Michael's Master Plan

Michael’s Master Plan

            ‘Sometimes,’ I sighed, ‘I think Michael doesn’t know what he’s doing. How can he be sacking the nurses for asking for more money? Isn’t he the very one who promised them more money in their pockets?’

          ‘Of course he knows what he’s doing,’ laughed Kupela. ‘He’s trying to force them all to go and get jobs in Britain, where they’ll be paid four times as much. Then they’ll be able to send money to their relatives here, and we’ll all have more money in our pockets.’

          ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘If all our nurses go to the UK, who’s going to run our hospitals? Our entire health system will collapse! You’ve got to see the bigger picture!’

          ‘Poor Daddy,’ Kupela scoffed, ‘it’s you who can’t see the bigger picture. Nowadays you’ve got to think globally. Have you considered that that a nurse earning $200 dollars in Beijing thinks that $800 dollars in Lusaka is a small fortune? So we can easily attract Chinese nurses to come here!’

          ‘Hah!’ I exclaimed. ‘What a silly argument! In that case the Chinese nurses would also go to London to earn an even larger fortune!’

          ‘Oh no they wouldn’t,’ said Kupela, ‘because London hospitals practice Western medicine and don’t recruit Chinese nurses.’

          ‘Well done!’ I laughed. ‘You’ve just destroyed your own argument because our Zambian hospitals also practice Western medicine.’

          ‘On no they don’t,’ retorted Kupela. ‘They’re not practicing anything at all because they don’t have any medicine or equipment. The wards are just waiting rooms for the mortuary. This country just hasn’t got the money to provide health care or education. Poor old Chikwanda is borrowing a billion dollars a year to run schools that make us dull and hospitals that make us sick. And what’s more, the country will soon be completely bankrupt!’

          ‘So the answer is to sack all the nurses?’

          ‘It’s all part of Michael’s new Master Plan. He’s bringing in 20,000 nurses from China.’

          ‘What? We’ll all be going to Chinese hospitals?’

          ‘Of course not, these hospitals will be for the Chinese.’

          ‘What! There won’t be enough Chinese patients for so many hospitals, unless they’re all planning to be sick!’

          ‘Michael knows what he’s doing. He’s going to bring in another million Chinese to take over the rest of the mines, set up manufacturing plants, turn the forests into plantations, and so on.’

          ‘Half a minute! Hold on! If the Chinese take over all our hospitals, where is the health service for the rest of us?’

          ‘We shall return to traditional medicine, which worked very well in pre-colonial days. In those days people were very healthy and lived to a ripe old age. Did you know that our very high rate of maternal mortality is caused by modern maternity hospitals? Traditional birth attendants are much safer.’

          ‘This is all romantic poppy-cock,’ I spluttered. ‘What are traditional healers going to do about cholera, typhoid, TB and HIV? Huh! Answer me that!’

          ‘These are all urban diseases,’ she replied calmly. ‘We’ll all return to village life. Back to the land! Anyway, we never really mastered city life. Never became properly urbanized. Lusaka is not a city, it is just a collection of villagers in a huge village. That’s why it is so chaotic and full of urban diseases!’

          ‘So our cities will be abandoned? Left standing empty?’

          ‘Of course not! The Chinese will come in to run the factories, smelt the iron, sort out the traffic lights, and that sort of thing.’

          ‘So what shall we be doing in the village?’

          ‘We shall be on display for the Chinese tourists. Cultural tourism is becoming very popular and we can rake in a lot of money. That’s why Michael is building all these roads everywhere, so that the Chinese can visit the villages. The Chinese are very interested to see what Africa looked like before the missionaries came and ruined everything.’

          ‘So what sort of government shall we have?’

          ‘Exactly, that’s the question. Why d’you think Michael grabbed the draft constitution from the Technical Committee? He intends to write one which fits into his Master Plan!’

          ‘So how will it be different?’

          ‘Difficult to say,’ said Kupela. ‘Much of central government will undoubtedly have to be abolished, since government will have to be localized under the chiefs. We wouldn’t need a judiciary, the chief would preside over each local court. Maybe there would still be a DC.’

          ‘A District Commissioner?’

          ‘No, a District Chinese, to make sure that the villagers treat the Chinese tourists with proper respect.’

          ‘So would we still have a parliament?’

          ‘Obviously not,’ said Kupela. ‘We would just follow tradition and customary law.’

          ‘But who would govern the Chinese?’

          ‘They’re already well organized and never take any notice of us. They would probably want to co-ordinate their activities with other Chinese operating in neighbouring countries. It is rumoured that they might set up a Chinese Federal Government based in Harare.’

          ‘So would we still have a president and ministers?’

          ‘Of course,’ said Kupela.

          ‘But what would they be doing?’

          ‘Obviously they would have to collect taxes so that they can continue to live in ministerial houses, travel to international conferences and that sort of thing.’

          ‘It looks to me as if we wouldn’t need a government at all!’

          ‘Oh yes we would!’

          ‘Why?’ I persisted.

          ‘Because,’ said Kupela, ‘We’re an independent country!’

The First Press Conference

The First Press Conference

            I can remember the day clearly, as if it were yesterday. It was the morning of Tuesday 24^th September 2021 when Sara said ‘Turn on the TV, dear, Cycle Mata is having his press conference this morning.’

          ‘Dress conference?’ I said. ‘How can dresses have a conference?’

          ‘PRESS Conference,’ she shouted. ‘Are you wearing your hearing aid?’

          ‘No need to shout!’ I shouted angrily. ‘I’m not deaf. It’s just that you’ve got it wrong yet again! Firstly we don’t have a press anymore, it was banned years ago. Secondly, in ten years Cycle Mata has never held a press conference. Do you really imagine that he would risk his position in the Guinness Book of Records and destroy his reputation?’

          ‘Since you won’t do it,’ sighed Sara. ‘I’ll turn on the TV myself.’

          So saying, she heaved herself up from the sofa, reached for her Zimmerman frame, and began shuffling slowly over to our ancient Supersonic TV. She turned the knob, and the latest New Orleans hurricane slowly appeared on the screen.

          ‘You have to hit the screen with the flat of your hand,’ I advised. ‘You women don’t understand modern technology.’

          She did so, and a wizened old face immediately appeared. ‘Ha ha!’ she shouted in triumph. ‘Isn’t that the remains of Cycle Mata?’

          ‘Looks more like Robber Mugabby,’ I replied.

          ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘You never could tell the difference.’

          ‘He’s reading from his prepared script,’ I said. ‘So long as he doesn’t deviate from that, he’ll be fine.’

          ‘In conclusion,’ Cycle Mata was saying, ‘I called this press conference to explain how I have managed to keep all of my promises to the nation, despite the withdrawal of all foreign missions apart from our beloved Chinese brothers, despite the withdrawal of Western funding apart from Haiti, and despite the despicable UN sanctions. Despite these attacks on our sovereignty I have managed to end our dependence on copper and diversified the economy. Above all, I have found employment for all.’

          Now a huge fat fellow in dark glasses and a cigar stepped forward, saying ‘Our Great Leader will now take questions from the press.’

          ‘Who’s he?’ I wondered.

          ‘That’s Cycle Mata’s press aide, Gorgeous Fellah,’ said Sara. ‘Looks like he’s doing well.’

          ‘Scurrilous Slob from the Daily Scoop,’ said the first journalist. ‘I just wonder how you managed to achieve full employment.’

          ‘I employed a two pronged strategy which is now a model for the rest of the world. Half of the labour force ran away to UK and America to sweep their railway stations. The remaining labour force is being been sent to China to work in the coal mines.’

          ‘Wishy Washy from the Washington Post,’ said the next. ‘How have you ended the reliance on copper?’

          ‘The copper has all been sold to the Chinese, so we are now forced to depend on other things.’

          ‘Harry Hack from Hard Times. What other things?’

          ‘Weren’t you listening?’ Michael snapped, giving us a glimpse of the earlier waspishness which we knew when he was a young man of seventy-five. ‘I just told you, we export coal miners to China!’

          ‘Amiable Agness from Agricultural Action. Then who is producing the food to sustain the small remaining population?’

          ‘These Zambian farmers don’t like work, so I gave all the land to the hardworking Chinese. Their farms produce maize for local consumption and coal miners for export.’

          ‘Heavy Harriet from Hard Talk. Is Zambia a one party state?’

          ‘Certainly not. In fact we don’t even have any political parties. They were all banned in favour of national unity and working together amicably.’

          ‘Sceptical Sam from the Southern Sun. Is the Patriotic Force not a political party?’

          ‘Silly question from Silly Sam of the Silly Sun,’ cackled Cycle Mata, giving a rare glimpse of his dentures. ‘No, the Patriotic Force is not a political party, it is the government.’

          ‘Peter Pester from Political Probe.  It has been ten years since the last election. Are you thinking of calling another one?’     

‘Of course. We’re just waiting for the new constitution.’

          ‘Grumbling Gertrude from Grandma Guardian. When do you expect the new constitution to be ready?’

          ‘Very soon. In fact I’ve just appointed Judge Suckmore Chipoko to head the new Constitutional Commission.’

          ‘Quentin Querulous from the Quebec Query. Is it not true that you have all your political opponents locked up, that this is a police state and a colony of China, and that you personally own half of Scotland?

          ‘Idiot! Shut up! Shut up! Sit down! Arrest him! Arrest him for defamation! And for sedition! Deport him!’

          As Quentin Querulous was wrestled to the ground by six party thugs, two men in white coats appeared and took hold of Cycle Mata’s wheelchair, turned it round, and began wheeling him back to the palace. At the same time the Chinese Attaché stepped forward, saying ‘Thisee endee pressee confectionee. Pleasee standee to Nation Antemee.’

          Then all the Chinese dignatories, resplendent in their military uniforms, stood up to sing the sad remains of the Zambia National Anthem…

           

Stand and sing of Zambia, work for free

Land of work and sweat in colony

Labour in the dark for your copper

All gone, for a dollar

All gone, cheap and free

Praise be to China

Praise be, praise be,

Bless your great patience

Zambia, Zambia

Slave men you stand

Under the flag of your land

Zambia, praise to thee

All one colony.

Colonial Mine

Colonial Mine

       

          ‘It must be time for the news,’ said Sara. ‘Turn on Muvi TV.’

           As the picture on our ancient Supersonic came into fuzzy focus, we were presented with two rows of men, facing each other in sullen confrontation. In the foreground stood a line of soldiers, guns at the ready, and pointing at an opposing line of thin and starving workers, dressed in rags. Behind them was an ugly black entrance to a mine, just big enough to take a small railway line down to the depths of hell. Over the top of entrance was written Colonial Mine.

          ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, ‘What’s going on? Is this Afghanistan? Or the Americans bringing democracy to Iraq?’

          ‘Worse than that,’ said Sara grimly, ‘This looks more like labour relations at one of our mines. They’re probably conducting wage negotiations.’

          ‘What?' I gasped. 'Conducted by a three star general in full ceremonial uniform?’

          ‘That must be the Military Attaché of the Imperial Power,’ explained Sara.

          As we spoke the Military Attaché opened his attaché case and pulled out a pile of pieces of cardboard all connected by string, took hold of two sticks and held them high, and, hey presto! suddenly there appeared a cardboard puppet.

          ‘The Imperial Power never speaks directly to us,’ explained Sara, ‘they always speak through one of their local puppets.’

          ‘What’s the puppet’s name?’ I wondered.

          ‘Do puppets have names?' she chuckled. 'He’s just one of the nameless members of the Puppet Front. He’s probably the Minister for Starvation Wages.’

          ‘But where does he come from?’ I persisted.

          ‘From the Puppet Factory,' laughed Sara. ‘That's where they all come from. The first thing any Imperial Power does is to set up a Puppet Factory. Then they bow to the puppets they have manufactured for themselves, and call them the Puppet Front.’

          Now the Military Attache bent down and whispered something into the ear of his personal Puppet, who then spoke with borrowed ferocity to the hapless starving miners. ‘You useless donkeys,' began the captive Puppet Fraud, 'you show no gratitude. Your Beloved Puppet Fuhrer is working so hard to find more investors that he has had to double his own salary. Therefore there is no money to pay you more!’

          ‘He’s calling them donkeys,’ I protested. ‘But he’s the one who looks like a donkey!’

          ‘Some people can’t recognise their own inadequacies,’ explained Sara. ‘Instead they project their own inadequacies onto other people.’

          At last one starving skeleton plucked up courage and shouted at the Puppet Fraud, ‘We want our housing allowance!’

          As the Military Attache again whispered in Puppet’s ear, the Puppet shouted back ‘You donkeys do not need houses, you’ve always lived in kraals!’

          ‘We want transport money!’ shouted another.

          ‘This is a Christian Nation! The Lord gave donkeys four legs for their own transport!’

          ‘We want protective clothing!’

          ‘God gave you donkeys a thick skin for protection!’

          ‘We want the minimum wage! We were employed as miners, not donkeys!’

           ‘The Imperial Experts are the miners,’ sneered Puppet Fool, ‘you were hired as donkeys. Try reading your employment contract.’

          ‘The Imperial Experts have no skills,’ shouted the angry miners, as the Military Attache continued to busily chew the ear of the Puppet, and the soldiers levelled the barrels of their rifles at the ungrateful mob of miners.

          Now the Puppet assumed a very serious and offended expression. ‘Do not insult the brotherly love between our two countries. Our friends have come here to help you. They have certificates in carpentry, drilling, digging, welding and escaping from prison. Others have diplomas in whipping and shooting.’

          ‘Just give us the money!’

          ‘However,’ continued Puppet Farce, ‘my Imperial brother and I have discussed your plight and we are prepared to be generous. We have agreed between the two of us, and on your behalf, that if you go back to work immediately we are prepared to forget your previous bad behaviour of refusing to work for nothing. Of course we shall have to fire the ringleaders.’

         ‘Just give us enough to feed our children!’

         ‘Only education can help your children. In this regard, I am please to inform you had my Imperial brother has also intimated to me that the Empire is planning to build a university in Lusaka where your sons and grandsons can learn drilling and digging. Then your sons and grandsons will become Mining Experts, and the Imperial Experts can go back to home, and this mine will be yours forever. Your own land will finally be yours!’

         ‘This mine is dangerous,’ shouted one brave skeleton. ‘At least pay us danger money!’

         ‘This mine is very safe,’ retorted Puppet Frantic. ‘I’m told by the mine manager that there have never been more than ten deaths in any one week!’

         But as he spoke there was a rumbling sound from below. Then the ground began to sink under Puppet Fright and his platoon of shivering soldiers. With no further warning, and very suddenly, they all disappeared into a large hole in the ground, leaving behind a cloud of rising dust. The miners looked over the edge of this instant precipice, and crossed themselves earnestly, thanking the Lord for their own deliverance from this dreadful collumity.

        ‘It’s not just us,’ said one miner sadly, ‘the entire country is on the edge of disaster.’

         ‘I suppose,’ said another, ‘that we’ll all go to jail for this.’

         Now the TV screen was suddenly filled with the seriously sleepy face of Comatoze Mwanza. ‘I hope you enjoyed our Muvi Historical Documentary on the Miners’ Riots of 1947. Standby for the news, which follows shortly.’

        ‘I hope you didn’t think that the documentary was part of tonight’s news!’ laughed Sara.

        ‘Of course not,’ I replied. 'I realised immediately it was ancient history.'
         'History,' said Sara, 'has a habit or repeating itself.'

          

Full Circle

Full Circle

‘I really can’t make it out.’ said Amock, ‘We seem to be back to 1940, with protesting miners being shot.’

‘It was just a matter of time before the bullets started flying,’ said Sara. ‘When workers are paid slave wages, strikes are illegal, and protests are illegal, then something’s going to blow up.’

‘What about the political aspect of it?’ Amock persisted. ‘How do we understand a ruling party allowing workers to be treated like dogs? These are the same workers from whom they need votes at the next election? Is there some explanation for all this which has passed us by?’

‘I’ll pour another round,’ I said, as I picked up the brandy bottle. ‘I think our imaginations need a bit of lubrication.’

So we sat there for a few moments in contemplative silence. ‘At least,’ said Sara, ‘this explains why the Chinese hearses were bought, to quickly remove dead miners from the scene. And mobile hospitals to quickly arrive, and attend to the dead and dying. Now people will understand why we needed these expensive imports, and thank the government for their great foresight in anticipating mine massacres.’

‘That still doesn’t get over the problem that people don’t vote for massacres,’ declared Amock. ‘But on the other hand, maybe they no longer need our votes, they can rely on rigging.’

‘That can’t be the answer,’ I said. ‘The basic mathematical formula for rigging, as first introduced in Velvet Mango’s classic work on Election Manipulation, established that rigging can increase a candidate’s vote by a theoretical maximum of only 10%.’

‘And this government,’ said Sara, ‘is probably facing a 95% swing against them. The only people who would vote for them would be coffin makers and undertakers.’

‘So it seems that we can’t explain the government’s behaviour,’ I said. ‘If there’s is no rational explanation, it must be mere stupidity.’

But so far Jennifer had said nothing. All she had done was to pour herself another brandy. But finally, she spoke. ‘Be careful who you call stupid,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s us who are too stupid to understand the government’s clever plan. Maybe these ministers are not as stupid as they look.’

‘I certainly hope not,’ said Sara. ‘But do you have an alternative explanation?’

‘I think you’ve been focusing too narrowly on the mistreatment of workers,’ said Jennifer. ‘You have to look at the bigger picture.’

‘What bigger picture?’ I sneered. ‘Like taxing starving miners, but not taxing the rich mines? Isn’t the bigger picture the same, only worse!’

‘Perhaps,’ said Jennifer. ‘But what about all the new roads and new bridges that the government is building? What about the new hospitals and schools? How does that fit into your picture?’

‘That’s a good point,’ admitted Amock. ‘Maybe a lot of people will vote for these things, and forget about the mistreatment of the workers.’

‘Maybe,’ admitted Jennifer. ‘Maybe they will vote for these things because they think they will benefit from them.’

‘And won’t they?’ asked Sara.

‘Suppose these things are all part of the same plan,’ said Jennifer. ‘Suppose that the plan is to drive the Zambian workers out of the country, and replace them with Chinese! Then we can understand why we need a railway link to Maputo, and another to the Bangwelu railway and Luanda. And why are we building new roads into Angola? And new bridges at Chaiwa and Kasungula? Isn’t it because they are needed to export our workers by the million, and import the Chinese!’

‘So our workers are being treated like dogs on purpose, to chase them out of the country!’

‘Exactly,’ said Jennifer. ‘And this is just part of the bigger picture.’

‘Then why are we building so many schools and hospitals?’ I asked.

‘They’re all for the new Chinese workers!’ laughed Jennifer.

‘And will all the exported Zambians be able to find work abroad?’ Sara wondered.

‘They couldn’t find work here because their jobs were taken by highly paid foreigners. But if they go abroad, the Zambians will then be highly paid foreigners.’

‘So will these Chinese make Zambia rich?’

‘Hasn’t the Minister for Nkongole Budgets, little Mosquito Katwishi, already promised that we shall soon be a middle income country! But how is it going to be achieved? Let me tell you the secret! Once the Chinese own everything they will invest heavily. The copper money will stay here. New factories everywhere, full of Chinese workers. We shall be the new Hong Kong!’

‘But we shall become the Republic of Chinbia!’ exclaimed Sara. ‘Doesn’t Nyamasoya realize that the Chinese will take over the government? The remaining Zambians will be their house-servants and chola boys, and we shall be treated like dirt. We shall be a colony once again. Is that Vasco da Gama’s great plan? Is this his marvellous vision for our future?’

‘Of course it is!’ laughed Jennifer. ‘This is all that these old UNIP fellows know and understand. They understand colonies, and how to deal with them. So they will organize another struggle for independence, capture the rich colony from the Chinese, and bring back the one-party state! Once again we shall be a rich middle income country!’

‘What a relief!’ laughed Amock. ‘And what a great vision! Then we won’t be back in 1940 anymore! We shall have moved forward to 1964!’

‘And all much better off!’ said Jennifer.

I refilled all the glasses, and raised mine in the air. ‘Let’s all be upstanding! Let’s celebrate the Struggle for Independence!’

[Thanks to Isaac Makashinyi and Hachi Beekay, who both contributed ideas to this piece]