or try to clean up this notoriously dirty ministry. Only yesterday I fired the previous Cleaner with immediate effect after she went into the fake Minister’s office and found him printing untold trillions of fake money on an old fake Gestetner duplicating machine. If news of this scandal had leaked out then the country could have suffered capital flight, a fall in the value of the kwacha, and possibly general financial panic.’

‘If people took him seriously,’ I laughed, ‘ he really could cause a financial collapse!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ laughed Sara. ‘Everybody knows it’s just a comedy show.’

Now up to the desk waddled a fat middle-aged man, whose open mouth and vacant expression belied the cunning in his beady little eyes. He held high the bible, saying ‘I swear to put an end to all the nonsense in this government.’

Constable Chilufya looked at him, seemingly puzzled. ‘Are you the new head of the DEC or the ACC? You can’t be the new Chief Justice, I’m not due to fire the crooked old fellow until next week. Were you given a letter of appointment? Let me see it. It might be a fake.’

‘I am Mr Sarcastic Sikota,’ he replied, ‘and I am here on behalf of my client Mr Sanctimonious Mumbo Jumbo, formerly Ambassador to Alaska, whom you have publicly accused of selling fake snow to the Eskimos. You have claimed that the evidence for these crimes was collected when the Director for Eskimo Corruption, the DEC, was sent on a fishing expedition to Alaska. Since these fake allegations have destroyed my client’s career as an ambassador, my client is claiming damages of one trillion to rebuild his career as a fake pastor.’

At this point Constable Chilufya leant forward and shook the hand of Sarcastic Sikota. ‘Ah, now I remember. I am swearing you in as Leader of the Task Force. Your job is to clear out all the nonsense and corruption from my government!’

‘Didn’t he appoint a new Task Force Leader last week?’ I laughed.

‘That one,’ laughed Sara, ‘turned out to be a fake.’

The Beast of Lingalinga

2011-12-06T20:22:00.005+02:00

The Beast of Lingalinga

Lingalonga was a very strange land. It consisted of two cities, Lingalinga and Longalonga. But these two cities were complete opposites. Longalonga was a huge city of massive mansions and large green gardens, all built on rolling hills, but with very few people. These few people looked down on the little city of Lingalinga, where millions of people lived in little houses all squashed together, with no gardens at all. And no green grass, only dust.

The few people of Longalonga never did any work. They were the ruling class. If they wanted any money they would just phone Washington, and money would come. But although they never worked, they were never idle. They were always busy with cocktail parties, golf tournaments, charity feasts, recitals and that sort of thing. They very much liked organizing conferences to discuss the appalling problems in nearby Lingalinga. It hardly needs to be said that the people of Longalonga lived much longer than those in Lingalinga, which was why it was called Longalonga.

Things were very different in Lingalinga, where people had to work all day from morning to night. They had to provide the bricks and cement and gates and pipes and all the materials to build the huge mansions in Longalonga. And they also provided domestic services, and sometimes even sexual services for the nearby ruling class. They worked hard for little money, and could only afford to build tiny houses for themselves. There was so much sickness and poverty that the people of Lingalinga did not linger longer, which was why it was called Lingalinga.

But the main problem was the Beast of Lingalinga, which was so-called because it lingered in Lingalinga and was never seen in Longalonga. During the daytime there was no problem. The people went about their work happily, looking after the ruling class, laughing and singing as if they had not a care in the world. But at night came the Beast.

By eight o’clock at night the good people of Lingalinga would lock up their houses and turn off the lights and go to bed and hide under the blankets, because they knew the Beast was on the prowl. Parents would warn their children that if they misbehaved, the Beast would come and get them. And he would.

Any man walking on the road at night might be pounced upon by the Beast, and taken away to the monster’s lair, where the Beast would pull the man’s balls until he admitted being a thief. If the Beast could catch a lady of the night, she would be dragged away to his filthy lair and raped. If the Beast was in a bad mood, he could shoot bullets out of his nose, and kill you on the spot.

Sometimes a gang of hotheads would spot the Beast at his evil deeds, and would try to chase him away with stones. But then the vile Beast would raise his enormous rear into the air and let fly with a poisonous gas, to lie over the land like a yellow blanket, causing all the good people of Lingalinga to spend the next day coughing and vomiting, or in some cases dying.

And when such disturbances and riots occurred, the ruling class would become very agitated, complaining one to another about having to make breakfast for themselves because the maid hadn’t turned up. And later in the day they would be found at their cocktail parties, tipping gin martinis down their fat throats and discussing the problems of Lingalinga, saying such things as ‘They all drink too much, that’s their problem!’ Others would say ‘They should work harder and build themselves proper houses’. But the more shrewd would say ‘This is a good opportunity to get a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation to research into their problems’, to which another might reply ‘Oh My God, I shall have to charge five hundred dollars a day to go into that stinking place’.

But the good people of Lingalinga already knew the cause of all their problems. It was the Beast! The only question was, how to get rid of it? And where did the ghastly thing come from? Then up stood a young man, Mr Obama Kaponya, and said ‘this Beast has been sent by the King to terrorise us!’

‘But the people answered him, saying ‘No, no, why should our lovely King do such a thing to his beloved people?’

And Obama Kaponya said ‘Because he wants to kill us all, and give all our building work to the Chinese!’

And the people said ‘That’s it! Now we see it! Manje tachiona!’

But others protested, saying ‘But what can we do? We don’t appoint the King! We can’t do anything!’

‘Yes we can!’ declared Obama Kaponya. ‘Next week is the election! Vote him out! We shall appoint a new King! A King who loves us, and doesn’t send the Beast to terrorise us!’

And of course the people of Lingalinga were many, and the ruling class were few! So they voted in a new King who really loved the people. And when the new King was sworn in by four Catholic Bishops, the whole of Lingalinga rose in celebration. They celebrated all through the day, and they celebrated all through the night, and they continued to celebrate all through the next day. And they were quite ready to continue celebrating all through the next night.

But then the Beast came back.

The Beast of Lingalinga

Buried Treasure

2011-11-29T20:43:00.007+02:00

Buried Treasure

‘Grandpa,’ said Thoko, ‘My teacher is always talking about Judgment Day. She says on Judgment Day we shall all have to answer for our sins. But when is Judgment Day? Is it coming soon?’

‘Judgment Day,’ I explained, ‘comes every five years. In a Christian Nation, it’s the name we give to Election Day. That’s the day when we all make a judgment on the sins of government, and decide whether to throw them out.’

‘My teacher didn’t say anything about elections,’ objected Thoko. ‘She says that it’s the day when all the graves have to be opened.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘I was coming to that. You see, bad governments bury all their sins and mistakes in the ground. So the first job of the new government is to find all these graves and open them up, so that the sins of the previous government can be revealed and investigated.’

‘Huh,’ laughed Thoko. ‘You’re just making up one of your stories. When I was a little girl I used to believe all your stories!’

‘You don’t believe your own Granpa!’ I exclaimed, as I picked up a copy ofThe Boast. ‘Look at the front page! Two billion in fifty pin notes, dug up on a farm of former minister Mr Awful Litako!’

‘Good gracious,’ said Thoko, as she picked up the paper. ‘The money was even found in a coffin, down in a grave, with concrete poured on top! What on Earth was he doing? Why bury money? Had he stolen it? Is he a witch?’

‘Nobody knows,’ I replied. ‘Some people say that he believes that money grows on trees, so he planted all this money to grow an orchard of money trees. It was seed money for his development programme!’

‘Silly man,’ laughed Thoko. ‘Seeds can’t germinate inside a coffin!’

‘But he doesn’t know that!’ I laughed. ‘He’s not an educated person like you. He never completed his Grade Seven.’

‘So what else has been dug up?’

‘Graves are being found over the country. Huge graves full of bicycles and motorbikes!’

‘But why bury bicycles?’

‘Some people say that the sinners planned to flee to Malawi before their sins were discovered.

‘Have any other sins been dug up?’

‘Lots of them. The entire Task Force, which is supposed to look for suspicious graves, was found dead and buried.’

‘Wasn’t that against the Constitution?’

‘The Constitution?’ I laughed. ‘The New Constitution was also murdered and buried. The coffin was lowered into a very deep grave and covered with twenty metres of concrete. On top was built a heavy marble mausoleum, which was so large and magnificent that it took eight years to build and cost over seven hundred billion. On it was carved the words Freedom and Justice For All.’

‘And did the former president know about all this?’

‘According to what they have dug up, he never was the president!’

‘What? Has he been dug up? When did he die? Did they find somebody else in the grave?’

‘He’s still alive, so instead they dug up his parents from their grave. And the parents admitted that they were foreigners!’

‘Now I really don’t believe you,’ laughed Thoko. ‘How could dead people have talked?’

‘The police have their methods,’ I replied grimly.

‘But how were all these dirty secrets buried for years without anybody knowing?’

‘The government bought a hundred black hearses from the Chinese government,’ I explained. ‘They would move around at the dead of night, supervised by the deadly Red-Lipped Snake.’

‘So now all of these graves have to be dug up?’

‘Exactly. There are probably thousands of them, and it’s the job of the new PF government to dig up all of them. PF means Pathology and Forensics. All government departments are now fully occupied with digging up the buried treasure, exposing the dirty secrets, re-discovering the judiciary, and investigating and prosecuting the culprits.’

‘But is the entire government supposed to be occupied with all this digging?’ wondered Thoko.

‘Of course. That’s what we elected them to do. That’s what Judgment Day is all about. The whole nation is waiting for the court cases. In the absence of any proper TV station, it’s our only form of public entertainment.’

‘But they can’t be doing this for five years!’ exclaimed Thoko. ‘What about all their election promises?’

‘Once all the exhumations have finished, they have to begin the burials.’

‘Don’t you mean re-burials?’ Thoko wondered.

‘Quite a few re-burials,’ I admitted. ‘Having exhumed the New Constitution, it will have to be re-buried. In fact the Constitution Re-Burial Committee has already been appointed, complete with three bishops to arrange the funeral. Similarly the Barotseland Agreement, having been dug up, and caused a great stink, now has to be quickly re-buried.’

‘But also some new burials?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We already need burials for Windfall Tax, Minimum Wage, Gender Equality and Free Schooling. Even as we speak, the Government Printer is busy producing the funeral notices.’

‘What about More Money in our Pockets?’

‘That has already been buried at somebody’s farm. The next government will have to find out where.’

‘And while the government is busy with all this digging and burying,’ said Thoko sadly, ‘the Chinese continue to dig up our copper free of charge, and bury it in China.’

‘We shall get it all back one day,’ I said.

‘When?’ she asked.

‘On the Final Judgment Day,’ I replied.

…Eating the Money…

Constable Chilufya Takes Charge

2011-11-22T21:59:00.002+02:00

Constable Chilufya

Takes Charge

Dear Diary, I’m getting increasingly worried about my dear husband. When he came down the stairs this morning he was swinging his arms and shouting ‘Left right, left right.’ At the bottom of the stairs it was ‘Left turn!’ as he marched to the French window, saluted the flag in the front garden and shouted ‘One Zambia, One Chilufya!’

‘Sit down, dear,’ I said, ‘and eat your cornflakes. You’ve got a busy day of hiring and firing, you don’t want to over excite yourself too early in the day.’

‘How can I be in charge of the nation on a bowl of cornflakes?’ he shouted, ‘bring me a T-bone steak!’

‘Don’t you shout at me as if I’m your Cabinet Secretary,’ I told him. ‘I’m your wife and your doctor. It’s my job to control your temper and your cholesterol, so you don’t have another bad turn. We wouldn’t want our country to be deprived of such a Great Leader after waiting for all these forty-seven years.’

‘You’ve got a good point there,’ he said, as he quietened down, and stroked his battered chin pensively. ‘We don’t want a mere T-bone steak to interfere with my destiny. I remember the day I was dismissed as a police constable, and how I vowed to become president and dismiss everybody and…’

‘On this subject of hiring and firing,’ I interrupted him, ‘you had better stop this unfortunate and awkward habit you have developed of appointing a person one day and firing them the next. People are saying you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Hah,’ he sneered derisively, ‘it’s only you who doesn’t know what I’m doing. Don’t you realize that every now and again I deliberately pick some notorious crook, or otherwise a driveling idiot, and appoint them to a position that needs both brains and honesty. As soon as there is a public outcry I reverse the appointment, then everybody praises me as a listening leader.’

‘How clever of you, my dear,’ I replied, as I poured him another cup of tea. ‘Although sometimes you don’t reverse the appointment.’

‘Sometimes, of course, it is necessary to demonstrate the power of the Great Leader, who cannot jump to every whim of the ignorant mob. We mustn’t carry democracy too far.’

‘How wise you are in these matters,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t thought of these complexities that come so easily to your astute political brain. I’m only a simple medical doctor. But even so, my dear, I wonder whether you really need all these commissions of inquiry.’

‘Really my dear? What is your medical advice? Should I amputate them?’

‘Well, silly me, I just thought that perhaps these problems could be dealt with by parliamentary committees of inquiry.’

‘Hah!’ he scoffed, spilling his tea all over his latest shiny suit. ‘Typical of a woman! What a foolish suggestion! Haven’t you noticed that I haven’t got a majority in parliament! Already they’ve got too much control! And now you want me to give them control over my inquiries! Any more cheek from them and I shall dissolve parliament entirely. I shall send them back to their constituencies. If they can still find them. Some of them were taken there by helicopter and will never be able to find them again.’

‘A lot of questions are being asked in parliament. And your friend Dotty Scotty doesn’t seem able to answer them properly. He opens and closes his mouth without saying anything, like a fish out of water.’

‘Don’t make fun of my dear friend Dotty,’ he laughed affectionately. ‘His English isn’t very good. He does much better in Bemba.’

‘I’ve got an idea!’ I said. ‘Why not have judicial inquiries?’

‘How little you understand these things,’ he scoffed. ‘When I appoint my commissioners, I always outline the findings which I expect to find in their report. Now the judiciary claims to be independent, so it’s enormously expensive to get them to behave otherwise. This country doesn’t need all this endless talk in parliament and in the courts. All we need is a strong leader like me to put things right.’

‘Half a minute,’ I said. ‘What about the new constitution. Isn’t there a big danger that it could limit the powers of the Great Leader?’

‘A very big danger,’ he laughed.

‘So what are you doing about it?’

‘I’ve already done it,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve appointed another commission of inquiry to suggest a new constitution.’

‘I thought it was a committee of experts?’

‘My dear, you need to have a more skeptical approach to political vocabulary. In this case, committee of experts actually means commission of idiots. But to bring a bit of sense to the committee I’ve taken the trouble to include three Catholic Bishops.’

‘Do they know anything about constitutions?’

‘Absolutely nothing. They are implacably opposed to constitutions, instead believing that I need to be guided only by the Ten Commandments, and of course by the Lord My God who in his Great Wisdom appointed me as the Great Leader.’

‘You were appointed by God?’

‘Of course. It is God who gave me my enormous belief in myself, and my enormous power over my people. Me, God, and my Commissions, we’re going to clean up this country, which has been going to the dogs.’

‘Going to the dogs?’ I laughed. ‘There aren’t any dogs!’

‘No dogs?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘They’ve all been eaten by the Chinese.’

Getting to the Top

2011-11-15T20:34:00.005+02:00

Getting to the Top

‘Good gracious,’ I said, ‘you were at Yunza all those years, just down the road, and we never knew!’

James Nkoma, the son of Sara’s cousin Emily, had finally tracked us down. Sara had spent most of the afternoon catching up on the story of his mother, Sara’s long lost cousin Emily, who had made rather an unfortunate marriage and disappeared from sight. But apparently, after her husband died, she’d been doing very well.

So now, while Sara was away in the bedroom trying to dig out some old family photos, I thought I’d dig into his educational background. ‘So what did you study at Yunza?’ I wondered.

‘History,’ he said. ‘I got a distinction in Modern Medieval History!’

‘Congrats!’ I exclaimed. ‘Have another biscuit! I hadn’t even realized there was anything modern about medieval history!’

‘It’s modern for Yunza,’ he explained. ‘Previously they hadn’t gone beyond Roman History.’

‘Getting to Yunza, that must have been a long and winding road. Where did it all start? Mbuzi Primary School?’

‘That’s right. I came out top with 795 marks. I remember there were only twelve of us on that bus the morning we set out for Lundazi Secondary School. All the others came out to wave us goodbye. But we never looked back.’

‘Can you remember any of them?’

‘I remember my friend Mkandawire, good at everything, except that he simply fractured when he came to fractions.’

‘Couldn’t you have helped him?’

‘I’d have liked to. But if you help somebody, they might get ahead of you!’

‘What happened to Mkandawire?’

‘I’ve completely lost touch. But I know he’s got the only car showroom in Lundazi. Importing from Dubai, through Malawi.’

‘So what do you remember from Lundazi Secondary?’

‘I remember one boy, Dingiswayo, Stinkiswayo we used to call him, asking the teacher why we had to learn to solve quadratic equations. To decide who gets to the top, answered the teacher.’

‘And did Dingiswayo get to the top?’ I wondered.

James lowered his voice. ‘He was more interested in bottoms!’

‘So what’s he doing now?’

‘Running a string of guest houses along the Great Beast Road.’

‘So next you were headed for Yunza?’

‘Six points. Left the rest of the school behind.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘They got distracted. Became delinquents. But I wanted to get to the top and serve my country.’

‘But you also left the maths behind.’

‘At Yunza I came up against the square root of minus one, and entirely lost faith in the rationality of maths. So I decided to find some other way to serve my country at the highest level.’

‘So in what lofty capacity are you now using your high level knowledge for the benefit of the nation?’

He lowered his voice. ‘That’s the problem, Uncle. It’s been two years since I graduated, and I can’t find a job. That’s why I came to see Aunty, I’m told she’s got connections.’

‘Where have you applied?’

‘To the civil service, for hundreds of jobs. Not even an interview.’

‘Those are political jobs,’ I explained, ‘awarded for dubious political service, or even worse. Besides, ministers don’t want people more educated than themselves.’

‘I can’t even get a job in the private sector.’

‘That’s because you don’t have relatives in management.’

‘But I’ve got a degree!’

‘So do all their nephews and nieces!’

‘I never thought of that. Then what about the mines?’

‘Really, James, everybody knows that the main reason they bought the mines in the first place was to provide jobs for their own unemployed graduates back home.’

‘Then I’ll just have to start my own business! Lend me some money, Uncle!’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘entrepreneurship needs somebody with their own ideas, and imagination. You’ve just spent the past twenty years under the hammer of schooling which was specially designed to knock out the smallest sign of any initiative or imagination. It’s far too late for you to recover from what has been done to you.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he sighed. ‘Otherwise I’d have thought of something by now.’

Just then we were interrupted by Sara coming back triumphantly bearing a battered shoe box full of old photographs. ‘Look at this, James,’ she said, putting a yellowing photo under his nose, ‘That’s your mother’s grandmother Ethel, who started her own church and wrote a book about it!’

James looked at the photo and seemed to perk up a bit. ‘Did she have a degree?’ he asked.

‘Of course not!’ Sara laughed. ‘She was a Standard Four!’

‘James has got a very nice history degree,’ I said, ‘but can’t find a job.’

‘Don’t worry about that!’ said Sara. ‘Go back to Yunza and get one of those nice little conveyor belt PhDs, on the history of PhDs, or something like that. Then apply for a job as a university lecturer. Supersata is setting up ten new universities all over the place, Mpulungu, Shang’ombo, Ng’ombe and even Mpika! All unemployed graduates will be made lecturers. A huge national investment and a brilliant idea to solve the problem! Good old Supersata! What a genius!

‘Half a minute,’ I said slowly. ‘That may solve the problem for now. But after ten years we shall have a worse problem, with ten times as many unemployed graduates!’

‘But by that time,’ laughed Sara, ‘Supersata will be out of office!’

‘And I shall be a Vice-Chancellor!’ declared James.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’ll get to the top!’

State House Disease

2011-11-08T18:09:00.002+02:00

State House Disease

‘It happens every time,’ sighed Towani, ‘we elect somebody to State House who promises to do as we ask, but no sooner has he walked through the door than he begins to do the opposite!’

‘And it’s always a he,’ said Sara. ‘When we get a she, things will be different.’

‘Pass me the potatoes,’ I said, ‘before the president puts a tax on them.’

We were having a family lunch on the veranda, which is the best place to put the world to rights, since it can’t be done at State House. ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘there’s something wrong with State House. Maybe the building has a malign effect on people. Ghosts, evil spirits, nasty smells, unwashed underpants from the previous occupant and that sort of thing.’

Kupela waved her fork in the air. ‘Speaking as a microbiologist…’

‘Speaking as a microbiologist…’ I mocked.

‘What is a microbiologist?’ asked Thoko.

‘A microbiologist,’ I explained, ‘is an extremely small biologist.’

‘It is very likely,’ persisted Kupela, ‘that the new arrival soon succumbs to all the microbes and parasites which have built up over the years.’

‘Maybe the house is still suffering from Nyamasoyitis and Muwelewelitis,’ I suggested.

‘The lingering smell of colonialism,’ suggested Towani. ‘Even Michael said he noticed a foul stench when he first walked in, and promised a clean up.’

‘But maybe the stench overpowered him,’ Sara sneered.

‘There’s no need to bring smelly ideology into a purely biological problem,’ said Kupela. ‘An old house like that is automatically full of all sorts of viruses, bacteria and fungi floating round in the air, and hanging on the curtains like invisible bunches of grapes. Then of course there are the parasites such as mice, rats, spiders, mites and mosquitoes.’

‘All lurking below the floorboards and above the ceilings,’ I suggested.

‘And especially,’ said Kupela, ‘in the drains and sewers. All the remains of the previous occupants, and all their diseases, waiting to come up and get you.’

‘We must respect all that is left to us from previous generations,’ I said. ‘It is called tradition. Presidents come and go, but all these microbes and parasites remain. They are the custodians of State House. They preserve the past, and pass it on to the next occupant, so as to maintain stability and continuity in society. We must respect and preserve our traditions. In fact we’ve now even got a minister to look after them.’

‘Gender discrimination,’ snarled Sara, ‘is a very nasty desease.’

‘We’re talking especially about State House diseases,’ said Towani. ‘Gender discrimination is everywhere.’

‘Especially in State House,’ Sara hissed.

‘I’m not sure about this disease theory,’ declared Towani, as she carefully examined the salad. ‘Does it explain how a man can walk into the house one day as a democrat elected by the people, but emerge the next morning as a king appointed by God?’

‘Diseases can change behaviour dreadfully,’ said Kupela. ‘Chicken pox makes people terribly bad-tempered, diarrhoea causes impatience, and pompositis famously causes extreme arrogance. A person’s behaviour can change in a day, and allergies are particularly erratic and unpredictable.’

‘How is that?’

‘An allergic person may be sent into a fit of sneezing by dust, but quite like the smell of flowers. Another may be allergic to corruption, but very attracted to the smell of money.’

‘I’m not sure I believe any of this,’ laughed Towani. ‘I’m old enough to have seen all five of our presidents, and nobody ever said they looked diseased.’

‘That’s because we have got used to their symptoms,’ explained Kupela. ‘We expect our presidents to be arrogant, selfish, deaf and bad-tempered. In any other person we would see the symptoms of various diseases, but in a president it appears quite normal.’

‘Perhaps it has become normal because these State House diseases have been passed on from one occupant to the next?’

‘Exactly,’ said Kupela.

‘But why doesn’t this State House disease spread out into the general population?’ I wondered. ‘Does State House arrogance make everybody arrogant? Does a president’s deafness turn everybody increasingly deaf, as he moves around the country spreading the disease?’

‘State House disease spreads alright,’ said Kupela. ‘But the strange peculiarity of State House disease is that it has the opposite symptoms in the general population. If the president talks all the time, the people have to stop talking and listen instead. As he becomes more deaf, they are the ones who have to hear. As he becomes more arrogant, they have to become more humble, and lick his boots. As he becomes more authoritarian, they believe more in democracy. As he becomes more satisfied with himself, they become more dissatisfied with him.’

‘But shall we ever clean out all the accumulated filth and disease from State House?’ wondered Thoko. ‘Maybe we should just go back to Sir Evelyn Hone and start again!’

‘Funny you should say that,’ I replied. ‘I read in today’s paper that the British Prime Minister has just appointed Lord Henry Bellingham as Minister for Africa! So obviously the British have resumed control!’

‘Then maybe he has appointed Michael as our new Governor!’

‘That would certainly explain a lot,’ said Sara, as she stabbed the table with her knife. ‘We voted for change, and now we’ve got it!’

The Supreme Leader

2011-11-01T17:11:00.002+02:00

The Supreme Leader

Oh Dear Diary, When I came down to breakfast this morning I found my dear husband at the table, already dressed up in his Supersata suit, with his gold crown on his head, busy eating his cornflakes. ‘Good morning darling,’ I said, as I handed him The Post and gave him a little kiss on his battered old forehead. ‘Have a look at the news.’

‘I don’t need to read the news,’ he answered gruffly, ‘I am the news. I make the news, so that other people read about me.’

‘You should read this editorial here,’ I said, as I reached for a grapefruit, ‘it says that Michael should not be appointing …’

‘I’ll have him fired with immediate effect, or possible sooner,’ my dear husband snarled, in a quite frightening and quite unbecoming manner.

‘Half a minute’ I said, ‘I haven’t yet told you what the editor is saying.’

‘Oh yes you have! He can’t be calling me Michael! He must show some respect! My name is now His Excellency Machiavelli Chilufya Supersata SC!’

‘Ooh that’s nice dear,’ I said, trying to soothe him, ‘have you just appointed yourself State Council?’

‘SC means I am Supreme Commander,’ he shouted, as he pointed his spoon threateningly to all four corners of the compass, ‘I’m in charge of all twelve million people, including you!’

‘I’m glad you’ve included me,’ I said with a smile, ‘because I’ve got the same question as the editor. How can you be appointing Unsavory Chuma as your Personal Servant in Luapula when everybody knows he’s as bent as a cucumber? Previously you told everybody you were allergic to corruption! That you can’t stand the stink of it!’

He glowered at me from the other end of the royal table. ‘I can’t stand the stink of this Unsavory fellow. That’s why I sent him all the way to Luapula!’

‘Look, Michael,’ I said slowly, ‘in my job, I hear what people are saying. And I can tell you that they’re getting very fed up with you. You promised so much to the youth, then you pack your cabinet with ancient geriatrics and raise the retirement age. You promised positions for women, then you deliberately leave them out. You said you’d save us from the Chinese thieves and exploiters, then you give a slap-up lunch in their honour. You promised us more money in our pockets, but now you employ this Unsavory Plunderer to steal money from our pockets.’

‘I know you don’t understand these things,’ he growled, ‘you’ve only been trained to wipe babies’ bottoms at the hospital. You don’t understand politics or leadership. You just stick to your nappies and that sort of thing.’

‘Is that what you call leadership?’ I persisted. ‘Appointing a notorious and convicted crook?’

‘Look my dear, let me try to explain it to you. When I was on the campaign trail I had to promise everything to everybody. That’s how I got you into this comfortable house. But now that I am the Supreme Leader I don’t have to ask those people what they want, it is now my job to decide what they should be given.’

‘But can’t you at least give them some of the things they asked for, rather than do the opposite?’

‘Certainly not. I now have to establish myself as the Supreme Leader. I can’t be wasting my time receiving delegations of people all petitioning for different things. One group wants a new road, another wants a bridge, another a railway, and so on. It’s my job to make the decision, and when I do, a lot of people will get disappointed and angry.

‘But Michael,’ I said, ‘you are taking decisions which please nobody!’

‘Ah my dear,’ he said, ‘how little you understand the problems of a Supreme Leader. It is most important, at this early stage, to test the loyalty and discipline of my ministers and party members. The best test is to take a decision which is self-evidently ridiculous, and to see which one can be found whispering against me. This is how I can weed out those who have no loyalty. Such a situation identifies the subversive elements, who would seek to undermine my authority and challenge my position. As they whisper against me, they automatically and foolishly identify themselves. The subsequent purge removes the main danger, and teaches the meaning of loyalty to those few who are allowed to remain around their beloved Supreme Leader.’

‘So what’s you next earth shattering announcement to enrage the nation?’

‘I have been thinking about the problem of all these civil servants who come to work late, and then waste the entire morning chatting on Facebook. They only start work at midday.’

‘So does the Supreme Leader have a remedy?’

‘Certainly he does,’ he replied proudly. ‘This is a simple matter. I shall cancel mornings entirely and the whole country will move to a twelve hour day, beginning at noon, and having only afternoon and night. Tomorrow I shall instruct the Meteorological Department to adjust the speed of the sun so that daylight hours are reduced to six. With immediate effect.’

Oh Dear Diary, Does my poor dear husband really know what he is doing? I have a nasty feeling that, any day now, he is going to make a complete ass of himself.

I Was There!

2011-10-25T16:21:00.004+02:00

I Was There!

Independence Day, and I was slumped in front of the TV watching the beginning of the celebrations at State House, when in walked Sara wearing her best bubu. ‘Come on!’ she said, ‘we’re off to Plot One!’

‘What!’ I gasped. ‘Did you get an invitation?’

‘Hah!’ she laughed, ‘do you think those goons at the gate would dare to ask new ministers for their invitation?’

‘But we’re not ministers!’

‘We know that, but do they know that? There’s fifty new ministers and they’ve no idea who is who or which is which. When they see a confused old man with a beard, they’ll probably think you’re Fackson Shimenda!’

Half an hour later we were walking towards the gate, with Sara hissing at me ‘Try to look confused!’

As she spoke, the guard at the gate drew himself to attention and saluted, and the Protocol Officer moved forward to shake my hand. ‘Dotty Scotty, sir, welcome to the party! Is this your good wife, Lotty Scotty?’

‘Good gracious no,’ I laughed, ‘she can’t stand these rituals. This is Joyce Banda, the Vice President of Malawi. We have been very busy cementing good relations.’

‘Marvellous!’ laughed the Protocol Officer, ‘I just hope your wife doesn’t mind!’

'Dotty Scotty and I,' purred Joyce, 'are getting on so well together, that I'm thinking of staying here with him.'

‘Oh Christ!’ I said, as we reached the great circle of tents, ‘All the men are dressed in suits! They must be sweating like pigs!’

‘They don’t sweat,’ Sara sniggered, ‘they’re all cold blooded reptiles. Snakes that can wriggle out of anything, dinosaurs from previous regimes, lizards quicker than pickpockets and chameleons that change colour after every election.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Elections come and go, but the ruling class remains the same.’

As I was talking, a shushushu in a black suit, black tie and black shades tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me Mr Vice President sir, His Excellency has asked me to tell you that you’re not appropriately dressed for the occasion.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I wondered. ‘This is my best chitenge shirt!’

‘Exactly sir. H.E. has said that he doesn’t want people dressing like Africans. Follow me, sir, and I’ll find you a suit, so you can look more like a European.’

We followed him into an ante-room of State House. ‘I’m sorry this is the only suit left,’ he said. ‘The previous Excellency left this behind because he had grown too fat for it.’

‘It’s huge!’ I said, as I put it on, and Sara, I mean Joyce Banda, burst out laughing. ‘Better pull the belt tight or your trousers will fall down!’

‘Now you really look the part,’ she chuckled, as we walked back into the throng, ‘Dotty Scotty is known for always being badly dressed.’

People were now coming up to me, slobbering and fawning, saying ‘Should we call you Your Vice Excellency, or Your Excellency, Your Excellency?’

‘No,’ I told them, ‘The President is His Most Excellent Excellency, and I am His Almost Excellent Excellency.’

We walked grandly around, with people bowing and scraping on all sides, until we finally came to the Royal Tent. ‘Here’s my cell phone,’ I said, ‘you take my picture with Supersata, then I’ll send it to my Facebook friends on The Zambian People’s Pact, just to rub their ten thousand jealous noses into my extraordinary success.’

‘Hullo Kalaki,’ said Supersata, as we shook hands.

‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Everybody thinks I’m Dotty Scotty.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a message from him at the gate saying he can’t get in. They’re accusing him of being Spectator Kalaki, and telling him to bugger off.’

‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘One Dotty Scotty is quite enough, two would get the entire nation completely confused.’

‘Kalaki,’ said Supersata.

‘Yes, Your Most Excellent Excellency,’ I replied, getting down on one knee.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ I replied, ‘that’s why I came here for a bit of a grovel.’

‘I’m appointing you as my ambassador to Outer Mongolia!’

‘Oh thank you,Your Most Generous Excellency,’ I said, as I burst into tears of joy, and then rushed over to Sara, formerly Joyce Banda, to tell her the good news.

‘Outer Mongolia darling!’ I said. ‘The Auditor General has never managed to reach there! We’ll be rich! After all our years of struggle, now we can build our mansion in New Kasama!’

‘You silly bugger!’ she shouted, ‘You resisted when Muwelewele wanted to deport you to England, but now you celebrate when this one wants to deport you to Outer Mongolia!’

But as she was shouting at me, everybody else had fallen quiet. Supersata had begun his majestic walk to the rostrum, where he was about to honour a new batch of national heroes who had suddenly been discovered.

‘Our first hero this afternoon is Spectator Kalaki!’ he announced. I was bewildered! But humbled! I marched up to the rostrum, trying not to trip over Nyamasoya’s trousers, climbed up the steps, and stood in front of Supersata.

‘Spectator Kalaki!’ he announced, ‘You are a national hero. The PF victory was entirely due to your Facebook campaign.’ So saying, he took a fifty kwacha note from his wallet and stuck it in my front pocket. ‘Here’s more money in your pocket!’ he declared.

I saluted smartly, causing my trousers to fall down, so that when I turned to go down the steps my feet were caught in Nyamasoya’s trousers. The whole crowd cheered as I fell flat on my face, and then blacked out.

_________________________

The next think I knew, I was staring up at Sara’s face, and I was back home. ‘Did the ambulance bring me back?’ I asked.

‘What are you blabbering about?’ she laughed. ‘You fell asleep in front of the telly.’

The Death of MMD

2011-10-18T19:20:00.004+02:00

The Death of MMD

Yesterday we had a surprise visit from our former colleagues at Yunza, Birigit and Petrus, now retired to Germany.

‘How nice it is to see you again after all these years,’ said Sara, as we all sat down on the veranda. ‘I’m told you’ve already been here for a couple of weeks. What have you been doing?’

‘We’ve just come back from a couple of weeks in Mfuwe,’ said Birigit.

‘Staring at animals!’ I scoffed. ‘I thought your field was sociology! Now you’re more interested in animals!’

‘Exactly,’ laughed Petrus. ‘After forty years of staring at people, we both have to admit that we can’t understand them at all. Forty years of asking thousands of questions, but still we’ve got no answers! So we’ve given up!’

‘What d’you mean?’ scoffed Sara. ‘Those thousands of questions must have produced thousands of answers!’

‘They did,’ Petrus admitted. ‘What I meant was that the answers seemed to cancel each other out, instead of adding up to something. We were looking for the Grand Theory of Human Behaviour, but we never found it. After forty years of academic toil, we can’t even predict what’s going to happen tomorrow.’

‘So Mfuwe was more amenable to your newly revised intellectual ambitions?’ I suggested cautiously.

‘Very much so,’ said Birigit enthusiastically. ‘With the help of the game ranger, our new friend Dingiswayo, we could understand exactly what was going on. The first morning we got there, before we’d even finished breakfast, Dingiswayo came rushing in, saying Come quick and see the fall of the MMD!’

‘The Movement for Multi-Party Democracy?’

‘No!’ she said irritably, ‘the Mad Mfuwe Dictator! That was the name they had given to the rogue elephant that had been terrorizing Mfuwe for the past twenty years. But now he had been spotted in the middle of the forest, standing motionless, unable to steal a mango, let alone trample a village.

‘Hamba manji manji Herr Petrus and Frau Birigit! urged Dingiswayo as we tried to urge our ancient limbs into the back of the arthritic landrover. We were driven into the forest and shown the dying MMD, standing there swaying, surrounded by a crowd of laughing baboons and hyenas.

‘MMD had promised, explained Dingiswayo, to protect the forest and provide free fertilizer so that everybody could grow maize. But instead MMD sold the forest to Ching Chang, and invaded the maize fields at night to eat all the maize himself, leaving his droppings all over the field. That was the free fertilizer he had promised!’

‘Watching an elephant die!’ said Sara. ‘Rather a morbid pastime!’

‘Animals’ death is different,’ said Petrus. ‘They don’t demand privacy. The whole of Mfuwe was watching. And celebrating.’

‘When exactly did MMD die?’ I asked.

‘It happened the next morning, when we came back to watch. MMD was swaying dangerously, then he made one long trumpeting noise, which Dingiswayo said meant I shall rule for ever! Then he fell over sideways. Dead.’

‘How did you know he was dead?’

‘When an animal dies,’ explained Birigit, ‘all the parasites leave the body. The moment MMD died, a cloud of fleas immediately rose from the body. An army of ticks released their grip and dispersed quickly into the forest, looking for other victims. Several bats flew out of his ears. Then we saw a long snake beginning to wind out of the anus.’

‘It must have been a tapeworm,’ I suggested.

‘No.’ said Birigit. ‘Dingiswayo said it was the notorious Red-Lipped Snake that had crept up the elephant’s arse three years earlier. Now it was abandoning the corpse.’

‘Next was even worse,’ said Petrus. ‘Suddenly the huge distended belly split open, and out stepped a little hippo, whose name, Dingiswayo told us, was Bokosi. Apparently MMD had once had a great taste for Bokosi, and had entirely swallowed her.’

‘Really?’ I asked. ‘How?’

‘In an act of love,’ explained Birigit. ‘An act of monstrous coition between two monsters. MMD opened his mouth wide to give her a big voluptuous kiss and accidentally swallowed her whole. He became pregnant with her, instead of the other way round.’

‘A rare example of gender equality,’ declared Sara.

‘I’m not sure I can believe all this,’ I said, looking at the bottle. ‘How many gin and tonics have you had?’

‘How many brandies have you had?’ retorted Birigit.

‘I’m not the one who’s telling the story!’

‘I know it may sound strange,’ said Petrus, ‘But what happened next was even more peculiar. Out of the forest trotted a large buffalo bull, but with little horns and not much in the way of, ah, reproductive equipment.’

‘Dingswayo said it was the Tonga Bull,’ explained Birigit, ‘known for appearing at funerals in order to steal the assets of the deceased. With two big kicks he knocked off both the elephant’s tusks. With another mighty kick between the elephant’s rear legs he cleanly cut off the elephant’s famously large equipment, which was then sewn onto the Tonga Bull by a clever chimpanzee. Then, with the long tusks over his little horns, and his new scrotum dangling in the dust, he trotted off into the forest, as the baboons all laughed and squealed Another Great Leader!’

‘So what happens next in Mfuwe?’ Sara wondered. ‘Can MMD resurrect after all the parasites have left? Or will the Tonga Bull take over? Or will the animals of Mfuwe finally discover democracy?’

‘What do you think?’ I also asked. ‘After your new zoological experiences, are you now in a position to predict what’s going to happen tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ said Petrus confidently, ‘I think I can now confidently predict what’s going to happen tomorrow.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said slowly, ‘We’re both going back to Germany.’

[Thanks to Facebook friends for their contributions to the discussion on the death of MMD, and especially to Francis Mwelwa Bwalya for his description of the deathbed predator]

The Spectacles

2011-10-11T17:45:00.004+02:00

The Spectacles

‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘it’s time for you to tuck me up in bed and tell me a story.’

‘Once upon a time, a long time ago,’ I began, ‘there was a great leader of the people called Supersata.’

‘What made him great?’ asked Nawiti, suspiciously.

‘His spectacles,’ I said. ‘He had very powerful spectacles.’

‘You mean he had great vision,’ said Nawiti.

‘On the contrary,’ I explained, ‘his vision was terrible. That was why he needed such powerful spectacles.’

‘So how did these spectacles make him such a great leader?’

‘Because he was able to see the plight of the people. He could see their problems, and could see what to do about them. He would just stand in front of the people, thousands of them, and say I know you are hungry and I will give you food. I know you are poor and I will put money in your pockets.’

‘Then I don’t see anything very marvelous about his spectacles,’ snorted Nawiti. ‘He was just seeing obvious things which were right in front of him.’

‘The most marvelous thing about the spectacles,’ I said, ‘was that they also worked the other way round. When the people looked at him, they looked through his spectacles, and they saw themselves. They saw an ordinary Man of the People.’

‘Hmm,’ said Nawiti, still not convinced. ‘Did his magic spectacles enable him to see what was causing all this starvation and poverty?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘they were very good at that. He saw that the evil King Nyamasoya and his nasty friends were stealing all the money from the treasury, and the judges were all wearing their silly wigs back to front, and pretending they couldn’t see anything. Vote for me, Supersata would say, and I will lock them all up, and you will be rich and happy!’

‘So did they vote for him?’

‘Oh yes. They all voted for him, chased away the evil King Nyamasoya, and carried Supersata to the palace.’

‘And did he become a good king?’

‘That evening, when all the crowds had gone, he put on his Superman suit and stood on the palace balcony and spoke to the stars, saying I am King Superman, Man of the People, appointed by the people to sweep corruption from this land, get back the stolen money, sack the corrupt judges, and jail the thieves, all with immediate effect, if not sooner! And so saying, and believing himself to be Superman, he threw himself into the air, in order to begin his mighty works.’

‘Could he really fly?’ asked Nawiti.

‘There must have been a bit of a problem with his Superman suit,’ I admitted. ‘No sooner had he launched himself into the air than his whole body suddenly became unusually susceptible to the Force of Gravity, and he plummeted down onto the flagstones below.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti, ‘was he hurt?’

‘Not really,’ I said, ‘but his pride and self-confidence were dreadfully wounded. And even worse, he landed on his spectacles, which were completely broken into a hundred pieces. Now the previously far-seeing king couldn’t even see his own hand in front of him.’

‘So what did he do?’

‘The problem was soon solved. One of the palace lackeys came running up to him with a beautiful pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, saying Do not worry, O King, take these spectacles, we always keep a spare pair at the palace.

‘So the next morning he dressed up in his Superman Suit, put on his new spectacles, and went to look at himself in the mirror. And what a marvelous sight he saw! His cloak was now made of gold cloth, and a crown was on his head. Better still, he was now a large and powerful king. Very good! he said to himself, What lovely big spectacles! Now I have a much bigger opinion of myself!

Then the lackey came running in, saying Your Most Mighty Excellent Excellency King Superman, thousands of your faithful subjects are here at the palace waiting to hear your words of infinite and all-knowing wisdom!

Then the king went to the balcony where the multitude stretched into the far distance, all crying together We appointed you as our leader, now arrest Nyamasoya who emptied the treasury! Arrest the Chief Judge who murdered Justice!

But Superman looked at the mob with aristocratic disdain, as the sun glinted angrily on his new gold spectacles. I was not appointed by you! he shouted. A king is appointed by All Mighty God. I do not do your bidding, but listen instead to the advice from My Almighty God, who speaks only to me. And do not accuse anybody of a crime unless you have firm evidence! Which one of you ever personally saw Nyamasoya filling his wallet at the treasury? Which one of you saw the bullet fly from the gun that killed Justice? Where is your evidence? If you have any such evidence, go to the police immediately, and they will investigate your involvement in the crime!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti sadly. ‘What did the people do when they heard all that?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s the end of the story.’

‘But how do you think the people solved the problem?’ Nawiti asked irritably.

‘Well,’ I gulped, ‘I suppose the people had to choose a new leader, and then carry him to the palace.’

‘That wouldn’t have worked!’ Nawiti declared.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Because,’ replied Nawiti slowly, ‘once the new leader reached the palace, he would just put on the same pair of gold-rimmed spectacles!’

Supersata

2011-10-04T23:02:00.005+02:00

Supersata

Sunday

Dear Diary, It’s our first day at State House, and my dear husband is so excited. I had just sat down for breakfast when he came galloping down the stairs in his Superman suit, shouting ‘I am Action Man! I am Supersata! I’ll catch all the rotters! Sack all the baddies! Get back all the stolen money! Put money in every pocketty! Supersata strikes again! I’ll chase all the cockroaches back to Chipata! Clean up the world in ninety days!’

‘Sit down and eat your cornflakes,’ I said sternly. ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead of me and I can’t stand much more of your nonsense.’

‘Just help me pump up this Superman Suit,’ he pleaded, ‘I want to grow big like a real Superman. Even bigger than Nyamasoya the Nasty Dinosaur. I’ll float like a butterfly and sting like a bee! Put the world to rights with a single blow! Sack them all with immediate effect! Immediate effect! Wow! Pwow! Zing Zong!’

‘Don’t be silly, the real Superman fell off his horse and broke his neck.’ I said as I pulled at the zip on his Superman suit. ‘Go and take this off and put on your old baggy double-breasted suit that hides your paunch. And while you’re at it, clean your teeth, your breath smells terrible. The press is waiting for you in the conference room and they expect to hear something sensible. And make sure you don’t smile, or they’ll see your teeth.’

Monday

Oh My God! If I don’t control this man, the nation is going to rack and ruin. At breakfast this morning I picked up The Post to find that my dear little Superman has pre-occupied himself with trying to solve old problems by giving them new names. Livingstone Airport is now Nkumbula Airport and the humble Man of the People has now become His Excellency Supersata.

Zambia has been re-named Satabia, and the kwacha now becomes ten pabwato, thereby putting more money in our pockets! By changing windfall to rainfall he has also put more money in our buckets. By changing the name of compounds to suburbs, he has solved the housing problem at a stroke! The Editor of The Post is so annoyed with all this that I counted twenty-five references to Proverbs in his editorial.

As I was reading my dear husband came bouncing down to breakfast in his Superman suit. ‘I think I can fly!’ he sang as he leapt into the air, and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, screaming and nursing his left ankle. I bandaged his ankle, and made him change his suit and gargle with mouthwash. ‘There’s another press conference waiting for you,’ I said grimly. ‘This time they’re waiting to hear of your new appointments. And don’t change the name of Western Province until you’ve done some consultation.’

Tuesday

Dear Diary, why do men never really grow up? He arrived at breakfast this morning by sliding down the stairs on the ironing board, shouting ‘Today’s headlines! Superstar Supersata leads Superteam to Superprosperity!’

I looked up from The Post. ‘Not all the newspapers are as enthusiastic as yourself,’ I said dryly. ‘They are calling it the Geriatric Cabinet, saying they’re either too old, or too Bemba, or too corrupt, or in some cases all three.’

‘They shouldn’t worry about the Cabinet,’ he laughed, ‘they’re just old friends of mine who need assistance to have their ailments attended to at the Morningside Clinic. They’re not important, I shall be taking all the decisions myself! I am Supersata!’

Wednesday

Oh Dear Diary, Husbands are so difficult to control. I’ve got him fairly well house trained, but once he sees a microphone there’s no telling what he might say. Now The Post editorial has had to abandon Proverbs and has taken instead to more severe and magisterial language borrowed extensively and repetitively from Paul’s Letter to the Romans.

Apparently, at the press conference yesterday, my dear husband appointed a commission of enquiry into the sale of the Fiddle Bank, but in the next breath gave it back to Mr Fiddle. He also commissioned an enquiry to find out if it the Energy Relaxation Board was energetic or relaxed, but in the next announcement fired all members of the Board! ‘Surely,’ I said to my dear husband, ‘don’t you see that you need to hear the result of an enquiry before you take action? Don’t you have any common sense?’

‘Ah, my poor dear innocent wife,’ he replied, as he twirled around on the Persian carpet, his Superman cape flying in the air, ‘how little you understand about how politics really work. This little nuisance, Witless Kwindi, was insisting on a cabinet job, so instead I had to fob him off with the job of chairing a few totally irrelevant commissions.’

Thursday

Dear Diary, Superman came bouncing down the stairs this morning in a jovial mood. ‘Good morning my dear,’ he said cheerily. ‘How lucky I am that God appointed me to be Supersata, and that He has guided my hand in appointing a new Cabinet! I hope my people are now beginning to appreciate what God has given them.’

I looked up from The Post. ‘Things are getting worse,’ I said. ‘Now the Women’s Movement is asking why there are only two women in the cabinet.’

He stopped in mid-spoonful of cornflakes. ‘What! Two women! How did they get in! I must check the appointment lists more carefully in future! That Dotty Scotty has let me down again! He’s too old to know the difference!

‘What are you talking about?’ I shouted. ‘You promised gender equality in decision making positions!’

‘I’m all in favour of that!’ he retorted. ‘You make your decisions in the kitchen, and I’ll make mine in the government. We must all stick to the things we know and understand! If I were to follow your advice, I’d soon get myself into a complete mess!’

Long Voyage to Democracy

2011-09-28T08:55:00.004+02:00

Long Voyage to Democracy

Last night we were just about to lock up when there was a faint knock on the front door, and a weak cry of ‘Odi!’

‘Odini!’ I replied as I opened the door, and in staggered Aunt Cathy, barefoot and covered in dust. I helped her onto the sofa, upon which she collapsed. ‘What’s happened?’ cried Sara. ‘Has your son come back?’

‘A cup of tea!’ croaked Aunty Cathy, ‘and I’ll tell you all about it.’

Within fifteen minutes Aunty was somewhat revived, after having finished a large plate of chicken stew and nshima.

‘What a terrible experience!’ said Aunty Cathy. ‘It all started about a week ago, when I was promised a trip to Democracy!’

‘Is there really a place called Democracy?’ I wondered.

‘Even me,’ said Aunty Cathy, ‘I’ve always wondered. I’m fed up with being bullied and insulted by call boys, kaponya, party cadres and other thugs. So when my friend Enela said she’d got two tickets to Democracy, I jumped at the chance.’

‘So you’d previously heard about Democracy?’ asked Sara.

‘I’ve been hearing about this marvelous place since before independence,’ sighed Aunty Cathy, ‘but I’ve never managed to get there. Now at last, this was my chance.’

‘And did you reach Democracy?’ I asked.

‘A journey of a thousand miles,’ said Aunty Cathy solemnly, ‘begins with a single bus. We found our bus at Kamwala Bus Station. A beautiful big blue bus, with the large letters RB painted on the side.’

‘RB?’

‘Rogue Bus,’ she explained. ‘The notice in the front window said Democracy, stopping at Peace, Freedom and Justice. After sitting and waiting for only six hours, off we went.’

‘Was the bus full?’

‘It was only half full of passengers,’ she replied, ‘all the others were staff. There was a Conductor for Passengers, a Conductor for Tickets, a Conductor for Luggage, a Conductor for Seating, a Conductor for Entertainment, and so on. There were about thirty of them.’

‘Thirty!’ I exclaimed in disbelief. How could there be thirty?’

‘Maybe there were more,’ said Aunty Cathy. ‘Every Conductor was assisted by a Deputy Conductor and an Assistant Conductor. Then there were the Senior Conductors, who were supervised by the Director of Conductors, and who of course was assisted by two Deputy Directors. In overall charge was the Supreme Leader. They all sat on large luxurious leather seats at the front of the bus. We passengers, all thirty of us, were squeezed onto thirty small canvas stools at the back.’

‘Who was the driver?’

‘The Supreme Leader was the driver. He was called RB.’

‘Meaning Rogue Bus?’

‘No, Round Belly.’

‘So did you reach Democracy?’

‘After about three hours on the road, the bus stopped at a village in the middle of the night. All the staff got off, telling us to wait. They came back at daybreak, rather the worse for wear, some with girlfriends that they had found in the village. RB now drove the bus with a big fat girl called Tujilijili sitting on his lap.

‘Three hours later we stopped at another village. The conductors asked us for money for their entertainment allowance, but we refused. So they removed all our luggage and took it into the village, after which we heard much singing and squealing. The next morning they came back with baskets of fish and off we set again.

‘By then we were thirsty and starving, but the Conductors said that per diem was only for the staff, and we would be off-loaded at the next police station if we protested. So we kept quiet. At the next stop they unloaded the fish and disappeared into another village, coming back six hours later with several sacks of mbanje. By now they were all drunk. RB was lying on the floor and Tujilijili was driving, as the bus swerved all over the road. Finally we came to a juddering halt. The bus had run out of diesel!’

‘So what happened then?’

‘All the conductors disappeared into a nearby village to look for kachasu, but RB just sat on top of Tujilijili and began to cry.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘A bus came along from the opposite direction and we flagged it down. It was a strange vehicle, shaped like a boat, with Pabwato written on the side. The boat was built upon sixty bicycles, and all the passengers had to pedal, their legs protruding out of the bottom of the boat. The driver was the Cycle Master, but he didn’t pedal, he just steered.’

‘So did Cycle Master give you a lift?’

‘He told us that we were on the wrong road for Democracy, and we had been taken in completely the wrong direction. He said that his bus was people powered, and he would allow us to help pedal the boat back to Lusaka. He said that when we reached Lusaka he would show us real Democracy.’

‘So democracy was here in Lusaka after all?’

‘It was awful,’ she sobbed, ‘when we got back to Kamwala Bus Station, all the RB buses were going up in flames, and all the conductors were being chased and beaten. And we said to the Cycle Master, This is terrible, we must stop all this, what are you going to do about it, shall we call the police?’

‘Never mind all that, he replied, this is what happens when you mislead people, promise them you will lead them to Democracy, and then take them somewhere else!

‘But we shouted at him, saying You said that you would show us real Democracy! Now look at this, this is Anarchy!’

‘Slowly he took a map out of his pocket, and spread it over the handlebars of the Pabwato, and looked at it carefully. You’re quite right, he said, Democracy is not here. I’m still looking for the right road, then I’ll take you there!’

I Knew He'd Lose!

2011-09-19T19:04:00.006+02:00

I Knew He’d Lose!

Tuesday 20th

Dear Diary, My poor dear husband is so sure he’s going to win. Last night he threw a big party. All his cronies and bootlickers were eating T-bone steak and guzzling beer until the early hours of this morning, celebrating their expected victory.

When he came down to breakfast his eyes were all bleary and bloodshot. ‘Can you really win with such a gang of thieves and crooks?’ I wondered, as I hid The Post newspaper under the table.

‘Of course we shall win,’ he laughed confidently, as he poured a pint of beer over his cornflakes with one hand, while grabbing a few pork ribs with the other. ‘Crooks and thieves are the best people for this sort of work. They even helped Muwelewele to win, so how can they fail with me?’

He’s such a jolly and confident fellow, my husband, but it’s difficult to hold a serious conversation. But I keep trying. ‘It’s in the nature of thieves and crooks,’ I persisted, ‘that they cannot be trusted.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he cackled, ‘It’s in their own interest. I’ve promised twenty-five of them that they’ll be vice-president, and the other twenty-five that they’ll be minister of finance. They’re all employing every trick in the book to ensure my majority!’

‘Suppose,’ I said, ‘that they compare notes on what they’ve been promised?’

‘Impossible!’ he hooted as sank his teeth into a pigs trotter, ‘there’s not one of them can trust the other!’ So saying, he wiped his greasy fingers on the back of his trousers and stood up. ‘I must be off to the polling station, I’m due to cast an entirely clean vote for the benefit of the cameras and overseas monitors!’

Wednesday 21^st

This afternoon the entire gang was out on the patio celebrating victory. The champagne was flowing like water, and a complete ox was being turned on the spit.

My poor dear husband wasn’t even watching the results on TV, because he’s not very good at arithmetic. Even after five bottles of beer he loses count of how many he has drunk. But even so, I thought I’d better try to explain that things were not going well. So I went out onto the patio and whispered in his ear, ‘With most of the results in, you’re still four hundred thousand behind!’

‘Hah!’ he laughed. ‘You women can’t understand numbers! Wait until the numbers come in from Konama, where we’ve got more votes than registered voters!’

The dried up Velvet Mango fixed one wonky eye on me and the other on his glass of champagne, and laughed out of one side of his lop-sided mouth. ‘Not only that,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I’m reliably informed by impeccable but anonymous sources that in Konama we have more polling stations than registered voters!’

‘So don’t you worry your little head,’ said my husband, giving my bottom a friendly slap. ‘Go inside and watch your Nollywood movies. You women can’t understand these complicated matters.’

Thursday 22^nd

This morning I found him at breakfast, his head in his hands. He hadn’t touched the pork trotters.

‘I told you not to trust them,’ I said. ‘All that Donchi Kubeba, you said it was just an opposition slogan. But I warned you, didn’t I? It was aimed at your side. Nobody would tell you. They would just agree with you, then do the opposite. There was no fading ink. No ghost voters. No pre-marked ballots. No fake polling stations. No dodgy counting. No aerial arithmetic. No shushushu anywhere. You declared a national holiday, so they all took a rest.

‘Shut up!’ he said.

‘I’ll start packing,’ I said.

Friday 23^rd

This morning when he came down to breakfast he was a bit more chirpy. ‘I’ve just accepted my first official duty as the Former Leader. I’m going to open the new Ndende Prison on Chilubi Island. It was one of my favourite projects, and it’s only right that they should let me open it

‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘They might know that you were building it specially to lock up Cycle Mata on fake treason charges.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed, ‘all those prison commissioners are my appointees.’

Monday 26^th

Oh Dear Diary, I am now back on the little smallholding in Chipata. All the pictures were in the newspapers this morning. Showing how my dear husband cut the lovely blue ribbon at the new Ndende Prison. Blue flags flying. Blue chitenge everywhere. Everybody waving one finger, as he went in to inspect the marvelous new facility.

Although it looked as though the place was not quite finished. Lots of walls and prison bars, but not yet fitted out with any furniture. No kitchen, canteen or anything like that. No sanitary facilities. No warders. But he insisted on going in to see the facilities.

He didn’t sense the danger until the cell door clanged behind him. He didn’t suspect anything. They had all been sworn to Donchi Kubeba.

Otherwise, apart from that, life is much as it was before. I spend most of my time watching Nollywood movies.

Sexual Politics

2011-09-13T18:30:00.006+02:00

Sexual Politics

As we turned on the TV, there was Mampi belting out our favourite number, Swilili. ‘ZNBC is improving,’ laughed Sara, ‘usually they give us only Tujilijili.’

But our enthusiasm was short lived, as the MC came onto the stage dressed in a hideous blue chitenge shirt, grabbed the microphone and shouted ‘Here at last is the woman you’ve all be waiting for, Dollar Tujilijili!’

The crowd jeered and booed as out onto the stage staggered a bulbous hippopotamus of a woman, wrapped in a huge blue chitenge which was knotted above her huge swinging breasts. The crowd groaned as she menacingly pointed one finger at them and shouted Your hour has come!’ They shook their fists at her, shouting Donchi kubeba!

‘Why don’t they leave, instead of waiting to be insulted?’ I wondered.

‘They’re hoping Mampi will come back,’ laughed Sara.

‘You starving illiterate peasants!’ screamed Dollar, still pointing her finger at the crowd, ‘You will never get any development here until you join RB, the Royal Bedroom!’

‘Give us our chitenge,’ they shouted back, ‘we’re ready to go home!’

In reply she did a little dance, swinging round to show them her vast rump, decorated with a huge RB, around which was written Royal Bottom.

‘That looks like a rumbustious rump!’ I declared.

‘You Nsenga men,’ taunted Dollar, ‘Come and fondle my lovely bums! Let’s see what you are capable of!’

But the men fell backwards, as if repelled by this moving mountain of pulsating flesh. ‘Ha ha, you useless men, you can’t do anything!’ she cackled.

‘I thought these Nsenga men appreciated a dancing derriere,’ I laughed.

‘A fully mature female Nsenga bum is reckoned to have 134 muscles, and is capable of dancing to 24 different tunes simultaneously,’ Sara explained. ‘But Dollar has an uneducated Ngoni bum which is over-matured, over-weight and over-used. It has become flaccid and droopy, and quite out of control.’

‘Doesn’t Dollar know this?’

‘Of course not,’ laughed Sara.

‘Why not?’ I wondered.

‘She’s drunk,’ said Sara.

‘The only way to become prosperous is to touch the Royal Bottom!’ declared Dollar. ‘Only by voting for the Movement for Moral Decay can you enter the Royal Bedroom, and join the ruling class in the endless pleasure of feasting, merrymaking and fornication.’

‘Sounds like a good deal,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ll vote for them.’

‘Shut up and listen,’ said Sara. ‘This is something new. It sounds like the MMD has at last developed vision and strategy.’

‘The only way Eastern Province can take over the whole country is by strategic fornication,’ Dollar declared, as she caressed her own bums lovingly, having failed to find anybody to assist her in this fairly innocent sexual pleasure. ‘We women must go out there and seduce men from other provinces. As their families have to adopt our muchigololo, so we easterners shall infiltrate their families, and the Royal Bottom of Nsengaland will begin to waggle throughout the Land of Zed.’

‘And you men must go out and impregnate the wives and daughters of foreign tribes, so that we infiltrate their families with our Royal Bottoms, and unity in the east will become the unity of the nation. But you dried up men are too lazy and impotent to join the Men for Massive Deflowering. Even my own miserable husband, when he looked at my vast beauty, the poor man would just collapse and shrivel to nothing!’

‘He was scared of suffocating between her huge breasts,’ laughed Sara.

‘Or having his bits bitten by her barbaric bottom,’ I suggested.

‘That is why our beloved Father of the Nation is working every day at his duty of fathering the nation, because you dried-up men do not have the courage to rise to the occasion. If you do not give him some assistance, he may have to send out the Red-Lipped Snake to sneak under blankets and deliver the royal donation!’

At this the women screamed and began to flee, but Tujilijili went on regardless. ‘Let me now see if you men are ready to join the Royal Bedroom, and deliver the royal donation. Let me see if you can be aroused!’

So saying she undid the knot on her chitenge wrapper and cast it aside, revealing all. But instead of rushing forward to fondle her many dangling extremities and attributes, the men all screamed and ran off into the bush.

She stood there naked, shouting ‘Am I not beautiful? Are you all homosexual?’

But there was nobody left to answer. Even the camera crew must have fled, because at this point the screen went blank.

‘Their election strategy is hopelessly and laughably counterproductive,’ I cackled. ‘All the voters are completely repelled, and have fled into the arms of Cycle Mata.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Sara, ‘Dollar has a very shrewd strategy which will prove most effective.’

‘How do you work that one out?’ I sneered.

‘It’s quite simple,’ said Sara calmly. ‘By the end of September, all of these jokers will have been arrested and charged with corruption and abuse of office!’

‘So?’

‘Dollar will plead not guilty by reason of insanity!’

‘Marvellous!’ I laughed. ‘An unarguable defence! She has already proved her case! Another nolle prosequi!’

Duffy

2011-09-06T17:14:00.006+02:00

Duffy

The funeral service had already started as Sara and I slipped into one of the back pews of the Cathedral of the Child Jesus, a huge ugly cavern of a building. ‘It looks as if it was designed for grain storage,’ I whispered to Sara, as some of the Christians on the pew in front turned round to scowl.

‘Look at the high and mighty seated in the front row,’ said Sara, ‘the very thieves and hypocrites that misused their power to persecute and terrorise him.’

As we were entertaining ourselves with these subversive whispers, a priest walked towards the lectern and announced ‘All rise and sing Hymn No.396, What a friend we have in Jesus. There’s nothing more uplifting than a good tune, so I decided to give it a go…

What a friend we had in Duffy,

How his death is hard to bear,

What a burden he did carry,

Opposing all that was unfair.

O what peace he had to forfeit,

O what pain he had to bear,

All because he dared to tell us,

That our rulers do not care.

Had he trials and tribulations?

Was shushushu everywhere?

He would never be discouraged,

Took it to the Lord in prayer.

Can we find another Duffy?

Who can all our sorrows share?

Duffy knew how we suffered,

And broadcast it everywhere.

We were weak and heavy-laden,

Raising voice we did not dare,

Duffy was our only ally,

Walked into the lion’s lair.

Raised his voice to high and mighty,

Now send him to the Lord in prayer,

Voice and courage he did give us,

Now his voice is everywhere.

As we sat down, I got more scowls from the row in front. ‘Why can’t you just stick to the words in the hymn book?’ Sara whispered irritably.

‘The original message was too conservative,’ I explained, ‘I was worried that Duffy might climb out of his coffin to contradict it.’

‘May his soul rest in peace,’ said Sara, ‘even without your assistance.’

Now we all sat down as some nondescript priest began some long rambling account of the life of Paul Duffy in an inaudible voice. Having left home without breakfast, I began to doze off, despite the hard wooden pew which had been specially designed to keep me awake.

But I was aroused from my slumber by a clear voice saying ‘the reading this morning is taken from The Epistle of Paul to the Lozis, Chapter 23, Verses 5-11…’

I looked up, and there was a bishop standing in the pulpit, dressed in white cassock, with a tall white mitre on his head. His skin was as white as his cassock, making him look more like a ghost. He certainly had my attention as he began the reading…

‘And a cancer has fallen upon this land, which is eating up the people, and leaving the land barren and spoilt.

‘But this is not a cancer of the body but a cancer of the economy, for this cancer which is eating away at the Land of the Lozi is called economic growth.

‘But some of the victims of this malignant cancer called economic growth are yet praising it, saying the country is richer every year, and we shall soon be free of poverty and disease.

‘But I say unto you that economic growth is the poverty and the disease. For when we were a poor country living on fish and wheat and goats we were better off, our children were well fed and healthy, and were schooled in the synagogues. But now that we have discovered the great riches of copper, we are poor and starving.

‘For King Herod tells us that the Romans will only come to mine our copper if we work for starvation wages. And all the copper is taken away by the Romans, and we see none of it. This wealth is used to build Rome, while Jerusalem is collapsing.

‘And Herod allows this because the Romans give him a cut, so that he can build his palace and live like a Roman, while the rest of us live as landless slaves in our own country.

‘The cancer of economic growth is eating into this country, corrupting our leaders and destroying the land and its people. But the Pharisees tell you to pray to the Lord for your salvation which is in Heaven. But I say to you that Jesus died to establish the Kingdom of God on Earth, not the Kingdom of the Devil in the Copper Mines.’

Now the bishop looked up from the Good Book. ‘Here endeth the first lesson,’ he declared, as he walked down from the pulpit, and seemed almost to float as he walked up the aisle towards the coffin, and disappeared into it.

I felt Sara’s elbow dig into my ribs. ‘Wake up!’ she said. ‘You’ve slept through the entire service! It’s time to go!’

‘Nonsense!’ I retorted, ‘I enjoyed the funeral service immensely! I’m even thinking of booking this venue for my own!’

‘So what can you tell me about the sermon?’ Sara asked suspiciously, as we walked out into the bright mid-day sun. ‘What did the bishop say?’

‘He said that the voice of Paul remains the voice of the people!’

‘Did he say that?’ Sara wondered. ‘If his voice remains, then perhaps he has resurrected?’

‘Not yet,’ I said confidentially. ‘The voice of the people is due to resurrect on 20^th September.’

The Blue Chitenge

2011-08-30T17:50:00.001+02:00

The Blue Chitenge

‘Where in this land are the people who really love their Great King Nyamasoya?’ the king roared to his indunas, as he pointed to a large map of Zed hanging on the palace wall.

Then a wizened little induna, the Minister for Corruption and Coercion, stepped forward with a pot of paint and a brush, and daubed one or two blue spots on the vast canvas of the Land of Zed. ‘Here Oh Mighty King!’ he declared, ‘we have full control of the markets and bus stations!’

‘Did they have buses in those days?’ asked Thoko suspiciously.

‘Our word bus comes from the old Aramaic word borse, meaning a horse,’ I declared. ‘Just try not to interrupt the story…’

‘Am I the King of Markets and Bus Stations?’ roared the king, ‘Or am I the king of All Zed?’

‘You are King of All Zed, Oh Mighty Excellency,’ chanted his faithful indunas, as they groveled before the king, competing with each other to lick his filthy fat festering feet.

‘Then I demand that all of Zed must love me and obey me!’ declared the king. ‘The entire Land of Zed must be painted blue!’

‘Why blue?’ wondered Kondwa. ‘Why not red or green?’

‘Kings have blue blood,’ I explained. ‘Ordinary mortals have red blood, warm and sweet. But kings and queens have blue blood, cold and acidic.’

And God looked down at these kings and queens, and saw the wickedness that was upon the Earth, and he was sorely troubled. So the Lord now looked down upon one who had found favour in his eyes, his faithful servant Cycle Mata. And the Lord spoke unto Cycle Mata, saying unto him that there will be a great flood upon this Earth for forty days and forty nights. And the Lord commanded him to make a great pabwato out of mukwa, that could rise above the flood, and rescue his people.

Then, as was quite usual in those biblical days, the Lord’s prophecy began to come true the very next day. The king made a great declaration, saying ‘I shall cover this land with a great flood of blue chitenge, with my own face upon it. And all my people will lie beneath the blue chitenge, and my army and police march on top! Then my people will look up at my face and love their king! But anybody who protests will feel my weight!’

And so it came to pass that the king took all the tax money that he had collected from his long suffering people, and bought enough blue chitenge to cover the entire land. Then he ordered all the people to lie under this great national blanket of blue chitenge.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Thoko, ‘Cycle Mata was already building his Great Pabwato.’

‘Shush,’ whispered Kondwa, ‘Don’t kubeba!’

Then one day an old fat induna came running to the king, saying ‘The people say they want medicines and food, and are complaining to the judges that all this expenditure on blue chitenge is corruption.’

Then the king rose in a fury, saying ‘Anybody who complains must have his mouth stuffed with blue chitenge! And the judges must lower the national flag over the Supreme Court, and instead raise the blue chitenge!’ Then turning to the old fat induna he shouted ‘And you were employed to take the king’s voice to the people, not to take the people’s voice to the king! So you’re fired!’

But the king never worried about affairs of state for very long, and the next day found him and his foul fat friends consuming a huge feast of T-bone steak, washing it all down with many buckets of beer. Suddenly another frightened little induna came running into the palace crying ‘Oh Your Great Beer Swilling Excellency, your loyal subjects are respectfully complaining that they don’t like the boots of the Royal Thugs marching all over them, and they are threatening to kick back!’

Now of course the king was mighty annoyed that the sanctity of a royal feast had been so rudely interrupted, and he roared angrily ‘Ours is a peaceful nation and I have always been against violence. But if these malcontents are threatening violence then I have no option except to crush them!’

But as the police guns advanced on the people, to loyally protect the nation from the malcontents who did not love the king, the word went round that Cycle Mata had finally completed his Great Pabwato. So now, with one great cheer, the people all ran out from under the oppressive blue chitenge which had rained down on them for forty days and forty nights, and a great flood of people now lifted the Pabwato up and away, up to the top of Mount Munali.

‘So what happened to all the blue chitenge?’ wondered Thoko.

The flood of blue chitenge just ran away, down the hills and into the valleys, to form the rivers and lakes of the Land of Zed. Even to this day, when you look at the map of the Land of Zed, you will see that all the land is painted green, but all the rivers and lakes are painted blue.

‘So Cycle Mata became king,’ said Kondwa. ‘Did democracy now come to the Land of Zed?’

‘Good gracious no,’ I laughed. ‘That didn’t happen until hundreds of years later.’

Election Victory

2011-08-23T23:57:00.003+02:00

Election Victory

It was a lovely warm Wednesday evening in September, and Cycle Mata was due to be sworn in the following morning. So I decided to join in the celebrations at my favourite watering hole in Chainda, the Just One More.

‘Hi Kalaki!’ said a few voices as I stepped inside. ‘How did you vote?’

‘I voted for Donchi Kubeba,’ I laughed, ‘at three different polling stations.’

‘Ha ha!’ they all hooted, raising their glasses. ‘Come and join us!’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for somebody.’ I had already spotted my young friend Oxford Sishuwa sitting at the end of the bar. ‘Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa!’ I exclaimed, as I gave him a high five, ‘You were right after all! How did he do it? What’s the opinion from Oxford?’

‘A double Lavelle for Kalaki,’ Sishuwa called to the barman, ‘and a dry sherry for me!’

‘Hah!’ I cackled, ‘you never find dry sherry here!’

‘He keeps a bottle for me under the counter,’ explained Oxford, as the barman poured the drinks.

‘A little bit of Oxford right in the middle of Chainda!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s right,’ he chuckled. ‘Now that Nyamasoya is gone, the good times are back! Away with chibuku and tujilijili! We shall all be drinking Mosi Gold with whisky chasers!’

‘You never answered my question,’ I said. ‘How did he do it?’

‘Try to be more precise, Kalaki. How did who do what?’

‘How did Cycle Mata win?’

‘That’s the wrong question?’

‘What? He won, didn’t he?’

‘No,’ said Sishuwa calmly. ‘It was Nyamasoya who lost. Cycle Mata was just the accidental recipient. Cycle Mata didn’t do anything except go round the country making strange hiccupping noises into the microphone. Nobody understood what he was trying to say, so he didn’t annoy anybody.’

‘But when they cheered, he cheered!’

‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘And when they snarled, he snarled. He was very reflective of the mood of the people. People saw themselves in him. If he had said anything definite, he could easily have annoyed them.’

‘And Nyamasoya managed to annoy them?’

‘Shot himself in the foot,’ declared Sishuwa, as he took a delicate sip of his sherry.

‘By insulting Cycle Mata?’ I suggested

‘He gives as good as he gets,’ laughed Sishuwa.

‘By destroying the new constitution?’

‘A constitution can’t collect votes!’

‘He annoyed them by trying to bribe them to vote for him! All that sugar and mealie-meal, corrupting the youth with tujilijili, chitenges for everybody!’

‘What a puritan you are, Kalaki,’ laughed Sishuwa. ‘You can’t annoy people with bribes! They love them! Chitenge everywhere! In the end everybody had chitenge dresses, chitenge shirts and chitenge suits, chitenge curtains and chitenge bedding. Cycle Mata told them to enjoy it all, and even dressed his own dog in blue chitenge!’

‘So what was the problem? Why did Nyamasoya lose?’

Sishuwa pointed to a very thin old man, sitting by himself in a dark corner, sipping a glass of water. ‘Go and ask him. He knows. He’ll tell you.’

We both walked over to this fellow. ‘Tinkaleko pansi, mdala?’ I said.

‘Feel free,’ he replied graciously, raising his bony hand in the direction of two chairs.

‘We were just wondering, mdala,’ I began, as we sat down, ‘why, would you say, that Nyamasoya lost?’

‘He lost because of all the lies,’ he replied. ‘Twenty years of lies. We ask for higher wages, there was no money. We wanted medicines in hospital, there was no money. School books, no money. We were reduced to complete starvation, but still there was no money.’

I looked at the old man, wearing an old tattered trilby hat and threadbare suit. Terribly thin, just skin and bone. His eyes were sunken.

‘How they lied,’ his dry voice rattled. ‘They had the money all the time, the Movement for Multi Deception, fat and rich. When they want our vote, suddenly there is money everywhere. Billions of it! Trillions of it!’

‘What about you, mdala, how did you survive?’

‘Survive? Survive? How could I survive? Thirty years I paid in for a pension, but when I asked for it, there was nothing. My wife, she died in childbirth. My daughter, gone to prostitution. My son, went mad and long since gone. Grandchildren, dead from malnutrition. Me, I was once an Assistant Secretary in the Ministry of Agriculture. Now I’m a dead man walking.’

‘You voted against them?’

‘We all rose up against them! We are the ghost voters! Two million of us! We kept our voters cards. We all came back to vote.’ I looked into his eyes, there was nothing there. As he rose to go, I saw the green mildew on his ragged suit. I saw the white bone of his ankle as he walked out through the door, out into the night, in the direction of Leopards Hill.

‘Christ Almighty!’ I said, as a shiver went down my spine. ‘I need another brandy!’

‘I was more right than I realized,’ said Sishuwa, as we reached the bar. ‘We were saved by our ancestors!’

‘I thought we’re supposed to be a Christian country!’

‘We are,’ he said, as the glass shook in his hand, ‘and yesterday was Judgment Day.’

In the Dark

2011-08-17T08:35:00.005+02:00

In the Dark

Yesterday afternoon I was at the Downtown Shopping Mall with Kupela, who was looking for a car at Japan.Salaula.Com. ‘I’ll find you back here,’ I said, ‘I need a drink.’

Going down the corridor, I came to a row of windows all painted over in gothic letters saying In the Dark. I pushed on an elaborate chromium handle, and in I went. Sure enough, I was completely in the dark.

I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust, I finally made out the shape of a chair, and sat down. I could just see that I was sitting at a black table in a large black room. A row of white teeth suddenly appeared in front of me.

He put out his hand to shake mine, and then spoke authoritatively into the darkness, ‘Bring a double brandy for Spectator Kalaki!’

‘You know my name?’ I asked, more than a little surprised.

‘You may be in the dark,’ he laughed gruffly. ‘But I’m not.’

Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a few pencil beams of green laser light, just enough to reveal a thin bony man with black suit and black shirt and black tie. He had a thin face, shaped like a hatchet.

‘I seem to recognize the face,’ I said.

‘Whiplash Bandit,’ he replied, ‘I’m the Protector General.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said hopefully. ‘What do you protect?’

‘I thought you knew these things, Kalaki. I protect the rich from the poor, the powerful from the weak, and leaders from the led.’

‘Ah ha,’ I said, ‘Now I recognize you. You work for the MMD!’

‘Not the Movement for Marketing Dictatorship,’ he replied. ‘The Militia for Modifying Dissidents.’

Just then the drinks arrived, as if from nowhere, and an invisible voice announced ‘A lemon juice for Mr Bandit and a double brandy for Mr Kalaki.’ Then a swinging laser beams briefly illuminated the owner of the voice, an angel carved out of pure black ebony with black hair and wearing a black apron. ‘Thanks,’ I said, then watched transfixed as her beautiful blackness swayed rhythmically away into the blackness.

‘As far as I can make out,’ I said, as I gulped down the entire brandy, ‘she’s not wearing anything except that little black velvet apron.’

‘She’s one of the Nude Nubile Nubians from Nubia,’ he smiled, revealing a gold tooth. ‘They fetch a good price down in Hillbrow. Here in Lusaka, we’re on the main trade route.’

‘What about human rights?’

‘Exactly,’ he snarled. ‘We don’t want human rights interfering with good business. That’s why we must vote for the MMD.’

‘Half a minute,’ I said, ‘I thought you said your MMD is not anything to do with the MMD?’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘The Militia for Modifying Dissidents is a business organization, set up by the Godfather of the Nation, to protect big business from any unnecessary change in the political system.’

‘So you are working for the Movement for Marketing Dictatorship!’

‘Big business is non-political,’ explained Bandit. ‘We’re not interested in one party or the other. We work at modifying dissidents because we want stability. We’re naturally conservative. Big business just doesn’t like change.’

‘Why not?’

‘Take the present system of corruption. If the government changes, how shall a businessman know which one to bribe? How much to pay? He could easily get arrested for bribing the wrong person! His business could collapse!’

‘Better not to bribe!’

‘Bribery is only part of it. We have a system for avoiding tax. Half the copper on the black market. All the emeralds under the radar. Pay ten percent and you can do anything. That’s why the economy is developing, because we business people are accumulating capital rapidly!’

‘And it could all change?’

‘Exactly. We could get some nutter voted in by promising to collect all the surplus money as taxes and using it to pay the poor and starving! Or putting up wages so we can’t employ anybody! Or wasting money on the dying! The whole nation could be destitute within ninety days!’

‘You have to save the nation!’

‘Exactly. These dissidents are obviously trying to use this election to undermine the government! Treason! They even admit that they oppose the legitimate government of the day! We must stop them!’

‘Kill them?’

‘Oh no, we’re opposed to violence. We just buy their voters cards, give them sugar and mealie-meal. Bicycles and chitenges. Beer and roast beef! We’re a benevolent organization, just like the Rotary Club.’

‘No violence at all?’

‘Never. Not unless they insult our Godfather, then we shall come down on them heavily. If they talk too much, we shall cut out their tongues. And of course if they raise their fists in the air, we shall have no option but to shoot!’

‘Protect the government from being overthrown!’

‘Exactly! Protect the nation! Instill discipline! Maintain the rule of law! The police will help us! They’re on our side!’

‘Thanks for the chat,’ I said, as I made for the door. ‘I’ve got enough for this week’s article!’

‘Feel free,’ he sneered. ‘Nobody believes a word you say!’

I walked out from the dark, into the bright light of day, to find Kupela laughing with her friend Lorraine. ‘Everything may seem happy and marvelous to you!’ I exclaimed, ‘but I just found something very dark and dangerous!’

‘Poor old bally,’ laughed Kupela. ‘It’s all in your mind!’

Slippery Selection

2011-08-10T00:37:00.002+02:00

Slippery Selection

‘Heard the latest?’ asked Sylvia. ‘A naked old woman fell from the sky and landed on a roof in Mutendere last night. She was found wandering in the street, muttering that she was looking for ladies of the night!’

‘Another mfwiti!’ I exclaimed.

‘It was Clueless Cluo!’ laughed Maureen. ‘She’d been sent by the MMPF as their parliamentary candidate!’

‘MMPF?’ asked Sara, as she came in with a tray of tea. ‘What’s that?’

‘The Mad Movement of Patriotic Fury,’ explained Maureen. ‘Buffaloes fleeing from the MMD are being adopted to contest seats for the PF, so the party is now the MMPF.’

‘But what has happened to their previous MP for Mutendere?’

‘She’s been bewitched by the mfwiti,’ laughed Sylvia, ‘and is now running around Ng’ombe howling like a hyena.’

‘How exactly are these selections done?’ I wondered, as I popped a drop of brandy in my tea. ‘I don’t believe it’s witchcraft. There must be a due process for selecting these candidates.’

‘Of course there is,’ said Maureen. ‘You should hear the stories from my friend Cynthia. She’s a member of the Central Committee, and attends all the selection meetings.’

‘So what happens?’ we all asked.

‘Listen,’ said Maureen, ‘I’ll tell you what she told me…’

When the Great Leader comes in, we all stand up and salute. Then he begins, saying, for example, ‘Fakue Constituency, which is the preferred candidate?’

‘We have Ms Hope Chisubilo,’ replies the provincial chairman. ‘She has lived in the constituency for ten years, joined the party when it was formed, has been doing community work all this time, and is very popular in the rural areas. She was selected as number one by the constituency, district and provincial committees.’

‘We need someone with experience of national politics,’ says the Great Leader, ‘tell her to stand as a district councillor. We have just welcomed Mr Bossy Mboo from the MMD and I have him lined up as my Minister of Wildlife. I think we’ll put him in Fakue.’

Just then my friend Mr Kalandisha raised his hand.

‘Yes, Kalandisha,’ says the Great Leader, ‘if you want to visit the toilet, you have my permission.’

‘No, Your Excellency,’ says the poor man, as he grovels and claps his hands, ‘I just wanted to say something.’

‘Look, Kalandisha, we have come here to make decisions, not to open up new discussion on cases which have already been discussed at the lower levels. Next constituency!’

‘So that’s what it’s like,’ laughed Maureen.

‘Good gracious!’ said Sylvia. ‘I feel sorry for Ms Hope Chisubilo.’

‘She would never have gone far,’ said Maureen sadly. ‘She believes in following the rules.’

‘Were all the selections like that?’ I wondered.

‘Let us return to the meeting,’ said Maureen solemnly.

‘Next constituency,’ says His Prospective Excellency.

‘Kubeba’ says the Provincial Chairman. ‘Mr Bent Chipondo came number one at the constituency and district levels after donating cell phones in order to facilitate the election campaign. But then my provincial committee unfortunately found out that he did not qualify to apply, since he did not reside in the constituency, and had never visited the place before he came for interview.’

‘Did Mr Chipondo give cell phones to the provincial committee?’

‘He did not. He even refused to pay rent for the room in which he was interviewed. He refused to buy us lunch, and instead went to his Benz and ate his own sandwiches.’

‘Very good,’ says His Aspiring Excellecy. ‘I’m glad he didn’t try to use his enormous wealth to try to influence your decision. However, you don’t seem to realize that Mr Chipondo is the one who manufactures all our party vitenge, and gives them to us free of charge. Because of his support for the party, he is automatically our candidate for Kubeba.

‘And on the subject of vitenge, I hope you have informed all our candidates that each of them is required to buy at least 500 of these vitenges at twenty pins each from the party treasurer, for free distribution to our supporters.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Sylvia, ‘I can’t understand how your friend Cynthia ever got onto the Central Committee. Isn’t she the one that failed her Grade Seven twice?’

‘Being a broadminded democrat, the Great Leader has the enviable talent of being able to identify with those who are intellectually challenged.’

‘But how did she get elected?’

‘Very easily. The Great Leader reads the names of all those he has chosen, and then all the three thousand delegates at the convention have to vote on whether they approve the list by raising their hands in acclamation.’

‘But you admit that some people on the list are obviously incapable!’

‘That’s done deliberately, to test their loyalty to the Great Leader!’

‘Supposing some don’t raise their hands?’

‘Exactly,’ laughed Maureen. ‘There is a video camera. Dissidents are immediately expelled from the party!’

‘But when this Central Committee looks at those seeking adoption as parliamentary candidates,’ said Sara, ‘they have to follow their own elaborate system of rules and due process for selection of parliamentary candidates. But according to what Cynthia says, it seems that the Central Committee chooses the ones who cheat, subvert, manipulate and bribe, or even those who circumvent the entire system.’

‘You don’t understand what’s really going on,’ laughed Maureen. ‘Politics is a very tricky business. They are looking for people who are go-ahead and pragmatic, who will get to the top by any means possible! People of action who can get things done! They don’t want conventional people who just follow the rules! They want inventive people who will make new rules!’

‘But these are the very people who say they will end corruption!’

‘Exactly,’ said Maureen. ‘Only those who understand corruption can end it!’

_________________________

[Kalaki is grateful for ideas from Facebook friends, especially Mulu Zulu]

An Honorary Doctorate

2011-08-02T18:14:00.004+02:00

An Honorary Doctorate

It was Saturday night, and Sara and I were watching the new play at the Lusaka Playhouse, The Honorary Doctorate by Dickson Mwansa.

The curtain opened on the scene of a graduation ceremony on a university lawn. Onto the rostrum stepped the Vice-Chancellor, all dressed up in garish gown and mortar board. He was trying to look serious and intellectual, despite his ridiculous attire. Behind him were rows of similarly expensive gowns, all sitting on cheap plastic chairs. In the middle sat the King, sprawled on an enormous velvet sofa.

‘And now,’ began the Vice-Chancellor, ‘it is the honour and privilege of this Sorcery Development Academy to award an Honorary Doctorate in Political Sorcery to our Beloved Leader, His Excellency King Bwaume Nyamasoya, whom I humbly thank for gracing us with his distinguished presence this afternoon.’

‘It is now my pleasant duty,’ continued the Vice-Chancellor, ‘to call upon the Public Orator, Dr Buloshi Bupulumushi, Professor of Witchcraft and Juju, to deliver the Oration in praise of our Great Leader.’

‘Unusual name,’ I sniggered.

‘He was fired from Makerere,’ whispered Sara, ‘for exchanging grades for sexual favours.’

‘It wasn’t like that in my day,’ I sighed, ‘otherwise I could have had a distinction.’

As we were whispering, the play was progressing…

The shriveled little figure of Bupulumushi now crept up to the microphone. ‘It is our pleasure,’ began Bupulumushi, ‘to welcome here today this Great Son of Africa, who has done so much to improve this country. When our Beloved Nyamasoya ascended to the throne, this country was sorely divided. He found a country where parliament was independent of the King, and even refusing to approve funds for royal banquets. But with a little bit of juju our new King soon reduced the Speaker to a kadoli, and put him in his back pocket.

‘Even the Chief Justice had developed the arrogance of deciding who to punish, pretending not to realize that this was the prerogative of the king. But our wise new King cleverly re-arranged a few bones in the graveyard, cast a devastating spell, and now the Chief Justice is just another kadoli in the back pocket of the King. At last this country was being unified by a King who was able to marshall the authority of our ancestral spirits.’

‘One Zambia!’ Sara hissed.

‘One Nation!’ I replied automatically.

‘With some special muti in his supu, the Minister of Finance was soon turned into the house servant of the King, and the National Treasury was returned to its traditional place in the King’s wallet. By putting the hair of a dog under his mattress, the Chief of Police was turned into the King’s personal guard dog, with special duties to seek out the enemies of the King.

‘So this is why we honour our Great King today, for turning Political Science into Political Sorcery. This Great Son of Africa recognized that our entire Constitution was just a colonial legacy. That was why our new King devised public incantations to call upon the ancestors to uncage the Red-Lipped Snake, so that this odious reptile could be sent to poison the Colonial Constitution, and thereby return all moral oversight to our hitherto forgotten ancestors, now at last restored to their rightful place.

‘That is why all the foreign universities have refused to honour our Heroic King with any doctorate, because these foreigners were the very ones who usurped our ancestors and traduced our sacred traditions, which our own Great Leader has now restored.

‘And so today we take it upon ourselves to honour our own King, and also to humbly thank him for the grant of five hundred billion to build the Nyamasoya Memorial Hall to commemorate the momentous event that we are witnessing here today. So saying, I call upon the Vice-Chancellor to confer upon our King the Honorary Doctorate of Political Sorcery.’

‘Hurray!’ we all cheered and laughed.

‘Don’t laugh!’ Sara hissed. ‘This could actually happen!’

Now both the Vice-Chancellor and the King came forward to the rostrum, as the Vice-Chancellor unwrapped a huge gown made of many mealie-meal sacks and placed it around the King’s shoulders. Then he took another sack and tied it on the King’s head with a lovely tassel. Then he took a bucket of mealie-meal and emptied it over the King’s head.

‘Ul-lu-lu-lu-lu-lu!’ came the ululations from all around the theatre.

‘Is this serious or are we supposed to laugh?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘With these rituals,’ said Sara, ‘it’s difficult to know. Just watch the others.’

‘And now,’ said the Vice Chancellor, ‘I call upon our new Honorary Doctor to say a few words.’

The hideous flour bag now approached the microphone. ‘The last obstacle to national unity is the coming election. In order to achieve a peaceful election, I call upon the spirits to help us in our campaign to eliminate the opposition!’

As he spoke there was a chant of ‘Left Right Left Right’ from the wings, then onto the stage came a platoon of ragged bakaponya, each with a machete in one hand and a carton of chibuku in the other. As the King’s Task Force marched out into the night, a huge fat cow walked rather unsteadily onto the stage.’

‘What huge udders!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s Dora Tujilijili!’ said Sara, ‘She’s leading the election campaign!’

‘Let the campaign begin!’ shouted the Honorary Doctor. ‘Let the ancestors lead us to victory!’ As he spoke he mounted the great fat cow, which then lumbered across the stage, and disappeared into the wings.

The Vice-Chancellor opened his mouth to say something, but his words were drowned out by the sound of a huge crash, followed by a long sad ‘Mooooooo’.

How we all clapped and cheered! ‘Hurray! More! Praise the ancestors! Encore!’

‘I don’t think he’s going to go very far!’ laughed Sara.

‘Of course not!’ I shouted. ‘But it’s going to be fun to watch!’

__________________________

[Written with a bit of help from Kupela Clarke]

Kiss of Death

2011-07-26T20:11:00.007+02:00

Kiss of Death

‘Grandpa,’ pleaded Thoko, ‘Tell us a story before we go to bed.’

‘You’re far too old for fairy stories,’ I replied.

‘Then tell us a horror story,’ said Khoza.

‘Once upon a time,’ I began, ‘in the Land of Zed, the Great Leader died suddenly and there was nobody to replace him.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Thoko.

‘Because in those days,’ I explained, ‘a leader always threw all his competitors in jail, or had them murdered, and instead surrounded himself with complete dunderheads who were too stupid to topple him.’

‘So how did they find a new leader?’ asked Thoko.

‘The elders went to the Leaders Graveyard,’ I said, ‘and started digging, to see if there was any life left in any of their dead leaders.’

‘Uhhgghhh,’ said Thoko with a shudder. ‘How disgusting!’

‘And did they find one?’ asked Khoza.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They found a grave marked King Nyamasoya, Born 937, Died 1008, May His Soul Never Rest in Peace. So they thought that sounded hopeful, and dug him up. Sure enough, when they opened the lid of the old stone coffin, out jumped old King Nyamasoya, shouting What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here for nearly a thousand years!

‘But why aren’t you dead? they asked. ‘Ah Ha! He laughed, The foolish fellows forgot to drive a stake through my heart!’

‘So he was a vampire!’ Khoza gasped.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But in those days the people hadn’t heard about vampires. And anyway, they were in a hurry to find a new king so they didn’t ask too many questions.’

‘Very foolish,’ said Thoko.

‘So what sort of king did he make?’ Khoza wondered.

‘He started off alright,’ I said. ‘Seemed to be a very jolly fellow. Ate a lot, drank a lot, laughed a lot. Better than the previous fellow who had a nasty temper.

‘Don’t call me Nyamasoya, I never liked the name, declared the new king. Just call me RB! But when he said that, the people began to shake with fear, because there had been previous leaders who had been called RB. There had been Rig the Ballot, and Rob the Bank, and Run from Bullets. Don’t worry, laughed the new king, RB stands for Royal Blood. After all those years of democracy, you now have a king!’

‘He had come to suck their blood,’ said Thoko.

‘Things began to go wrong,’ I admitted, ‘after he appointed his first minister. When the new minister came out from the palace he was looking very pale and thin.’

‘He’d been given the Kiss of Death!’ declared Thoko. ‘The king pretended to kiss him, but instead sucked all the blood out of his jugular vein!’

‘In those days,’ I said, ‘before taxes were invented, kings grew fat and rich by sucking blood from the people. Soon all the king’s ministers were bloodsuckers. Just as the king sucked blood from his ministers, so the ministers sucked blood out of the people. And so the people grew thinner and thinner as the king and his ministers grew fatter and fatter. Soon there was a national surplus of blood, and the king began to export blood to Ching Chang, where all the people were small and thin because of a shortage of blood.’

‘So the Land of Zed soon became rich?’ suggested Khoza.

‘Don’t be silly,’ snorted Thoko. ‘The government became richer as the people became poorer. They had to keep working harder and harder to grow the food to replace the blood that was constantly being sucked out of them.’

‘But I thought a king was supposed to be the servant of the people,’ said Khoza, ‘not just a gigantic blood sucker.’

‘The king did his best to explain how he was really working for everybody’s benefit. Every day the Zed National Blood Corporation was busy telling the people about the new hospital where they could donate their blood, and the new mobile hospitals that would seek them out wherever they went. And new roads to enable the blood to be exported to Ching Chang. Free agricultural inputs to produce more food for increased blood production. More schools for pupils to learn the process of turning mere peasant blood into fine Royal Blood. And billboards everywhere repeating the national slogan Your blood, working for you!’

‘Didn’t the people protest? Rebel? Riot?’ asked Thoko hopefully.

‘The Kiss of Death didn’t just affect ordinary people,’ I explained. ‘The police would round up protesters to suck the blood out of them, to replace the blood that was being sucked out of them. Similarly the courts had to offer up victims to have their blood sucked, or the king would suck the blood out of the judges instead.’

‘No elections?’ asked Thoko.

‘Of course not,’ I laughed. ‘The king sucked all the blood out of the Electoral Commission, and their desiccated corpses were put on display in the National Museum.’

‘No constitution?’ asked Khoza.

‘It had so much blood sucked out of it,’ I replied, ‘that it was reduced to only five words: The King’s Word is Law!’

‘So the Kiss of Death destroyed even the state itself,’ said Khoza glumly.

‘Completely,’ I said.

‘What I can’t understand,’ said Thoko, ‘is why Nyamasoya hadn’t had that stake driven into his heart in the first place, to prevent him ever coming back.’

‘That was the problem,’ I said. ‘He didn’t have a heart.’

______________________

Just then Sara put her head round the door. ‘Time for bed! Give Grandpa a goodnight kiss!’

‘Aarrghhh!’ they both screamed, and ran helter-skelter out of the room.

‘You’ve been telling them another of your horror stories!’ said Sara. ‘What a horrible frightening Grandpa!’

‘It’s a frightening world,’ I replied.

_______________________

[Story based partly on suggestions from my Facebook friends, especially Francis Mwelwa Bwalya]

Tujilijili

2011-07-19T20:37:00.004+02:00

Tujilijili

Saturday

Oh Dear Diary, that woman was here again for supper, and he only had eyes for her. They were chatting and laughing, and I was sitting there like a little mouse that had wandered in from the farm. And I’m supposed to be his First Lady.

I’m so worried for my poor husband, he’s falling into her clutches. My mother always warned me against going with such an old man, but I always replied ‘At least he’ll be too old to go chasing after other women’. How wrong I was! He’s quite besotted with her. He can’t take his eyes off her, especially her huge Pamela Andersons. She makes me feel so small.

Dear Diary, you should have seen the two of them when he kissed her goodbye at the door. His hands were everywhere! It reminded me of the good old days when he used to pick me up from my Grade Seven class in his old Toyota Collolla.

Sunday

Dear Diary, When I came down to breakfast she was already there, laughing and talking and tickling his huge belly. And you know, Dear Diary, it’s not only her huge Pamela Andersons that fascinate him. It’s also her radar.

She’s got radar eyes! He told me so himself after he made her Minister for Airports and Other Ancient Monuments, and ordered her to buy the 50 billion radar equipment which Harry had sourced from a small shop in Hong Kong. But she said ‘No, you don’t need that. You see, I’ve got penetrating radar eyes, I can even spot enemy aircraft before they come over the horizon. Not only that, I can spot a bargain even before you’ve been offered ten percent. I can spot a defector before he suspects his own loyalty. I can foresee an election strategy before anybody else had foreseen an election!’

And that, Dear Diary, is why he needs her. Because my poor dear husband has no vision at all. Not only no vision, but he can’t see a thing. He says people will think he’s old if he wears spectacles. But her, she has radar vision. She can see what’s coming and can even plan ahead. My poor dear old lovely husband, so long as his belly is full of beer, and his hands are full of her Pamela Andersons, he’s quite happy.

But I worry tellibly.

Monday

Dear Diary, today I caught her at it. I was in the kitchen, but I saw her reflection in the drawing room mirror. Taking a little sachet out of her bra, and neatly emptying it down her throat. All in a flash! So that’s why she’s called Dora Tujilijili!

And my poor dear husband, all the time fondling her Pamela Andersons, hasn’t realized she’s got a Tujilijili implant. How she has cheated him, just as he is cheating on me! No wonder she sways on her feet! I thought it was because of her high heels, and being unbalanced by her huge Pamela Andersons. But it’s the Tujilijili!

Tuesday

Dear Diary, my poor dear husband is being terribly misled by this awful woman. They came back late last night from Mikomfwa, with Tujilijili saying that they had addressed a rally of twenty thousand. But I saw the picture in The Post this morning and there were only twenty-four people, and they were all holding up a large cardboard pabwato. Perhaps Tujilijili’s radar vision had focused on Cycle Mata’s rally in Chimwemwe!

Wednesday

Oh Dear Diary, I feel so embarrassed, people are beginning to laugh at my dear old husband. Tonight on TV News he was seen opening a new hospital at Chainama. But the new hospital was just painted on a billboard. My husband cut a lovely blue ribbon and then walked in through a door cut into the billboard. On the grass on the other side of the billboard he talked with some of the patients he found lying on hospital beds. In the background was the UTH bus that had just brought them there.

When asked if this was a real hospital, Tujilijili lost her temper and shouted at everybody, saying that any voter who dared to laugh would never get any more development! Then she swayed dangerously and fell flat on her face.

Friday

Oh Dear Diary, What a catastrophe! Yesterday was Election Day and everybody went to vote. Except for my poor dear old husband, who couldn’t find his voters card. And this morning, when the crowd broke through the front gate carrying a huge pabwato, my husband wanted to go and greet them, thinking they had come to congratulate him on his great victory.

Instead I pulled him upstairs and onto the roof, where the helicopter was waiting. As we rose up into the air, we could hear the angry crowd below us shouting ‘Corruption! We want our money back! Prosecute him!’

‘You know,’ said my husband, ‘Tujilijili’s radar vision was right! She always foresaw that I would rise above all my troubles! What a marvellous woman! I owe everything to her!’

So saying, my poor old dear husband leant back in his comfortable chair and fell asleep, despite the deafening noise of the helicopter rotor blades singing Tujilijili-Tujilijili-Tujilijili!

We should never have left the farm.

Buffaloes and Rabbits

2011-07-12T17:10:00.003+02:00

Buffaloes and Rabbits

‘Once upon a time,’ I began, ‘a long time ago, the Land of Mfuwe was ruled by an old dinosaur called King Nyamasoya.’

‘An old dinosaur as king,’ laughed Nawiti, ‘what a silly idea!’

‘Not in those days,’ I explained. ‘Those were the days when huge fat animals ruled all the smaller ones.’

‘Why?’ asked Nawiti.

‘This was in the days of the jungle, when might was right, and power went to the high and mighty, and smaller mortals had to do as they were told.’

‘Why?’ Nawiti persisted.

‘In those days, when a naughty little monkey asked her Mummy Why?, her Mummy would reply saying This is the way it has always been, or We have to support the government of the day, or We’re not supposed to ask questions like that!

‘My Mummy says it’s good to ask questions.’

‘But in the Kingdom of Mfuwe,’ I said, ‘asking questions was seen as a threat to the power of Nyamasoya, and he could send his hyena to eat you.’

‘But were these large animals in power because they were large,’ Nawiti wondered, ‘or were they large because they were in power?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ I admitted.

‘You’re a Grandpa!’ Nawiti scoffed. ‘You’re supposed to know these things!’

‘It’s not that simple,’ I tried to explain. ‘The large animals always claimed that they were in power because they were larger and stronger, with bigger brains.’

‘But did the small animals believe that?’

‘Their large powerful leaders had always told them so. Their mummies and daddies had always told them so. Their teachers and priests always told them so. It seemed like the natural order of things. The lords of the jungle were born to lord it over the smaller animals. Big animal superior, small animal inferior. This was the only commandment in the Jungle of Mfuwe.’

‘This story,’ said Nawiti, ‘is crying out for a hero.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And so it happened that along came a cobra called Cycle Mata.’

‘Who upset everything?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Oh good,’ she laughed, rubbing her little hands with glee.

‘He told the small animals that the dinosaur and the elephants and the hippos were all excessively large and fat because all the monkeys and rabbits and duikers have to pick the masuku fruit and take it to their leaders, who grew too fat because they were overfed.’

‘And all the animals were too small because they were starving?’

‘That too.’

‘So Cycle Mata was really saying that the rich were stealing from the poor!’

‘Exactly. So Nyamasoya was furious, saying that stealing only happened when the poor took from the rich, but when the rich took from the poor it was called taxation.’

‘Then Cycle Mata said that taking all the masuku fruit was corruption. This caused Nyamasoya to get into a rage, saying the leaders were entitled to eat all the masuku, because they were larger and needed the extra energy to power their huge brains, and that there was no such thing as corruption in Mfuwe.’

‘What is corruption?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Corruption,’ I explained, ‘is when everything goes rotten.’

‘And was everything going rotten?’

‘The elephants and hippos had so much extra masuku that they were letting it go rotten, and making it into kachasu. While their subjects were starving, the leaders were over-fed, over-weight and completely drunk.’

‘Drunk with power?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That was what Cycle Mata said. But at first the obedient little animals didn’t believe him, for they had been brought up to respect their leaders, who always did their drinking in private.’

‘But then they saw one drunk?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘One day, when Cycle Mata was holding a meeting, there was a great crashing and trumpeting, and out of the forest stumbled a great she-elephant, the dreaded Dolla Tujilijili. She staggered right into the meeting, insulted everybody, urinated all over the elders, and then fell down flat in a drunken stupor.’

‘That was when they really lost respect for their leaders?’

‘Exactly. That was when Cycle Mata led all his followers into the Land of Zed, and established democracy.’

‘What is democracy?’

‘It means that rich animals assist poor animals, and not the other way round. The large assist the small, the strong assist the weak, and so on. All animals are declared equal.’

‘So did all the small animals follow Cycle Mata to the Land of Zed?’

‘Only the rabbits ran away to join Nyamasoya, after they were offered larger rations of masuku.’

‘And did they get their extra rations?’

‘No. It was the hyenas who got the extra rations when they ate the rabbits.’

‘And did any big animals join Cycle Mata?’

‘Only the buffaloes,’ I said, ‘because they were promised leadership positions.’

‘And were they given?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘They were all given the job of pulling ploughs to till the land.’

‘Was that fair?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘In a democracy, leaders are servants of the people.’

Juju

2011-07-05T18:49:00.003+02:00

Juju

‘Once upon a time, a long time ago,’ I began, ‘there was a beautiful young woman called Zambia. She was so beautiful that Chief Nyama Soya wanted Zambia all for himself…’

‘But did she love him?’ asked Nawiti.

‘That was the problem,’ I said. ‘Zambia was in love with a mere villager called Cycle Mata.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘So the Chief wasn’t pleased!’

‘Not at all. He kept saying I am the Chief and you must respect the government of the day and give me Zambia!’

‘But did Nyama Soya really love Zambia?’

‘Oh yes. But the problem was that Zambia didn’t love him.’

‘But why did she love Cycle Mata, was he young and handsome?’

‘That was the funny thing. He was old, with rather a battered face. But he had a marvelous sense of humour and could tell the most amusing stories.

‘Better than yours, Grandpa?’

‘Even better than mine,’ I replied.

‘No wonder she loved him,’ said Nawiti, giving me a little hug. ‘But even so, she must have liked the idea of being the wife of the Chief. Couldn’t Nyama Soya win her love?’

‘That was the problem,’ I explained. ‘He went about it the wrong way. He would send her presents which, instead of pleasing her, caused offence.’

‘Such as what?’

‘He sent her a big blue chitenge with his face printed all over it, so that Zambia was heard squealing He thinks he can put his big fat face on my bottom. This caused the entire village to burst out laughing. Next he sent her a huge brown envelope full of money, causing Zambia to protest Does he think I can be bought like a hule? Then he sent her a beautiful emerald necklace, which caused the entire village to shout with annoyance How is the chief so rich when we are living in poverty? He bought these things with our money!

‘So Zambia asked Cycle Mata if she should send back these gifts. But he replied Just keep them. But don’t kubeba. When the time comes to choose a husband, choose the one who will look after you forever, not the one who tries to buy you.’

‘So what did Nyama Soya try next?’

‘Nyamasoya said that he would build a road all the way from his palace to the village of the beautiful Zambia, so that he could travel all the way down the road to propose marriage. But the people sneered, saying All these years he has never built a road, but now he wants to win Zambia for himself, suddenly he can build a road!

‘Again his plans backfired!’ said Nawiti.

‘Very much so,’ I said.

‘So what did he try next?’

‘Next was even more foolish. He started a rumour that Cycle Mata had never kissed a woman and that he only kissed other men.

‘So Zambia was annoyed?’

‘Since Zambia was in love with Cycle Mata, she was the very one who knew that this was a lie. And some people were even saying that this Chief is misbehaving, and maybe we should instead put Cycle Mata as our Chief.’

‘So after that,’ said Nawiti, ‘Nyama Soya had no hope of winning the hand of Zambia!’

‘Of course not,’ I laughed. ‘But he didn’t realize that, because he wasn’t very bright.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘What did he do next?’

‘He was now getting desperate, so he turned to juju. He went to the ng’anga and asked for special muti which would make Zambia love him.’

‘And did the ng’anga give him the special muti?’

‘Not exactly. But he told him where to find it. The ng’anga told him to go into the forest and find a lion. Then he should pull a hair from its tail and bring the hair to the ng’anga.’

‘And did he manage, or did the lion kill him?’

‘Nyama Soya may not have been very bright, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He came back to the ng’anga with a hair from the tail of a hairy dog, claiming that he pulled it from a lion. And the ng’anga laid out the hair on a piece of paper and added some dried lizard powder, followed by a generous portion of chamba, and finally rolled the mixture into a long cigarette. After that he waved some old bones over it, and muttered some strange incantations in frightening gibberish. Then he turned to Nyama Soya and said Smoke this on the night of the next full moon and you will become young and handsome again, and your breath will smell so intoxicating that the beautiful Zambia will just fall into your arms.’

‘And did he become handsome?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ I said sadly. ‘Instead the rolls of fat on the back of his neck began to spread, until they completely covered his face, so that his appearance caused small children to run screaming to their mothers.’

‘And did his sweet breath attract the beautiful Zambia?’

‘His breath was so foul that the people had to chase him out of the chiefdom in order to get a breath of fresh air!’

‘And did Zambia marry her beloved Cycle Mata?’

‘Of course. The Chief Justice joined them together the very next day.’

‘And was Cycle Mata made Chief?’

‘No. Zambia became Chief, and Cycle Mata was made her Faithful Servant.’

‘And did they live happily ever after?’

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

Death of Corruption

2011-06-29T08:54:00.005+02:00

Death of Corruption

It was a Monday morning, and Sara and I were crammed at the back of the packed Cathedral of the Holy Hypocrisy. At the front were hundreds of the High and Mighty Servants of The People, all lounging on black leather armchairs. They were dressed in glittering black, fashioned by the finest couturiers of Geneva and Paris, and all paid for by the poor people sitting on hard wooden pews at the back of the cathedral.

‘I’m surprised,’ I whispered to Sara, ‘that there is such a high turnout of the ruling class.’

‘They were all very distraught when they heard the terrible news of the death of Corruption,’ Sara replied. ‘They have come here for reassurance that there is really life after death.’

As we were whispering, a self-appointed Bentecostal Bishop strode up to the lectern to say a few words about the departed. ‘We are gathered here today,’ he began, ‘to celebrate the life of Corruption in Zambia.

‘We all remember the marvelous day when Corruption took over the government. Before that we had been ruled by the one-party bureaucracy, which promised everything, but brought nothing. Previously the government had just been one huge bureaucratic machine which had gone rusty, so that its wheels could not turn. But all it needed was a little lubrication, a little greasing of hands and wheels. And it was Corruption that provided that little bit of lubrication. For this we must always be grateful.

‘Because Corruption realized that a little bit of appreciation is all people need. Unkind critics called this bribery, because they do not understand our tradition of showing appreciation.

‘Why the Bentecostals?’ I whispered to Sara. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be an Anglican cathedral?’

‘The Anglicans rented it out for the funeral, and then fled,’ she replied.

‘And so the idea of Corruption,’ explained the Bishop, ‘soon entered all aspects of government. When contractors showed a bit of appreciation to government officials, they were able to get contracts and avoid the gridlock of the Tender Board. If foreign investors showed a bit of appreciation, they could be given parastatals for nothing, and make huge profit for their new owners. And so the economy was liberalized, and the results of Corruption were much applauded in Washington and Beijing.

‘But here at home, unfair critics and opposition leaders complained about this government of Corruption. But the electorate was more appreciative, because they appreciated appreciation, and were happy to receive appreciation in exchange for their votes, to prevent the enemies of Corruption from winning an election.

‘And so to maintain Corruption in government, Corruption had to take over the police force, and the judiciary, and even the Constitution itself. Certainly, we have a lot to thank Corruption for.

‘But still the critics and naysayers and dissidents and malcontents maintained that Corruption was criminal. But today Corruption has been vindicated, because God has called him to Heaven. And since he has been vindicated, his critics must forgive him.’

‘But if he has been vindicated,’ I whispered to Sara, ‘then what is he to be forgiven for?’

‘Don’t try to make sense of it,’ said Sara.

‘A person achieves his reputation by his great works. And although Corruption may have left us, his great works live on. Corruption may be with the Lord, but Corruption shall remain with us here in Zambia, in our government, in our police and judiciary, and in all walks of life. And whenever a bribe passes from one hand to another, we shall remember him.’

‘Amen,’ chanted the congregation.

‘But his political opponents are now trying to remove his good work by corrupting Corruption. They tell us, Don’t Kubeba, meaning it is alright to accept a bribe, but don’t keep your promise. How can they introduce such sinfulness and dishonesty into the noble idea of Corruption? Just imagine a passport officer accepting a bribe, I mean an appreciation, and then failing to issue the passport! Imagine a voter selling his vote for a bag of sugar, and then voting for the other party! What chaos is this? What breach of contract! We must stay true to an honest system of Corruption, and not allow Corruption to be corrupted! We must respect his legacy!

‘And now, as we come to the end of this funeral service, I ask you all to join the choir in Hymn No.666, To Corruption I Surrender, sung to the tune of All to Jesus I surrender…’

To Corruption I surrender,

All from Him I freely take;

I will ever love and trust Him,

I am always on the make.

To Corruption I surrender,

Humbly at His trough I eat;

Worldly pleasures all are taken,

For Corruption lets me cheat.

To Corruption I surrender,

Give me money, wholly mine;

Let me feel the Holy Dollar,

Never know it is a crime.

To Corruption I surrender,

Now I feel the devil’s flame;

Oh, the joy of full damnation!

Glory, glory to his name.

‘Did you hear the last words of that hymn?’ I said to Sara as we left the cathedral. ‘Maybe Corruption won’t be allowed in Heaven?’

‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘The spirit of Corruption will haunt this land forever.’

He Died for Us

2011-06-21T17:03:00.007+02:00

He Died for Us

The bishop stood at the lectern and solemnly opened the Bible, saying ‘I shall base my eulogy this morning on Mathew Chapter 19, Verses 23-24:

‘Then Jesus said unto his disciples Verily I say unto you, a rich man shall hardly enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God.’

Now the bishop lifted his eyes to the packed cathedral. ‘I read this passage from the Holy Bible because I think it explains the life of the man we are burying today, our departed Great Leader Kafupi Mupupu.’

The bishop now left the lectern, walked slowly down to the front of the aisle, and placed his hand upon the small coffin. ‘Our departed leader was a Great Christian, whose life’s work was devoted to ensuring that his people should enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

‘But he was much troubled by the wealth, greed and materialism of his people, and realized that they were destined for Hell unless they changed their evil ways. So he took it upon himself to reduce his people to poverty so that they might enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

‘And so he set about reducing the number of factories producing unnecessary commodities. For example he closed all the factories producing clothes, which are an unnecessary luxury in a warm country. In this way he reduced the number of people in employment, so that people had less money to waste on sinful activities.

‘In short, Kafupi’s policy was to remove the money from people’s pockets, so that they should not suffer the embarrassment of the overloaded camel.

‘And of course this was a difficult policy, for people do not always appreciate money being taken from their pockets. But it is here we have to realize that God, in his wisdom, had chosen a Great Leader. For Kafupi had a very engaging and charismatic personality, and a merry twinkle in his eye, and a marvelous sense of humour, so that people were able to laugh all the way to poverty.

‘And there was another thing. The Lord in his wisdom had provided Kafupi with extraordinarily long fingers, so that while people were being mesmerized by his fantastic conversation, he could slip his long fingers into their pockets without them even noticing. And this was a much more benevolent form of government than in other countries, where leaders would mesmerize you with their eyes while they slipped a knife between your ribs.

‘But some people still complained, saying It is all very well for us to be poor in order to get into Heaven, but we are living lives of long misery, waiting our turn to be called by the Lord.

‘But Kafupi was a listening leader, and he heard the cry of the people. So he took all the money out of the national pension fund, so that people could go to Heaven earlier. And he removed the doctors and medicines from the hospitals, so that people need not linger unnecessarily long before ascending to Paradise.

‘And still other people complained, saying Kafupi has taken our money for himself, and has bought himself six Mercedes and twenty Rolex watches and five hundred suits and a thousand pairs of shoes and five thousand monogrammed shirts. He has bought more bling bling than can be carried by a hundred camels.

‘But others defended the Great Leader, saying He is dressing up in this ridiculous bling bling to show us the absurdity and sinfulness of wealth, so that we can appreciate the decency and holiness of poverty.

‘For they had understood that Our Great Leader had accumulated all this wealth to take away our sins from us, and carry our sins on his shoulders, that we may enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Truly he is our Saviour, who has died for us.’

Now the Bishop looked sorrowfully at the congregation. ‘And now that our Great Leader has been taken away by the Lord, who now will remain to show us the sinfulness and laughable absurdity of theft and wealth?

‘And I have the answer for you here today. We are going to build the Great Museum of Kafupi Bling Bling, as a memorial to him, full of suits and shoes and other useless paraphernalia, as a public warning against wanton kleptomania.

‘But others amongst you might say, how will Kafupi, who accumulated so much wealth, manage to pass through the eye of the needle? But I say unto you, Kafupi was a wise man, and only spent half of his wealth on bling bling. The other half was given to the Church, so that God might build him a house in Heaven.

‘And now, as the pall bearers lift the coffin to take Kafupi to his final resting place in the Bling Bling Mausoleum, I ask you all to stand up and sing Hymn No. 109, sung to the tune of Glory be to Jesus:

Glory to Kafupi

Who in bitter love

Took from us our money

With orders from above

Sing to God your praises

For Kafupi’s purse

Louder still and louder

Never pause to curse

Some did cry for vengeance

Pleading to the skies

But our dear Kafupi

For our pardon cries

Grace and life eternal

In Heaven we shall find

Blest be his corruption

Infinitely kind

Thanks to our Kafupi

For our poverty

Got us into Heaven

For eternity

Nightmare!

2011-06-14T18:31:00.002+02:00

Nightmare!

Monday

Oh Dear Diary, I’m very worried about my husband, he’s having nightmares. Sometimes he shouts in the middle of his dream, other times he sweats like a hippopotamus. Other times he holds me tight and weeps. And it’s always the same nightmare – he dreams that Muwelewele has come back to fix him.

This morning when he came down to breakfast I could see that he was not himself. Dark rings round his eyes, his face quite grey and his hand was shaking as he reached for the milk to spread over his cornflakes. Just imagine! Milk and cornflakes! It’s only a couple of years ago that he was having six T-bone steaks and a keg of beer for breakfast.

‘Sleep well dear?’ I asked.

‘Terrible,’ he replied. ‘I dreamt that Muwelewele visited me again.’

‘What was he saying this time, dear?’ I asked him.

‘Same sort of thing. Saying that I’ve messed up his legacy by messing up the Constitution, and I’m going to pay for it at the election.’

‘Nonsense, darling,’ I replied as I wiped the milk that he’d spilt all down his shirt, ‘It was that Muwelewele who messed up the Constitution, and he’s still pulling the strings, even from the grave.’

‘Your right dear,’ he admitted, attempting a smile. ‘What do I know about Constitutions? Even when I was at Namboard, I couldn’t understand the Balance Sheet.’

Tuesday

Dear Diary, I’m so worried about my husband, this morning he wouldn’t even get out of bed. I can’t call a priest, he’s petrified of them, he thinks they’re all homosexual. He has never talked to me about it, but I think he must have had a bad experience when he was a choirboy. Now, after all these years, the trauma is coming back to haunt him.

So I went to see the doctor, who reassured me that this sort of behaviour is quite normal in very old men, it’s called senile dementia. The patient has vivid dreams, sees things that aren’t there, and hears voices. Very often they also suffer paranoia, fearing that people are out to get him.

I asked the doctor what I should do, and he advised me that next time I should marry a younger man.

Wednesday

Last night he woke up in the middle of the night, screaming.

‘What’s the matter dear?’ I asked, as I stroked his bald head.

‘Spat Wellywelly hash bisited be a gun!’ he spluttered.

‘Calm down dear,’ I said, as I put his false teeth back in. ‘Now try again!’

‘That Muwelewele has visited me again!’ he shouted, ‘telling me that I have corrupted the judicial system and ruined his legacy by ordering that the case against Kafupi be dropped!’

‘Nonsense dear,’ I assured him, as I wiped the sweat off his brow, ‘That Muwelewele was the one who was always interfering with the judiciary, and you are just following his legacy.’

Thursday

This morning I phoned Foreign Affairs and pleaded with them to send my poor husband on a foreign visit. That’s what we usually do when he’s having one of his funny turns. They suggested I send him down to Swaziland, where the king has some young female masseurs who know how to give remedial exercises to aging gentlemen.

I think we’ll pack him off tomorrow, with an official announcement that he has to fulfil his official SADC duties by helping the King of Swaziland to choose his twenty-sixth wife.

Phew, thank God that’s settled. That’ll give me a rest, and I wish the Swazi girls the best of luck.

Friday

Oh Dear Diary, the trips off, we can’t let the public see him like this. This morning, right there at breakfast and in front of the staff, he had another screaming fit. ‘Mulwelewele visited me last night!’ he screamed, ‘and accused me of throwing away Eastern Province by allowing Dollar Sillier to build twenty high schools in her constituency, while there are none being built in Southern Province.’

‘Your just imagining all this,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘In fact Muwelewele was the very one who always used to say you’ll get no development if you don’t vote for me! So you’re just following his legacy!’

But he fell down on the floor screaming ‘He said that I’ve abandoned his legacy and nobody wants me!’ Then he burst into tears and pulled all the breakfast things off the table so that he could wipe away his tears with the table cloth. ‘I’m going to lose!’ he blubbered.

It was really embarrassing.

Saturday

Dear Diary, I phoned Lundazi this morning and spoke to Mum. ‘My poor old husband is in a terrible panic,’ I told her. ‘He keeps having fits of the screaming hab dabs. He’s at the end of his tether.’

‘I said right from the beginning,’ replied Mum, ‘that he wasn’t suitable for the job. But it’s our fault, we’re the ones that put him there, so now it’s our job to get him out. Don’t worry, dear, I’m telling everybody here to vote PF. It’s the only way to help him.’

The Old Geyser

2011-06-07T19:47:00.006+02:00

The Old Geyser

Sara and I were at the Lusaka Playhouse, watching the Zambia One Comedy Show. Onto the stage bounced the Master of Ceremonies, Henry B J Phiri.

‘Our next comedian is your friend and mine, a loveable and irrepressible lady who has come here tonight to give us another hilarious episode on how to develop Zambia. A big hand for Geyser Bwezani!

As we roared and cheered, onto the stage glided the star of the evening, the glitzy Bwezani, resplendent in a beautiful long blue chitenge dress with a floppy blue hat, all with her own battered face printed all over it. Her huge droopy eyelids were painted blue, her lips were painted purple, and she carried a bunch of red roses which she proceeded to throw at the audience one by one, as the audience continued to cheer and clap.

‘Oooh, what a lovely audience,’ she cooed. ‘But I wonder if you know why I’m called Geyser Bwezani?’

‘Coz you’re a silly old geyser,’ shouted a voice from the audience.

‘Oooh you naughty boy,’ she said, pouting her luscious lips. ‘I’m called Geyser Bwezani because I have the key to development. Just put a solar geyser on every roof and this country will be rich!’

‘We haven’t water for geysers!’ somebody shouted.

‘Listen to me,’ said Bwezani confidentially, as she leaned towards us and showed us her wrinkled cleavage. ‘I’m a businesswoman, I understand these things. I’ve started up a geyser business with my two sons, Harry and Hurry, and they’re sticking their things everywhere, whether you like it or not! They’re so hot! They’re in and out before you know what’s happened!’

‘And do people appreciate?’

‘Ooh you pretty boy, what a naughty question. Of course they like it, but woops, the husbands get annoyed if they find out.’

I leant over to Sara. ‘This old girl looks a bit like Nyamasoya’

‘Of course she does,’ she laughed. ‘Who did you think it was?’

‘I thought he was supposed to be in jail. How did he get out?’

‘He offered to put a free geyser on the governor’s roof, and that was the last they saw of him.’

‘What use are geysers,’ somebody laughed, ‘if there’s no piped water?’

‘Listen to that pretty boy,’ swooned Bwezani, clutching her ancient breast and feigning desire. ‘While the rest of his class was doing physics, he was doing naughty biology on the back row. Come home with me darling, I love a bit of naughty biology.’

‘So where does the water come from?’

‘Oooh, my pretty boy didn’t do geography either! Water comes from the river. They can all go down to the river and collect water, climb on the roof, and tip it in the geyser! This will solve the unemployment problem.’

‘We need food, not hot water!’

‘I know what pretty boy needs,’ purred Bwezani, as she ran her fingers up and down the microphone. ‘I’d love to have a hot bath with him! But of course these people don’t have baths or even sinks. Their hot solar geysers are for making steam for the steam engine!’

‘The steam engine?’ we all shouted.

‘The steam engine turns the generator to make the electricity!’

‘Where do the steam engines and generators come from?’

‘The steam engines come from the Hot Air Factory and the generators are generated at the New Generation Factory in the Tax Free Exploitation Zone!’

The audience was now warming to this farcical interchange. ‘And where is the Exploitation Zone?’ we all shouted.

‘It’s already here!’ laughed Bwezani, doing a little dance and waggling her bottom. ‘It’s on the billboards all along the Great East Road! This is your government and your money working for me!’

‘But people don’t need electricity,’ we all shouted. ‘they don’t have fridges or cookers!’

‘Oooh, quite right my lovelies,’ cooed Bwezani, giving a little curtsy. ‘What a lovely audience we have tonight!’

‘As I recall,’ I said to Sara, ‘Bwezani used to be a man.’

‘I’m told it happened in jail,’ explained Sara, ‘He had to change his orientation.’

Bwezani now ran her hand seductively up her thigh. ‘This, my lovelies, is what we mean by trickle up. Every home will be supplying electricity to the mines, enabling increased electrolytic production of copper and increased GDP!’

‘Hurray!’ we laughed, as a few vuvuzelas joined in the fun. ‘Wealth must trickle up from the poor to the rich! What genius!’

But there was a dull person at the back who was not amused. ‘If the people are all making the electricity, what is ZESCO going to be doing?’

‘Bwezani put her finger to her lips. ‘Shuuushh,’ she said, in hushed voice. ‘The Zambia Election Subversion Company will take over from the Electoral Commission, to organize the electronic digital rigging!’

‘Of course!’ we all cheered, ‘we must all support the government of the day!’

‘And will the people be paid for the electricity they produce?’ asked the same awkward voice from the back.

‘Of course not you silly boy,’ laughed Bwezani. ‘They have to pay back their loans for all those geysers, steam engines and generators!’

As we were laughing at the hilarious absurdities of Bwezani economics, six prison warders in uniform rushed onto the stage and lifted her into the air. As she was being carried off she turned her head to the audience ‘Farewell my lovelies, these naughty boys can’t do without me for a single night!’

‘His behaviour was too blatant.’ laughed Sara. ‘He’s being taken back to the closet.’

The Memorial Service

2011-06-01T18:36:00.006+02:00

The Memorial Service

It was Friday August 25^th 2012, and Sara and I were attending the Memorial Service for Nyamasoyaurus, the last of the Mad Mighty Dinosaurs, who had dropped dead the day after the election, exactly one year earlier.

‘We are gathered here today,’ intoned the priest, ‘to honour the memory and life of Nyamasoyaurus, the Great Dinosaur who managed to get rid of the dreaded MMD that had been ravaging this country for the previous twenty years.’

I looked round the church, which was packed, with people even standing in the aisles. The front three rows were filled with Nyamasoyaurus’s many widows and former mistresses, all dressed in somber black, except of course for the Swazi girls, who sat there completely naked, according to their tradition.

‘As I look around this Cathedral of the Very Cross today,’ the priest continued, ‘I see a great multitude of people. Any yet, when I officiated at Nyamasoyaurus’s funeral only a year ago, this great cathedral stood empty, except for the six men from the undertakers who were employed to carry the coffin.

‘I remember looking around the empty church and asking the empty pews whether such a man, so despised and abandoned, could ever reach the Kingdom of Heaven. Seeking the answer to this question, I read from the Gospel according to John, Chapter 14 Verses 1-2, where Jesus advises Simon Peter on the difficulty of getting into heaven…

‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you so. I go to prepare a place for you.

‘Of course, we all thought at that time that Nyamasoyaurus was a sinner who would go to hell. But we now know that the Lord found a mansion for Nyamasoyaurus. Because the Lord knew, as we did not know, that Nyamasoyaurus sinned not for himself, but he sinned for us, that we might enter the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth.’

The huge congregation murmured in approval.

‘The Lord in his wisdom realized that Nyamasoyaurus’s chosen life work was to enable us to rid ourselves of the dreaded MMD. But he also knew the weakness of the people of the Land of Zed, who had been brought up to respect authority and to believe that their leaders were working for the people.

‘And the people were easily deceived, because the Dubious Kafupi and Monstrous Muwelewele always talked very fair about good governance, and did their sinning in secret.

‘And so Nyamasoyaurus conceived a great plan to save the people from their tormentors. Upon the untimely death of the Monstrous Muwelewele, Nyamasoyaurus stepped forward and declared that he was the only one to continue the legacy of the Great Departed, because he was the most ancient of the dinosaurs, and therefore the only one to lead the Mighty Mad Dinosaurs, the dreaded MMD.

‘And the new Great Leader Nyamasoyaurus continued to speak continually of good governance. But he dropped the policy of sinning in secret. Instead he openly instructed the judges to find the guilty innocent and the innocent guilty. He set up the palace as the contract centre for all public works, and took ten percent. He boasted that he was taxing the people to raise money to subsidise rich business men. He increased unemployment and reduced wages until people were destitute, while all the time boasting that their predicament would attract investors.

‘But very few people complained, and most continued as usual, saying the government must know what it is doing. So now he went further, borrowing vast amounts of money for huge hospitals which were left empty because there were no doctors or nurses, and building huge schools where there were no teachers, because he adamantly refused to pay them.

‘But his plans to destroy the reputation of the MMD did not work. People just said He means well, he’s just a bit stupid. Only a few people protested. So next he sent the police to shoot these few protesters. Now there was more discontent, but the results were still very disappointing.

‘Then, at last, the Church took an interest, and castigated the MMD for leaving the poor to starve to death. Now Nyamasoyaurus saw his big chance. He cursed the entire Church for plotting against the state, denouncing cardinals and bishops as Satanists, witches, homosexuals and perverts. He waged unrelenting war on Mother Church, swearing to kill her.

‘Now the people were really annoyed, for the Church had always protected them from parasitic leaders. They finally realized that the MMD was nothing more than a gang of criminals who had captured the state. So they threw them out at the next election, and elected St Michael as their next Great Leader.

‘Nyamasoyaurus died immediately afterwards. His great work was now complete. He died alone and unappreciated, for the people hadn’t realized that he died for them.

‘And now, to conclue this Memorial Service, we shall sing Hymn No.338, sung to the tune of The Church’s One Foundation.’

The congregation rose to their feet, and lifted the roof with this rousing hymn…

The Church’s one destruction

Was Nyamasoya Lord;

She must support election

By fire and by sword;

From hell he came and sought her

For his unholy bride,

With her own blood he killed her,

And for his life she died.

Mid strife of the election,

And tumult more like war,

She arose by resurrection

And faith for evermore;

With election victory glorious

St Michael proved the best,

And now the Church victorious

Is free like all the rest!

The End of the World

2011-05-24T19:43:00.004+02:00

The End of the World

'The First Lesson this morning,' intoned the priest, 'is taken from the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 27 Verses 12-37.'

In those days the people were sore oppressed by the cruel King Nyamasoya, But the Lord heard the prayers of the people, and sent the Prophet Pong Mpongo to give them a Great Prophecy.

When the Prophet Mpongo appeared from the Great Forest of Kafulafuta he had a wild beard and unwashed appearance. But the fears of the people were soon allayed because his words had a celestial sweetness, arising from his long years in the forest eating nothing but honey and dictionaries, preparing himself for his brief appearance in the scriptures.

'Verily I say unto you,' began the Prophet, 'the End of this World is nigh.'

Now the people were sore afraid, saying one to another 'Oh dear, how soon is nigh?'

'Fear not,' replied the Prophet, 'for ye shall experience a Great Rapture and shall ascend into Heaven. But King Nyamasoya and all his Court of Bootlickers shall face Judgment Day and afterwards shall be consigned to Hell.'

On hearing the prophecy the people were overcome with joy, dancing and chanting 'Serve the bastard right!' But others amongst them were doubtful, saying 'You are just the Prophet but where is our Saviour?'

Upon hearing this question the Prophet Mpongo drew in a great breath and declared with heavenly and prophetic conviction 'There cometh one after me the latchet of whose shoes I am unworthy to unloose.'

And sure enough it came to pass as the Prophet had foretold. For the very next day there appeared in their midst a man from Mpika, a small village north of Galilee, who announced himself by saying 'I am your Saviour Cycle Mata, come to rescue you from the ungodly Nyamasoya!'

Then the people were mighty mystified, and shouted at him, saying 'We were expecting a young man, but you have completed your three score years and ten. You are just a recycled leader, coming here every year with a different message.'

But the Saviour answered them, saying 'Previously I have spoken with many voices, but now I have found my true voice, and all that I now speak shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.'

But the Pharisees were doubtful, saying unto him 'How can we believe this? Where does this new voice come from?'

And Cycle Mata, having been made Saviour, now had answers for everybody, saying unto them 'After so many years of trying different voices, I have found my true voice. I just listen to the needs and suggestions of the people, and then I voice their concerns. I am the Voice of the People.'

And the people marveled, saying one to another 'At last the old man has found wisdom, for we the people are the Children of God, and the Voice of the People is the Voice of God. So Cycle Mata is truly our Saviour.'

Now the newly appointed Saviour climbed up Mount Sinai and spoke unto a great multitude which stretched from Antioch in the north to Aquabah in the south, saying to the people that 'King Nyamasoya is living in a Heaven of luxury and plenty. By stealing our wealth he has cast his people into poverty and starvation.'

When he heard report of these words Nyamasoya was sore annoyed, saying that all the disciples of the Saviour were men, and that they were all sleeping together in the Garden of Gethsemani, a despicable act of pornography in the sight of the Lord. But when the people heard this they were roused to a great anger against the King for insulting their Saviour.

And so the Saviour again addressed the multitude, saying that a king who annoyed his people would be swept from power, his world would end, and he would go to Hell.

But the King was not afraid of such threats, saying that his palace was on top of Mount Arafat where the people could not reach. Scorning them, the King declared that they should ask their God to perform one of his miracles, so that they could sail their fishing boats across the desert if they wanted to attack Mount Arafat.'

Now the Lord their God, being aroused to righteous fury at hearing his mighty powers being challenged by a mere mortal, immediately conjured up a great flood out of thin air.

And so the people sailed across the desert, all except for the Saviour, who walked across the water. And when they reached the palace they all shouted together 'We want Change', and the walls of the palace fell down, for the Voice of the People is the Voice of God.

And the day that the boats sailed across the desert to Mount Arafat became known as the Day of Pabwato. And the next day, when the people walked into the palace and entered Heaven, became known as the Day of Rapture.

And seven days later came the Day of Judgment, when the king was brought before the six judges that he had previously corrupted, and was therefore immediately convicted of corruption.

And so the King was sent to Hell, which was the name given to the horrible prison that he had built specially for his enemies.

The priest now looked up from the Good Book. 'In this lesson, the Lord shows us how to bring an end to the world of dictatorship.'

'The way I remember the story,' I said to Sara, 'the Saviour got crucified.'

'The Good Book', said Sara, 'is full of different stories.'

The Divorce Court

2011-05-17T17:12:00.001+02:00

The Divorce Court

The judge leant towards the beautiful woman sitting in front of him. ‘Zambiana,’ he said in a kindly voice, ‘please explain to the court why you are seeking a divorce from this man.’

Tears welled into her eyes as she tried to explain. ‘Your honour, this man has ruined me. When my first husband died, his last wish was that I should marry the farm manager. He said that Nyamasoya was the right man to look after me and the family farm. So I respected my husband’s dying wish, even though my relatives warned me that he was not to be trusted. But they were right. He has stolen everything and left me destitute.’

The judge now turned to Nyamasoya. ‘Is this true?’

‘Your honour, it is the exact opposite of the truth. The late Muwelewele would be proud of the way I have developed the farm. I have gone into production of jhathropa for export, installed an irrigation system, invested in planting and harvesting machinery, and the annual turnover is now ten million dollars a year. When I took over it was just a subsistence operation, they were just scratching around with chickens, vegetables and a few pigs.’

The puzzled judge now turned to Zambiana. ‘There seem to be two very different sides to this story. Is the farm prosperous or ruined?’

‘Both, your honour,’ said Zambian sadly. ‘All this development was done with borrowed money. He has borrowed more than the value of the farm, which is now run by the Ching Chang people from whom he borrowed the money. All the money from sales goes straight to the Ching Chang for repayment of the loan. In the meantime all my relatives and workers on the farm are starving and dying. We are destitute.’

The baffled judge now turned back to Nyamasoya. ‘Is this true?’

Nyamasoya now treated the judge to a broad and genial smile. ‘Of course it is true, your honour. It is entirely normal to borrow money against the value of the land in order to invest in development...’

‘Yes yes,’ interrupted the judge irritably, ‘but is it true that all Zambiana’s workers and relatives are now destitute?’

‘I am in the awkward position having to contradict my dear wife,’ smiled Nyamasoya, ‘but she has little understanding of business. That’s why the late asked me to take charge. As a matter of fact, when I first took over, everybody on the farm was unemployed. But I have now given them all jobs.’

The judge now turned to Zambiana with a weary smile. ‘It seems that all your workers and relatives are fully employed. From what your husband has told us, we imagine that people on neighbouring farms must be jealous of your prosperity!’

Now Zambiana stood up shaking with rage, pointing at Nyamasoya. ‘This man has stolen our farm. They were once all self-employed farmers, growing their own food in a mixed farming operation and selling the surplus to the late. Now Nyamasoya has rented the land to the Ching Chang and all the farmers have now become wage labourers on what was once their own farm. They are paid only five pins a day, and they cannot eat jhathropa. We are all destitute.’

‘I notice,’ said the judge, ‘that your husband is dressed in a very smart suit, and arrived at this court in a new Mercedes. This appearance doesn’t seem to tally with your story of poverty and destititution.’

‘Him!’ shouted Zambiana, ‘the Ching Chang allow him to keep 10% of everything, so that they can externalize all of the remainder to Hung Hong. Nyamasoya is busy buying a farm in the Bahamas while the rest of us are starving.’

‘I also notice,’ said the judge, smiling at the beautiful Zambiana, ‘that you are wearing a very nice new blue chitenge, which I must say suits you very well.’

‘It’s the first time in years that my husband has bought me anything,’ sobbed Zambiana. ‘But he saw the danger of my appearing here in my usual worn out rags.’

‘I wonder if there is not more to this dispute than meets the eye,’ said the judge. ‘How are the marital relations between the two of you?’

‘There you’ve put your finger on it!’ shouted Nyamasoya. ‘She never wanted me, she was just following instructions from the late departed. But now she has fallen for some smoothy from the big city, a dubious character called Cycle Mata!’

‘Is there any truth in this story?’ asked the judge, as he turned towards Zambiana.

She blushed and cast her eyes down. ‘Yes, your honour. He doesn’t shout at me or insult me. He listens to me. He loves me. He doesn’t steal from me. He’s the one I want.’

‘I have come to a decision,’ declared the judge. ‘You, Nyamasoya, should not attempt to cling on where you’re not wanted. I grant Zambiana a divorce, and further order that the farm must be returned to her as the rightful owner. I further declare that Nyamasoya should be investigated for attempting to steal the farm when he was only given the job of looking after it.’

As Nyamasoya strode angrily from the court, the judge turned to smile at Zambiana. ‘Well, there you are my dear. What are you going to do now?’

‘I’m going to marry Cycle Mata,’ she replied. ‘He’s going to manage my farm properly!’

The judge put his head in his hands. Then he looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘My dear Zambiana,’ he said softly, ‘I hope you’re making the right decision.’