Gone to the Dogs

Gone to the Dogs

I was sitting on the veranda when round the corner staggered Aunty Cathy, flopping into a canvas chair in a cloud of dust. ‘Another funeral?’ I asked.

‘It’ll be my funeral next,’ she gasped.

‘Don’t say that,’ I laughed. ‘I shall need you to arrange mine. I’ll go and make a pot of tea, and you can tell me all about it.’

‘So what’s been happening?’ I asked, as I came back with a pot of tea and a glass of brandy for myself. ‘You look as if you’ve just escaped from the ruins of Benghazi.’

‘The ruins of Chilenje,’ she corrected me. ‘The place is now more like a war zone.’

‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘I thought you said everything would be alright with the takeover by the new Godfather, what’s his name?’

‘Round Belly,’ sighed Cathy. ‘Yes, we thought we’d be alright with him. Such a jolly fellow, always laughing and cracking jokes and inviting people for free beer, we really thought he’d look after us.’

‘Ha!’ I laughed. ‘A Godfather is always a Godfather. They just run protection rackets and collect the proceeds! You got what you asked for!’

‘It’s alright for you, living in Kalakiland. But in the Land of Zed we have to live in the world of reality, not the world of wishful thinking. Things were really bad when Round Belly offered us his protection.’

‘How bad?’

‘Every morning after waking up, the first thing you’d do would be to go to the sitting room and check if the TV was still there, then to the kitchen to see if the pots and pans were still there.’

‘Don’t your yards have walls and gates?’

‘One morning I woke up to find the gates had been stolen.’

‘So what was Round Belly’s solution to the problem?’

‘He said he’d employ patrol dogs to frighten the thieves away. Each household would pay him ten pins a month and all would be well.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘Before long, with all those ten pins, he’d built himself a double story house and bought a Merc.’

‘But did you get protection?’

‘We were terrorized by his dogs! They would come into the house and eat all the food. Soon the people were starving.’

‘But you still had your TV!’

‘Yes, but that was a mixed blessing. Every night on TV we had to watch stories of how Godfather Round Belly had saved the people of Chilenje, and how happy we were with the Godfather of the Nation.’

‘So why didn’t you protest?’

‘Some people tried to hold a meeting at Libala Football Field, but the dogs attacked them. Some lost legs, others had their bellies ripped open, and several died. The survivors were arrested for assault.’

‘Assault?’

‘They tried to hit back at the dogs.’

‘And did Round Belly know about all this?’

‘That was the thing. Nobody believed that such a nice jovial fellow as Round Belly could be behind it. Even me, I thought the problem was just that he had employed wrong people. For instance, a known criminal called William Bandit had been put in charge of the dogs.’

‘Perhaps Round Belly was also surrounded by wrong advisors?’

‘Exactly. That was just what people were saying. They didn’t tell him what was really going on, but what he wanted to hear. And he had a notorious crooked lawyer, called Red Lips, who used to whisper poison into his ear.’

‘Why didn’t you go and see him? Talk to him? Advise him?’

‘We did. We went to his big mansion, and he was absolutely charming. A real nice fellow. He showed us some of his dogs. Poodles and Labradors, which were playing with this children. He said his dogs were harmless, and these vicious dogs which were terrorizing us must have come from Chibolya. He had always been an activist for peace, and couldn’t stand violence in any form. He promised us that he would deal with the people that were trying to tarnish his name. Then gave us a nice braii of T-bone steak and beer, after which we all shook hands and left in high spirits.’

‘You were convinced?’

‘Oh yes. He seemed a very nice man.’

‘And did things get better?’

‘Things got worse. The next thing was that he gave away land to foreigners to set up factories. One factory for making coffins and headstones and another for making tea cups out of human skulls, which are very popular in Ching Chang.’

‘So more employment! That was good!’

‘That was worse. The workers were paid only four hundred pins a month. Their wives and daughters had to go on the street to support them.’

‘Then why didn’t the workers protest?’

‘They did. Most of them were killed by the dogs. The survivors were arrested for protesting without a permit.’

‘So did you still believe that Round Belly was really a very nice man?’

‘Yesterday morning I confided to my neighbour that I was beginning to think that Round Belly actually knew about all these things. That perhaps he was the one behind everything.’

‘And did she agree?’

‘She didn’t say anything. But last night a bulldozer came and flattened my house. That’s why I’ve come to take refuge in Kalakiland.’

‘What!’ I gasped. ‘You must report all this to the Human Rights Commission!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she sneered, ‘They went to the dogs years ago!’

Wind of Change

Wind of Change

What fun it was, last week, watching those daily weather reports on Aljazeera as the political hurricane blew through North Africa, blowing away thieving presidents, first from Tunisia and then from Egypt.

And then more excitement at the end of the week, with the weather man standing in front of the map of Africa and moving his stick southward, ‘Hurricane Nemesis is now gathering momentum over the Red Sea, and is threatening to blow a gang of criminals out of the presidential palace in Yemen.’

‘Ooh Hoo!’ squealed Sara in delight, ‘it’s moving south, maybe it can swing our way!’

But by Sunday the Aljazeera weather man had moved his stick east, announcing that ‘Hurricane Nemisis has crossed the desert from Aden, picked up speed over the Persian Gulf, and is causing extensive destruction in the island Kingdom of Bahrein, where the king’s fleet of one hundred and thirty-four gold plated Cadillacs have all been blown into the sea.’

‘Hurray!’ I shouted.

‘How can you be celebrating?’ Sara complained. ‘The damn thing’s going the wrong way!’

But on Tuesday the news was better. ‘In an unexpected development, Hurricane Nemesis has picked up energy and speed over the Indian Ocean. It has moved rapidly east, crossing back into Africa, and has caused massive political chaos and disruption all across the Congo, from Goma to Kinshasa…’

‘Huh,’ snorted Sara, ‘who will notice the difference?’

‘… latest reports coming in,’ continued the weather man, ‘indicate that the hurricane has now moved south into Barotseland, causing panic in the government, rioting in the police force, and the arrest of all the local meteorologists who have been charged with causing bad weather.’

‘At last, at last!’ said Sara, dancing on the coffee table, ‘it’s coming our way!’

But the next night, when we turned on the Aljazeera news, the screen was blank. ‘You silly bugger,’ Sara shouted, ‘you bought that brandy instead of paying Multichoice.’

‘Just turn on ZNBC,’ I said calmly, as I refilled my brandy glass.

Now onto the screen came the sly old rhinoceros, the Dishonourable Reverend General Rotten Shikashiwa, Minister for Refuting the Truth and Disseminating Propaganda. He was reading from a piece of paper, and licking his lips as he came to the next delicious lie,

‘… State House has announced the suspension of the Chief Meterological Officer in order to investigate charges against him of causing alarm and despondency by circulating false rumours that Hurricane Nemesis is about to hit Zambia. He is also to be investigated by the Auditor General, after a demonstration by orderlies and cleaners, in which he was accused of receiving far more rain that he ever distributed.

‘The government would like to assure the nation that everything is under control, and that all meteorological officers belonging to a certain opposition party have now been replaced by Mobile Meterological Disseminators, or MMD, which have been supplied by the Chinese Government, and which are now disseminating good weather to all parts of the country. But I would be failing in my duty if I did not caution all dissidents that, if necessary, the MMD can also disseminate tear gas and bullets to all those who find themselves unable to appreciate the good weather that this government has brought.

‘On the subject of the unsubstantiated and subversive rumour that Hurricane Nemisis has already entered this country, I can assure the nation that government will not allow this. No entry permit or visa has been issued, and any Foreign Destructive Intervention, or FDI, has to pass through formalities at State House before being let loose on innocent citizens.

‘In addition, no hurricane can be allowed to gather force on the street without first being given a permit by the police, and no such permit has been issued. In the meantime, all citizens are advised to stay in their houses and lock their doors. All foreign TV stations have been cut off, and all private media closed, in order to protect citizens from incorrect and mischievous information. The entire police force is on the street to enforce the 24 hour curfew. Apart from these measures, citizens should go about their normal business, and there is nothing to worry about.’

‘Hurray!’ shouted Sara. ‘The hurricane has arrived!’

The next morning we turned on BBC radio, thinking it would be blocked. But imagine our surprise when we heard the latest news. ‘SMS’s coming in from the Autocracy of Zed are reporting that Zed has finally been hit by the full force of Hurricane Nemesis, where it first hit State House and blew the president all the way to Saudi Arabia…’

‘Oh good!’ laughed Sara. ‘He loves flying!’

‘Since ordinary citizens were all ordered to stay indoors, there are no reports of casualties. However, the entire police force, which was patrolling the streets, has been blown into the Zambezi. Reports say the hurricane has now passed, and the people are out in the street rejoicing.’

‘Let’s turn on ZNBC TV,’ I said. ‘Maybe there’s an announcement on who has taken over.’

The screen was filled with a huge desk, behind which stood a large imposing presidential chair. But the chair was empty! And yet a voice, which seemed to be coming from the empty chair, was saying ‘I promise you democracy, human rights, the rule of law, transparency, good governance, freedom from corruption and …’

‘That chair’s not empty!’ screamed Sara. ‘The dwarf is back!’

[Story based on an idea by Humphrey Milimo, with contributions from Ezra Kalala and Alexander Mwalula]

HYENA

Hyena

‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘before I go to bed, tell me a story with a happy ending.'

‘Once upon a time,’ I began, ‘in the land of Zed, there was a farmer called Mrs Zedia Bantubonse…’

‘I thought farmers were men,’ Nawiti objected.

‘Then you thought wrong,’ I replied. ‘In Zed the farmers were all women. Their husbands’ job was to drink beer and look for more wives, so that the farm could have more farmers.’

‘And what was the name of the farm?’

‘It was called Carrotseland, because Mrs Bantubonse was very good at growing carrots. But she also grew maize and groundnuts and kept cattle and goats. It was a very large farm, with thousands of workers living in the many villages of Carrotseland.’

‘So what was the problem?’ asked Nawiti.

‘As with all farms in Zed,’ I explained, ‘the problem was theft. The crops were being stolen by monkeys, eaten by rats and trampled by elephants and hippos. What with all the thieving animals and the lazy husbands, the farm just couldn’t make a profit.’

‘They just needed a big guard dog,’ declared Nawiti.

‘Several guard dogs had been trampled by the elephants, and one had been eaten by a crocodile. But one day a large hyena came knocking at her door. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Bantubonse,’ said the hyena politely, ‘but I have heard of your problem. Me and my friends can help. We can stay on your farm and protect everything.’

‘How much would I have to pay you?’ asked Mrs Bantubonse suspiciously.

‘No, you wouldn’t have to pay anything,’ the hyena assured her. ‘It’s all in the general interest. It will be a win-win situation. We shall eat the naughty monkeys, and your crops will be protected, and we shall all be happy.’

‘And what is your name?’ asked Mrs Bantubonse.

‘Call me Ragbo,’ he answered. ‘Or RB for short.’

‘So did Ragbo do a good job?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Everything went very well for about a year,’ I replied. ‘Then one day Ragbo again knocked on Mrs Bantubonse’s door. ‘Madam,’ he said politely, ‘your farm is now selling lots of produce and all you humans are now fat and rich, but we hyenas are poor and starving!’

‘How’s that?’ asked Mrs Bantubonse.

‘We have done our job so well that there are no monkeys left to eat,’ said Ragbo. ‘You just let us eat the goats, and you can have the rest, and we can all live happily together. It will be a win-win situation.’

‘So they signed the Carrotseland Agreement,’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘But a year later Ragbo knocked on her door again. ‘We have eaten all the goats, so now we need the cows. You can have the carrots and maize. It will be a win-win situation.’

‘Certainly not!’ said Mrs Bantubonse. ‘You’ve eaten too much already! You and all your friends can now leave my farm!’

‘Your order has no force,’ sneered Ragbo, ‘According to the Carrotseland Agreement, we hyenas are now in charge!’

‘Then we’ll have an election,’ declared Mrs Bantubonse, ‘to see who’s in charge!’

‘Very good,’ said Ragbo. ‘And as Chief of Security and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, I shall be the one to organize the election and count the votes.’

‘And so the hyenas organized themselves into the Movement of Murderous Dogs, and the humans became the Peoples’ Farm, and the election was held.’

‘Didn’t the cows also form a party?’ wondered Nawiti.

‘No. During the election the hyenas ate all the cows. But the monkeys all voted in favour of the Murderous Dogs.’

‘What!’ shouted Nawiti. ‘You said that the hyenas ate all the monkeys.’

‘I never said that,’ I retorted. ‘What I said was that Ragbo said that. But of course he was a compulsive liar. In fact he did a deal with the monkeys that they could eat the maize while the hyenas were eating the goats. You see, it was the monkeys who taught the hyenas how to steal, and Ragbo became best friends with Kolwe Kafupi, the chief of the thieving monkeys.

‘But surely there were many more humans than hyenas?’

‘Yes there were,’ I admitted. ‘But the humans lost the election because the hyenas did the counting. So they swallowed most of the human votes, and also some of the humans. So Ragbo declared he had won the election, appointed himself President of the new Republic of Chimbwi, and then tore up the Carrotseland Agreement.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘Did he turn out to be a good president?’

‘Of course not. He sold off all the land to foreigners from the Republic of Ching Chang, so the former farmers now became wage labourers on their own land. When they were sick and starving, he built them a big hospital.’

‘At least that was good, wasn’t it?’

‘No. The job of the hospital was to squeeze out the last drop of blood, which was being exported to the Republic of Ching Chang for $9,000 a ton.’

‘So the humans voted them out at the next election?’

‘Of course not. The hyenas were still counting the votes.’

‘So they went on strike!’

‘The hyenas had made strikes illegal!’

‘They protested in the street!’

‘That was treason, punishable by death!’

‘So how were they set free?’

‘There is still a legend amongst the people of Carrotseland that one day a young woman called Nawiti will come amongst them and set them free!’

‘Yes!’ shouted Nawiti. ‘When I grow up, I shall save them!’

‘There you are!’ I said gratefully. ‘The story has a happy ending!’

THE POLICE STATION

The Police Station

It was Saturday afternoon, and I was slumped in front of the TV with only a glass of brandy for company, when I heard a knock, and then a voice said ‘Odi?’

‘Odini,’ I replied, as into the room stepped a flashily dressed young man in a white linen suit, red silk shirt, and long pointed shiny black shoes with gold buckles.

‘Hullo Unko Kalaki,’ he said, stretching out a hand, ‘where’s Aunty Sara?’

‘Gone off somewhere to put the world to rights,’ I sighed.

‘I know you don’t remember me,’ he said, as I directed him towards a battered sofa. ‘I’m your nephew Dingiswayo, Aunty Jane’s second born!’

‘Now I remember,’ I laughed. ‘You’re Dirty Dingi, the one that got expelled from Lunami Secondary for killing and cooking the headmaster’s dog.’

‘That was long ago, Unko,’ he grinned, showing me several gold teeth. ‘I’m now a policeman! I’m Inspector Dingiswayo Kanunka, Officer-in-Charge at Lingalonga Police Post!’

‘Well done!’ I said, as I poured him a brandy. ‘I knew from your early days of thievery that you’d do well! But how did you manage to rise so quickly to such an elevated position in society?’

‘I bought the business for only 200 million last year!’

‘For 200 million?’ I gasped. ‘How is that possible?’

‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he laughed. ‘The previous year I had brought in four hot Mercs from Joburg. So I thought I’d invest the proceeds into a respectable little business.’

‘No, I meant how is it possible to buy a police post?’

‘You’re so out of date, Unko,’ laughed Dirty Dingi. ‘It’s all part of the government’s privatisation policy, introduced by little Kafupi. The Police Farce is now run on a franchise system, just like O’Hagans or Rhapsody’s.’

‘How can a police post be like Rhapsody’s.’

‘Simple,’ laughed Dirty Dingi. ‘Rhapsody’s is part of a franchise company that provides the menu, training and décor. In the same way Lingalonga Police Post is an independent business, except that it is provided with uniforms, guns and tear gas canisters by the franchise company, the Police Farce.’

‘So you went for special training?’

‘Of course. I had to learn how to hit people with batons, stamp on them, fire tear gas at them, shoot them, and so on. All the essential police services that the government provides to the people.’

‘So how does your business make money?’

‘In all sorts of ways. With our road blocks we charge motorists for passing through Lingalonga. We charge unlicensed liquor traders for protection from prosecution. We charge complainants for the service of locking up suspects, and then charge the suspect’s family for letting them out again. The business is a little gold mine.’

‘Don’t you have to charge suspects and take them to court?’

‘This is called community policing, so we administer our own punishments as an immediate deterrent. After we’ve finished with them they’re in no condition to go to court.’

‘What about the women prisoners, do they get the same treatment?’

‘We are very gender aware,’ he leered, as he licked his lips and checked his zip. ‘For the ladies we provide a very special service.’

‘What about this recent riot in Sewage Compound, where the police had to flee?’

‘It seems the Sewage police were over zealous in their work. At KigaliTraining School we were trained to beat with sticks but not axes, whip with belts but not barbed wire, squeeze testicles but not pull them off. So I always follow the rules so as not to annoy the citizens.’

‘So you never take people to court?’

‘Only in special cases. For instance, if one of our thieves strays into Kabulonga and steals from the rich, then of course that’s a court case. If we don’t protect the rich from the poor then the entire economic system would collapse. And of course if the leadership wants to fix somebody, then it is our national duty to find something they have done wrong, and immediately hand them over to the court. These are not matters for our own profit, but our obligations to the overall franchise company, the Police Farce.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I must congratulate you on running such a profitable little business. I can see that, in the present political climate, you’re just the sort of person who is going to go far.’

‘That’s why I came to see Aunty,’ he answered in a confidential tone. ‘I’m planning to stand as member of parliament for Lingalonga at the next election, so I’ll need campaign funds for bribing voters.’

‘And what will be your campaign manifesto?’

‘I shall tell them that if they vote for me they will get electricity, a clinic and a school – all the things they have only dreamed about. And I shall tell them that if I find anyone who intends to vote against me, I shall set the thugs of the Merciless Mad Dogs upon them.’

‘There you are!’ I said. ‘You already have your established methods and principles. So why change now, and start bribing people?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, as he stood up to go. ‘But you’re right. My principle has always been that people must pay me, but I never pay them.’

‘Better to avoid bribery,’ I said, as I opened the door for him.

‘Thanks for the advice, Unko,’ he replied. ‘We must all continue the fight against corruption.’

Under-Five

Under-Five

I was slumped in front of the TV waiting for the news, when instead came a grim picture of two young boys, stripped to the waist in the hot sun, swinging pickaxes at some hard and unrelenting rock on a barren hillside. Then the picture switched to a smooth fat old gentleman in a Saville Row suit, standing in his luxury mansion. He looked straight into the camera and said ‘Keep working hard, so that you can maintain me in the style to which I have become accustomed.’

Then, typical of ZNBC, everything went blank, for several minutes. When the picture finally came back, the scene was much the same, except that the fat old gentleman was gone, and instead the room was full of small children. In the big chair in the middle sat a little girl, perhaps four years old. I recognized her immediately, it was my granddaughter Nawiti! She and her pre-school friends must have gone on a trip to State House!

‘Hi, Nawiti!’ I said, waving at the TV. ‘Say hi to Grandpa!’

Nawiti leant towards the microphone. ‘This is your New Leader Nawiti speaking on behalf of my new cabinet. This afternoon, at 16.00 hours precisely, the under-fives of this country walked into all the main instootions of guberment, where we found all the fat old men drunk and asleep. In the interest of good governance, we have taken control of the state, and the constootion is spended.’

‘Ha ha, Nawiti,’ I chuckled, ‘that’s a good joke. Not much left to suspend!’

‘We children,’ shouted Nawiti, waving her arms, ‘are fed up with these incompetent old men running this country. They are not only greedy and lazy, but they have very long fingers. We shall bring all this theft to an end!’ As she spoke, she raised her hands in the air, as did all of her cabinet. ‘Now you have a leader and a cabinet who all have short fingers.’

‘Grandpa won’t ask for much,’ I said, taking another sip of brandy. ‘Just the occasional trip to Paris.’

‘These old men were always going on trips abroad because they couldn’t understand computers. Your new government has mastered computers in pre-school, and we shall conduct all international consultations by video conferencing on Skype.’

‘So that’s why my broadband bill is so high!’ I shouted at the TV.

‘Children of Zambia, we are free at last, free at last. We the children of Zambia have always been in the majority, but we have been left without a vote. We the young ones who have all the ideas, we were imprisoned in schools by these geriatric exploiters, whose purpose is to stop us thinking and make us obey their mindless instructions.’

‘Heh heh, little girl,’ I chuckled, ‘what d’you think you’ll turn into when you grow up!’

‘For years we have endured being treated like second class citizens. But a single spark can start a prairie fire. Last week one of our geriatric leaders, in looking for yet another insult to throw at another geriatric leader, called him an under-five. By the end of that same day we had our own Under-Five page on Facebook, and the revolution was under way!’

‘Children of Zambia! Did you know that while these old fools have been spending millions of dollars going to South Africa to treat their geriatric diseases, 30% of children die before the age of five from disease and starvation. If these were adults dying, they would call it genocide. Or a holocaust. But we children are expendable, so they call it under-five mortality!’

‘Terribly sorry Nawiti,’ I sighed, ‘Your Grandpa is a geriatric monster!’

‘You old geriatrics! We are no longer their slaves. No longer your domestic servants! No longer your unpaid labour! No longer your rock breakers! No longer your orphans! No longer your street kids, to live in your drains like rats! We have come out from our slavery and we are taking over!’

‘I wish now,’ I said, tears rolling down my cheeks, ‘that I’d never asked her to fetch me the brandy bottle.’

‘Now I come to the instootional changes,’ declared Nawiti. ‘All hospitals are now children’s hospitals, and the previous under-five clinics become adult clinics, where adults will be inoculated against greed and cruelty. The Police Farce is abolished, and replaced by former School Prefects. All innocent and unconvicted prisoners are released, and to be replaced by the criminal police. All schools are now for adults, where they will learn how to treat children properly, without beating, abusing or sexual molestation. Parliament will become a Comedy Theatre, where children can go to listen to old people talk nonsense. State House is abolished, and will be transformed into an amusement park with slides, swimming pools, swings, roundabouts, jumping castles, and…’

As she was talking I heard the door bang and in came Sara. ‘What’s on the news?’

‘Revolution!’ I said. ‘Children have taken over. All adults have to go back to school!’

‘Rubbish!’ she laughed. ‘You were asleep in front of the TV, as usual!’

Just then Nawiti came running round the corner. ‘Aaarghh! Aaarghh! I screamed.

‘Are you alright, Grandpa?’ she giggled, as she gave me a little kiss. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘Go to the cupboard,’ I said. ‘And fetch my brandy bottle.’

Order! Order!

Order! Order!

‘In parliament today,’ said the newsreader, ‘the government introduced the First Reading of the new Abolition of Corruption Bill...’

Sara and I had just settled down for the 7 o’clock news, ready to be entertained with more preposterous propaganda. ‘Isn’t it sad,’ I said. ‘Forty years of anti-corruption, and corruption is worse than ever!’

As we were talking, the picture had moved to parliament, where a few overweight gentlemen were asleep. Also asleep, on a high chair in the middle, sat a strange figure with long white hair and a long black skirt. ‘Is that a man or a woman?’ I wondered.

‘It’s the Speaker.’

‘But is it a man or a woman?’

‘Difficult to tell,’ she laughed.

Then something very strange happened. An empty black suit, which had been draped over one of the green benches, suddenly stood up and adjusted the microphone in front of it. Then, out of the collar of the empty suit rose a long thin red-lipped snake. And out of the red lips came a forked tongue. ‘Mr Speaker, sir, I rise to introduce the First Reading of the Abolition of Corruption Bill. This effectively replaces the earlier Anti-Corruption Act of 1980.

‘At last!’ I cried. ‘Corruption to be abolished!’

‘The earlier act now needs revising because corruption was defined as abuse of office for personal gain. That was during the Second Republic when the government was concerned with social rather than private gain. Now, in this Fourth Republic, we are in an era of entrepreneurialism and promotion of private enterprise. Nowadays ministers are encouraged to set up their own businesses and get rich, in order set an example to other citizens.

‘But unfortunately, ministers have been constrained from making good management decisions for enhanced and exemplary private enrichment, for fear of this archaic law which prohibits private enrichment, calls it abuse of office, and then defines this as corruption. But with this new Bill, we can bring the law up to date, by making clear that using government resources for private wealth creation is the desired form of economic development. With this re-definition, therefore, the earlier conception of corruption falls away, and is effectively abolished.’

But as he was talking, a burly figure with a huge bristly white beard walked into the chamber and sat on the back bench. The Deputy Speaker poked the Speaker in the ribs, and he woke up with a start, shouting ‘Order, order!’, thereby waking up the entire house.

‘That’s the dreaded Pong Mpongo!’ said Sara. ‘He’s the opposition!’

‘Is it not corruption,’ shouted Mpongo, ‘for the police to set up roadblocks to enrich themselves?’

‘Certainly not!’hissed the red-lipped snake. ‘We are encouraging privatization and self-reliance in the Police Farce.’

‘Is it in order for service chiefs to set up their own factories to provide uniforms for the troops?’ snarled Mpongo.

Now the Speaker was truly aroused from his slumber. ‘Order! Order! You may only speak when I tell you to speak, that’s why I’m called the Speaker!’ he screamed.

‘This law encourages ministers to steal!’ snorted Mpongo.

‘Be careful what you say,’ hissed the snake menacingly, ‘Ministers act on behalf of our Beloved Head of State!’

‘Thieving ministers must be brought to court!’ shouted Mpongo.

‘His Excellency would never allow it,’ sneered the snake.

‘If he doesn’t allow it, then where is the independence of the judiciary?’ Mpongo crowed in triumph.

‘Now the Ancient Unspeakable Speaker rose trembling to his feet. ‘Order! Order!’

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Mpongo, ‘what do you order?’

‘I order the Parliamentary Disciplinary Committee to consider whether you should be expelled from this House for ignoring the Speaker. I order the Police Farce to arrest you for using the derogatory and dimunitive ‘he’ to refer to His Most Beautiful and Sweet Smelling Excellency the President. And I order the Chief Injustice to bring you before a full bench for questioning the independence of the judiciary.’

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Mpongo, as he walked out of the chamber. ‘You’ve forgotten about the separation of powers. You’re ordering the end of the constitution…’

Suddenly the screen went blank, and then the newsreader re-appeared. ‘We must apologise to the viewers. We seem to have lost the rest of that clip. However, in a later development, Mr Pong Mpongo was arrested by alert security officers in the parliament carpark, for threatening the security of the state by reversing without a reversing licence.

‘In another development in Mongu, St Paul has been arrested for holding a meeting in his church without a police permit, and for being in unauthorized possession of a placard bearing the anti-government slogan Thou shalt not steal.

‘But in a more positive development, the Secretary for Propaganda, Mr Dickhead Jelly, has announced that the president is pleased to promote the Auditor General, Ms Granny Chongololo to the diplomatic service, where she is now the Second Secretary in Northern Siberia.

I turned off the TV and banged the table. ‘Things are going from bad to worse! This country is falling apart!’

‘Order! Order!’ shouted Sara.

‘Order? What do you order?’

‘I order you,’ she laughed, ‘to go to the sideboard and get yourself a double brandy!’

Rumble in the Jungle

Rumble in the Jungle

Sara was already hidden behind The Post as I joined her for breakfast. ‘What’s in the paper this morning?’ I asked.

‘Tonight it’s the Rumble in the Jungle. The notorious Punching Fist is challenging the Mighty Monstrous Dinosaur for the crown, to be King of Zambia.’

‘Really?’ I said, as I poured my cornflakes. ‘Isn’t there supposed to be an election?’

‘You’re completely out of date,’ laughed Sara. ‘It was one of the main recommendations of the National Conference of Clowns. The Dinosaur even announced in September last year that he was going into training for the big fight.’

‘So why do away with elections?’

‘They had degenerated into warfare between rival militia,’ she laughed, as she cracked open a boiled egg with one blow of her knife. ‘So the NCC decided to revert to the old traditional African method of confining the fight to the two main contenders.’

So later that same day Sara and I were in our balcony seats in a packed Mulungushi Hall, waiting for the big fight to begin. Down below us was the boxing ring.

‘It’s well past eight,’ I said ‘where are the officials?’ But as I spoke three old men hobbled in with the help of walking sticks.’

‘Most of our judges are terribly bent,’ said Sara sadly.

‘Their backs are probably bent from too much studying of law books,’ I suggested.

‘From constantly attending to their pockets,’ she replied.

Now there was a general booing and hissing, as a sinister figure in a black cloak slithered into the ring. ‘That’s the red-lipped snake,’ said Sara. ‘He makes the rules, decides all cases, and controls the judges. He’s going to be the referee.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

Next down the aisle came Punching Fist, followed by his faithful retinue.

‘So how did the Punching Fist become the number one contender?’ I asked Sara. ‘He looks old and battered!’

‘He appointed himself as chief contender years ago,’ laughed Sara, ‘but he’s never won a fight in his life.’ As we were talking, poor old Punching Fist managed to climb through the ropes at the third attempt, and began running round in circles, punching the air in a very aggressive fashion. ‘His real name is Cycle Mata,’ said Sara. ‘He’s very experienced at running round in circles.’

Now, at last the Mighty Monstrous Dinosaur came lumbering in from the back entrance, missed the ring entirely, and went lumbering out through the front door, as his handlers frantically tried to pull him back. ‘He’s got no vision,’ Sara laughed, ‘and no sense of direction.’

At last they brought the old dinosaur back. ‘I thought you said he’d been in training for a year,’ I said. ‘He’s enormously fat.’

‘He trains by getting fatter,’ explained Sara. ‘Wait ’til you see his fighting strategy.’

As we were talking a huge square of leather, hanging from a rig of four ropes, came down from the ceiling. The dinosaur stepped onto it, and was lifted into the ring. The timekeeper rang the bell, and the fight began. But as PF rushed towards his opponent, MMD was lifted up into the air by the rig, and PF found himself punching the thin air.

‘What’s going on?’ I shouted to Sara, as the crowd cheered.

‘It’s called rigging. The dinosaur swings on the rig like a battering ram, and tries to knock Cycle Mata out of the ring. The strategy is to float like a butterfly and swing like a tree.’

Again MMD came swinging overhead, as PF tried to punch, but couldn’t reach. ‘Low blow!’ shouted the Red-lipped snake, as he called PF over for a caution. With PF’s attention now distracted by the referee, MMD came swinging back and caught PF from behind, knocking him clean out of the ring. ‘Knock-out!’ declared the referee.

But no sooner had he spoken than one of the ropes of the rig fell loose, the dinosaur tipped sideways, fell heavily onto the canvas, and lay there motionless. ‘Oh my God!’ said Sara. ‘They shouldn’t have let old Velvet Mango do the rigging. He’s now too old and doddery! The rope must have slipped from his hand!’

The crowd sat there in stunned silence as a black hearse drove in, and the ghastly remains of MMD were carried away.

‘MMD is the winner by unanimous decision of the bench,’ intoned the chief judge, as all three judges pocketed their brown envelopes.

‘I appeal against the decision,’ shouted Cycle Mata, ‘because of the blatant rigging, the brown envelopes that were given to the judges, and because I wasn’t knocked out. Furthermore, my opponent is now dead.’

The red-lipped snake turned on him angrily. ‘MMD is not dead, but has merely been sent to Paris for refrigeration treatment. Your appeal cannot be considered because such an appeal would cast doubt on the integrity of our judges. Case dismissed.’

‘That was inconclusive,’ I said to Sara as we walked home. ‘Now nobody is king.’

‘Nobody is much better,’ said Sara. ‘Nobody to steal the money.’

GREAT BAG OF MAIZE

Great Bag of Maize

‘And when,’ I asked, ‘did you first become known as the Great Bag of Maize, or GBM?’

‘Look, Kalaki,’ he chuckled, as his vast belly wobbled around in his huge armchair. ‘I’m in the maize business. The fellows who grow maize become smaller and poorer. But the ones who buy it grow larger and richer.’

‘Sitting here and looking back at those events of two years ago,’ I said, ‘how do you feel about it now? There you were, with all the money you wanted. You’d bought yourself a mansion in Kabungula and a seat in parliament. Then suddenly you were arrested for beating your wife, and people were calling you the Great Bullying Monster. Wasn’t that a Gigantic Big Mistake?’

‘You don’t understand, Kalaki. I was the head of a large family and I had a big business and plenty of money. My next career move was obviously the presidency.’

‘I understand that alright. It’s a natural progression. You’d got plenty of excess cash to buy votes, you naturally want to go for the top job. But my question is, instead of getting yourself on all the front pages for some charitable work, such as distributing peanuts to the orphans of maize farmers who had committed suicide, you managed to get on all the front pages for battering your wife!’

‘Exactly. It was a good career move. You see, people were fed up with lies and hypocrisy. They wanted an honest man as president. God appointed me head of my household in Kabungula. So if my family respect God they must respect me. God has given me the job of maintaining discipline, to ensure that all members of the household are there to serve me and to fear me. When I walk into the house, I don’t expect to hear anybody cough, let alone be cheeky.’

‘But your party, the Putrefaction Front, was in favour of equal rights for women.’

‘The Putrefaction Front!’ shouted GBM, ‘stinks of hypocrisy! They support democracy in public, but they are little kings in their own homes! They beat their wives in private, but denounce wife-beaters in public.’

‘So when you came out of jail, you started your own party?’

‘When I came out of jail, I was a national hero. Within a couple of months, after I had got back into training, I won the vacant All-Africa Wife-Beating Championship (WBC) belt.’

‘You didn’t think of fighting other men?’

‘I am a peaceful man, I’ve always been against fighting, especially other men. We men must unite together, in order to discipline our wives. Only a properly disciplined wife can love her husband. When we have discipline in the home, then we can have discipline in the nation.’

‘So was that when you started your own party?’

‘Yes, that was the beginning of the New PF, the Punching Fist.’ He waved his fist proudly towards the huge French window, through which we could see the grand drive into State House. ‘We won the election easily, only six months after being registered. Velvet Mango devised such a crafty strategy that we didn’t even have to rig. The women’s vote was split between the three other parties, so we won easily.’

As we were talking, a woman with a bandage over her eye hobbled on crutches past the French window. ‘That’s my beloved wife Punchbag,’ said GBM proudly. ‘She’s wearing the latest in First Lady fashion, and many other women are now dressing like her.’

‘And is government now different under the wise guidance of the Punching Fist?’

‘Much the same,’ he laughed. ‘Our discrimination against women is much the same as during the previous government. The only difference is that the previous government claimed that it was struggling to end discrimination, whereas we are honest, and openly support the subordinate position of women in our traditional culture.’

‘And what about other policies?’

‘Our policy is to maintain discipline in the state just as we do in the home. Any critics or protesters are immediately jumped upon by the police, beaten up and thrown into jail.’

‘Isn’t that the same as before?’

‘Exactly. But the previous government claimed it supported freedom of expression and freedom of association. Whereas I am very clear that I am the Father of the Nation, and that anybody who says otherwise should expect to get thumped.’

Just then we heard a huge crash. GBM struggled to heave himself out of his chair. We rushed to the French window, to see that the huge wrought iron gates had been pushed over, and thousands of women were pouring into the garden as the guards scampered.

GBM ran squealing for his life, like a demented hippo, as angry women chased him across the ruins of the golf course. I stood there at the portico, watching the scene. Then towards me came Esther Phiri, punching the air with her red boxing gloves. ‘Thanks for delaying him, Kalaki!’ she said softly as she slipped her strong arm around me and gave me a powerful kiss. ‘I’m giving you a job in my new government. You’re going to be my First Lady!’

‘Not me!’ I shouted, as I jumped on my bicycle. ‘I’m off!’

[Kalaki acknowledges help from several Facebook friends, especially Vincent Sampa for introducing me to Esther, and Anthony Mwanaumo for the WBC]

TV Script: THE LAST VIEWER

[Kalaki was recently asked to write the script for some five minute TV skits. This is one of his efforts...]

SCRIPT for TV Skit

TITLE: The Last Viewer

SCENE: MUVI TV Newsroom

CHARACTERS: TV News Announcer, reporters, interviewees.

SITUATION: A newscast, with presenter at news desk, with notice at his side saying ‘MUVI TV NEWS’. The news presenter is evidently in the middle of the news, since there is no introduction to the news.

_____________________

DIALOGUE:

Newscaster: State House has announced that tomorrow will be a day of national mourning for the late Mr Kukhulu Pirika of Katete, who has died aged ninety-two. Mr Pirika was famous as the last surviving viewer of Zambia National Bootlicking Television.

Sources close to the family of Mr Pirika have revealed that the veteran TV viewer had been deaf and paralysed for the past five years of his life, and this may explain why he had never transferred his allegiance to MUVI TV.

I now hand you over to our reporter Kafunsa Mafunso, who has asked government officials about the implications of this sad development.

The scene now switches to the luxurious office of the DG of Bootlicking Television, with the DG lounging back in his luxurious leather office chair…

Kafunso Mafunso: Mr Panda Kanthu, as Director General of Bootlicking TV, how do you feel about the sad departure of your last viewer?

Mr Panda Kanthu: All I can say is that the entire station has been left feeling empty and purposeless ever since our famous lone viewer was taken from us. But the news has been rather delayed, because Mr Pirika actually died on 14^th December last year.

Kafunso Mafunso: Last year! Then why was the death only announced this morning?

Mr Panda Kanthu: I am not in a position to comment on official matters of state. You’d better ask the Honorable Minister of Misinformation and Propaganda.

Now the scene changes to Kafunso Mafunso holding the microphone in front of the Minister

Kafunso Mafunso: Mr Shikashiwa, can you confirm reports that Mr Pirika, the last known viewer of Bootlicking Television, actually died last December. And if so, why has the announcement been delayed?

Rotten Shikashiwa: You should know that there is no way I can be expected to comment on information which is sensitive and borders on issues of national security. This is why you journalists in the independent press are now facing statutory regulation!

However, the intrepid Kafunso Mafunso is undeterred, and now tries the same question on the Minister of Miscommunication, who was caught walking out of the Ministry HQ.

Kafunso Mafunso: Honorable Lunglunglunglungwa, as, Minister of Miscommunication, do you have any explanation as to why government has delayed news of the death of Mr Pirika for over seven months.

Mr Hefty Lunglunglunglwanga: You journalists are always trying to read sinister conspiracy into simple and straightforward matters. News of Mr Pirika’s death was delayed merely to give government time to employ RB Capital Partners to carry out a valuation of Bootlicking TV, pending privatisation.

Kafunso Mafunso: And has the valuation now been completed?

Mr Hefty Lunglunglunglungwa: Yes, the company was found to have assets of five hundred houses, nine hundred motor vehicles, and one TV camera. On the other hand it had liabilities of 300 billion, as monies owed to ZESCO customers for paying for a service they never received. Accordingly, Bootlicking TV had been valued at ten kwacha.

Kafunso Mafunso: So will it now be privatised?

Mr Hefty Lunglunglunglungwa: I’m amazed that you young journalists are so out of date. It is now three weeks since Bootlicking TV was bought by Libyan Lies Ltd, which has undertaken to make His Excellency Loopy Vuvuzela Nyamsoya just as popular as President Muamar Gadaffi.

Now the picture returns to the newscaster, sitting at his desk in the newsroom.

Newscaster: And here is a late news item just received from State House: His Excellency Mr Loopy Vuvuzela Nyamasoya, Commander in Chief and Father of the Nation, has just left for a six month working holiday at his new holiday villa in Libya.