Long Voyage to Democracy

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!’

In the Dark

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!’

Juju

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.’

THE TOWER

The Tower

The people of Zed were mighty puzzled. Right in the middle of town there was a big new building going up, but nobody knew what is was, or what it was going to be.

The first thing that happened was that the whole area was surrounded by a high wall, which was painted black. Then the huge lorries started going in. They went in full of bricks, but came out full of soil. The rumour went round that the building was beginning with six underground floors of torture chambers for the enemies of the government.

After three years a massive structure began to rise above the level of the wall. Was it a prison? A military base? A new headquarters for the Party Militia? Nobody knew.

Up and up it went After another three years it was thirty stories high, bigger than anything else in town. Some people said it was to be the new headquarters for Muammar Ghaddafi, who has just escaped from Libya, and was rumoured to have bought the Republic of Zed for sixty billion dollars.

And another strange thing. The building wasn’t straight. It was winding up into the sky like a crooked snake. For some people this was a sure sign that it was being built by the government, which was notoriously crooked, and couldn’t do anything straight.

But others said that it was foolish to wonder about the purpose of the building, since the government had never had any purpose. It was just being built to enrich government ministers, who always got a ten percent cut on building contracts. And it was crooked because it was being built by crooked contractors who were saving on the cement, using cheap girders, and had never heard of spirit levels.

Finally, after eight years, it was finished, all hundred stories of it, completely coated in black glass, and winding up into the sky like a crooked black snake. The poor citizens of Zed, whose money had been used to build this monstrosity, looked at it with silent rage. Protest was impossible, because protests were met with bullets. And rumour had it that the Crooked Black Tower was specially designed for government snipers.

But now that the building was finished, the truth was finally revealed. The Crooked Black tower had been built in the image of the Crooked Chief Minister, the dreaded Red-lipped Snake, who now stood up in parliament and explained everything. ‘Mr Speaker,’ he said, ‘many of you have been wondering about the huge black tower which the President has generously built for his citizens. This is to be called Constitution Tower, because it embodies the new Constitution which the President is bequeathing to his people.

‘I am pleased to announce that all the institutions of government will now move to the new Constitution, which has been cleverly designed to reveal the new shape of government. On the top floor will be the Presidential Suite, so that the President, who is appointed by God, and is advised by God, can be closer to God.’

‘How will he reach the top floor?’ asked a cheeky fellow on the back bench.

‘The President will use the landing strip on the roof,’ answered the Red-lipped Snake, ‘so that he can fly directly from there to other countries.

‘On the next floor down will be myself as Chief Minister, to take all administrative decisions, since the President will either be talking to God or otherwise out of the country.

‘On the next floor down will be the Ministry of Law, employed to revise the law on a daily basis, in line with the President’s latest whim, as interpreted by myself.’

‘Then what will happen to parliament?’ asked the same cheeky voice.

‘That will be replaced by a rubber stamp,’ declared the Red-lipped Snake.

‘And will that rubber stamp be in parliament?’

‘Certainly not,’ snorted the Red-lipped Snake. ‘It will be on my desk. And on the floor below mine will be the Director of Prosecutions, who will take directions from me on who should be charged with which offence, and who should be given a nolle prosequi, and so on. On the floor below Prosecutions will be the offices of the judiciary.’

‘But won’t they need courts?’

‘In the new simplified Constitution, the Director of Prosecutions will also give the judges instructions on required verdicts and length of sentences. By dispensing with the need to hear evidence, the need for courts automatically falls away.’

‘What about the anti-corruption institutions?’

‘They will work on the floor below the Shushushu, and continue to take instructions from the Shushushu on which enemies of the government should be…

As he was talking there was an almighty thunder of rumbling and crashing, as the walls of parliament shook and the debating chamber filled with dust. The Great Crooked Tower had collapsed, falling vertically into its own basement.

As the news spread, somebody laughed. And then somebody else laughed. And then the whole nation laughed and laughed. They laughed for days. And after that, whenever the Red-lipped Snake appeared in public, people started laughing again. Just one glance at the Crooked Snake and they would remember the Crooked Constitution, and they would fall down on the ground and laugh helplessly.

And, I can hear you asking, did the Red-lipped Snake resign? No, he did not. For in the strange Republic of Zed, there was no word for ‘resign’ in the dictionary.

Magic Mathematics

Magic Mathematics

Yesterday I had the privilege of interviewing Professor Kafupi Wabufi PhD (Philosopher of Dribbling), Vice-Chancellor of the University of Magic Mathematics Development (MMD).

‘Tell me Professor Kafupi,’ I said, ‘what is Magic Mathematics?’

The huge glass windows looked out onto the lush green lawns of the newly established university. The little professor, popularly known as Kadoli to his students, sat high on a pile of cushions in a large armchair, waving his arms excitedly as he spoke.

‘Look Kalaki,’ he said, ‘Magic Mathematics is nothing new, it has always been with us. Magic Mathematics is our own indigenous mathematics. For too long we have suffered under the yoke of Colonial Mathematics, which has controlled our monetary system, our budgeting and even our development plans. We are a sovereign nation, and the time has come to throw off this foreign inference in our domestic affairs.’

‘I’m very impressed with your intellectual fervour,’ I said. ‘But what has prompted this sudden national interest in indigenous mathematics?’

‘The coming election was the turning point,’ he declared. ‘We were about to suffer the indignity of having foreigners flooding into the country to add up the results from polling stations. They were about to ask impertinent questions about whether our loyal Election Corruption of Zed would be correct when they inevitably declare that our Beloved Leader has again been re-elected.’

‘Prompting Nyamasoya to issue his famous presidential decree declaring mathematics to be illegal.’

‘Don’t try to be funny, Kalaki,’ Kadoli frowned. ‘It was only Colonial Mathematics which was declared illegal. For years we have been studying this colonial hangover in our schools, but nobody has ever understood it. It has caused a series of Ministers of Finance to get into a riotous numerical muddle while trying to announce the budget.’

‘A colonial trick to make our ministers look ridiculous.’

‘Exactly, Kalaki, you’ve got the point. So Nyamasoya decided to ban Colonial Mathematics, and set up this new University of Magic Mathematics Development. In future, nobody is allowed to practice Mathematics unless he has a degree from this university and a Licence to Practice Mathematics from the Department of Indigenous Culture.’

‘Half a minute,’ I said. ‘If we can go back to the beginning, what was wrong with the election monitors tabulating the votes from polling stations?’

‘Look,’ said Kadoli in exasperation, ‘isn’t it obvious? It’s the same problem that makes numerical discussions so hilarious in parliament! People are trying to talk Colonial Arithmetic, but inside their heads they are actually busy with traditional indigenous Magic Arithmetic.’

‘The Election Corruption of Zed had the same problem?’

‘Let me explain,’ said Kafupi patiently. ‘Traditionally, counting for a chief uses decimal arithmetic. So 11 votes for the president means 1 ten and 1 one, or eleven. But counting of opponents is done in binary arithmetic. Therefore 11 votes for an opposition candidate means 1 two and 1 one, making three. Not understanding this intrusion of Magic Mathematics, monitors would read these two numbers as the same, therefore drawing all sorts of wrong conclusions.’

‘Like claiming that opposition votes had been under counted?’

‘Exactly. Or claiming that the numbers of votes was higher than the number of registered voters. Thus causing alarm and chaos in the nation, and a potential breakdown in law and order.’

‘A criminal act!’

‘Exactly!’

‘In what other ways do people count?’

‘Traditionally we count money as six goats equal one cow. Six cows equal one wife. Six wives equal one Merc. Six Mercs equal one mansion.’

‘So when a ministry is given an allocation of 100 billion kwacha, how do they see this money?’

‘The minister probably works it out as forty Mercs and twenty mansions, and starts distribution accordingly.’

‘And does Magic Mathematics also have Magic Geometry?’

‘Of course it does,’ said Kafupi sternly. ‘In Magic Geometry there’s no such thing as a straight line. The shortest distance between two points is a very complicated curve which only experts can understand.’

‘That’s how you became Professor of Dodging!’

‘Exactly,’ he laughed. But as he spoke, the secretary put his head round the door. ‘Excuse me Vice-Chancellor,’ she said, ‘the Great Leader is here to see you.’

‘Tell him to come in,’ said Kadoli.

But nobody came in. Instead we saw Nyamasoya walking outside on the lawn. He made for a tree, walked round it three times, then headed for Kadoli’s office and came in through the French Door.’

‘He’s a great student of mine,’ Kafupi whispered. ‘He never does anything straight.’ Then he whispered to me ‘Traditionally you have to shake his hand twenty-seven times, because he now holds twenty-seven positions, which means that has to be treated as twenty-seven different people.’

‘Twenty-eight,’ laughed Nyamasoya, as he shook my hand. ‘I’ve just appointed myself Chief Justice.’

‘What brings you here?’ asked Kadoli.

‘I’m thinking of sacking the Auditor General,’ he replied.

‘Go ahead,’ laughed Kadoli. ‘Arrest her for secretly practicing Colonial Arithmetic!’

‘Inde! Yebo!’ laughed Nyamasoya, as he ambled three times round the sofa, jumped happily in the air and then hopped out through the French window. ‘Now I shall also be Auditor General!’

‘So now he’s in charge of everything!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ laughed Kadoli, as he took a remote control from his pocket. ‘And I’m in charge of him!’

‘You’re heading,’ I said, ‘for a Monstrous Mathematical Disaster!’

_________________________

[Based on a story idea provided by Sydney Imasiku and Mayani Changala]

The Refugee

The Refugee

I was sitting on the veranda sipping a brandy and contemplating the infinite when round the corner came a scraggy figure with a bandage round his head. Heaving his backpack onto the ground, he clasped his arms around me. ‘Uncle Kalaki!’ he exclaimed, ‘Bwanji! How nice to see you again!’

‘Bwino! Good gracious! It’s Henry! Aunty Alice’s boy! I hardly recognized you! What has happened? You look like a refugee from a war zone!’

‘I am,’ he laughed. ‘Most of the boys got rounded up, but I managed to get on a bus. The conductor hid me on the luggage rack.’

‘Come and have a bath,’ I said, ‘then I’ll find some of Jumani’s old clothes, and clean up that wound on your head, then you can tell me all about it.’

An hour later he made a second and more civilized appearance on the veranda. ‘Now tell me all about it,’ I said. ‘Did you set fire to the headmaster? Kill his dog? Impregnate his daughter?’

‘It began from almost nothing,’ he said, as he sipped a cup of cocoa. ‘On the first day of term, my friend Simukoko was sent home for not bringing his school fees. He had only 330 pins instead of 700. He pleaded with the Headmaster to defer the remainder until next term, since his parents were both unemployed. But Mr Wopusa wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘So you were all annoyed.’

‘Simukoko is captain of the school football team, and we were due to play St Joseph’s the following Saturday. That evening we called a meeting and decided to send a delegation to talk to Mr Wopusa the following morning.’

‘But he still refused?’

‘He said he couldn’t make an exception for one, and without money he couldn’t run the school, and we were trying to undermine his authority. Then he put us all in Saturday morning detention for insubordination.’

‘Wasn’t he over-reacting a bit?’

‘He always does. He seems to have no confidence in his position. Some say he’s got no degree and others say he only got the job because he’s related to the minister.’

‘So you called another meeting.’

‘Yes. And a lot of things were said. It was pointed out that the government has declared that education is free, but this Wopusa has invented a lot of fees. We have a computer fund, but no computers. A bus fund but no bus. A swimming pool fund but no pool. Meanwhile Wopusa sends his children to Simba School at $2,000 a term and drives round in a Jaguar. So we resolved to go on class boycott until Simukoko was reinstated.’

‘So Wopusa expelled the ringleaders.’

‘Exactly. How did you know?’

‘Incompetent bullies always overreact, and then get deeper and deeper into trouble. So you had to call another meeting.’

‘This time we invited the press, and voiced our complaints that the national education policy wasn’t being followed. There were not supposed to be fees, but the Headmaster was collecting fees and misusing them. There was supposed to be equality of opportunity, but other schools are much better than ours. We demanded the sacking of the Headmaster.’

‘So instead Wopusa sacked all of you?’

‘Exactly. The next morning we all got expulsion letters, which stated that we would be allowed to return only after we, and our parents, had signed a declaration that we would never contact the press, would never organize a class boycott and would never hold another meeting.’

‘But you called another meeting?’

‘We had no choice. The next morning we congregated in the quadrangle to plan our march to the Provincial Education Officer, to demand our educational rights as laid out in the Education Policy, and our human rights as laid out in the Constitution, as explained in our Civics textbook.’

‘And did you march?’

‘No. The Police Mobile Unit arrived with batons, tear gas and guns, surrounded the school and attacked us. The battle lasted for the rest of the day, leaving two students dead, ten with bullet wounds, two hundred in prison and five hundred hiding in the forest’

‘So that’s when you burnt the place down?’

‘Yes,’ he said ruefully. ‘That battle saw the end of Limulunga High School. We razed it to the ground. The best bit was burning the Jaguar, it went up like a Tunisian fireworks display.’

I walked into the house and collected Jumani’s old baseball cap, and a large blue RB chitenge. Then I went back to the veranda and asked Henry to stand up. I put the cap on his head and the chitenge as a gown round his shoulders.

‘You have now learned that all law and human rights are not worth the paper they are written on, and the parasites in charge are a bunch of idiots who will do anything to stay in power.’ Then I rolled up a copy of Sangwapo and gave it to him as his certificate. ‘Congratulations,’ I said, ‘Your education is now complete. You are now a graduate.’

‘Thanks, Grandpa,’ he said. ‘A graduate of what?’

‘A graduate of Political Science.’

‘Shall I be able to get a job?’

‘You’ve already got a job,’ I said. ‘You are now a political thug. You’ve been educated by the government.’

The Godfather

The Godfather

‘What’s showing on TVZ tonight?’ I asked.

‘The Godfather,’ replied Sara.

‘That film,’ I said. ‘must be about forty years old.’

‘Quite recent,’ said Sara. ‘TVZ is trying to modernize.’

Sure enough, when the titles came up, there was The Godfather, directed by Francis Ford Copolla, starring Marlon Brando and Al Pacino.

And there was the famous opening scene. A busy city street, along which comes a speeding black limousine, coming to a screeching halt outside the Laundry Bank. Out jump eight men all wearing black suits and dark glasses, wielding machine guns as they dash into the bank, with people scattering in all directions.

Inside the bank customers and tellers hit the floor as alarm bells start to ring. ‘Carry on as normal,’ shouts the leader of the gang, ‘we’re not going to interfere with business operations!’

Up to the next floor they dash, as managers and their secretaries now hit the floor. ‘Carry on as normal,’ repeats the leader, ‘we’re not here to frighten you, we’re here to protect you from thieves and gangsters.’

And so this sequence is repeated at each successive floor of ascending authority, until they finally burst into the huge penthouse office of the Chairman, the crafty little Razor Mataki, who is found lying on a sheepskin rug, where his personal secretary is attending to his personal needs.

‘I presume you’ve brought an invitation for me to meet the Godfather,’ squeaks Mataki bravely, as he is simultaneously bound, blindfolded and bundled out of the building, into the limousine.

Now we move to the huge subterranean bar and nightclub which form the basement of the Godfather’s mansion, the infamous Plot Zero. At a large mahogany table presides the huge flabby Godfather, impassively chomping on a cigar and nursing a bourbon, as Mataki is plonked in front of him, and the blindfold removed.

‘The Godfather extended his hand as if in greeting, and then squeezed Mataki’s hand until he squealed. ‘Haven’t we met before?’ he asked, in a friendly tone.

‘I don’t think so,’ Mataki whimpered.

‘I remember now,’ said the Godfather with a smile. It was back inMinnesota, about twenty years ago, when you were the local branch manager. I defaulted on a loan, and you foreclosed on my house, leaving me destitute.’

‘Terribly sorry,’ said Mataki, as he rubbed his injured hand.

‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ he said, ‘I’m not the sort of person to bear a grudge.’ He took the bottle of bourbon, and filled a glass. ‘Here, have a drink!’

‘I don’t drink,’ replied the plucky little Mataki.

‘It’s all the same to me,’ replied the Godfather graciously, as he looked round at the heavies surrounding the table. ‘But these gentlemen don’t take kindly to people who refuse my hospitality.

‘Now,’ began the Godfather, as Mataki sipped and spluttered. ‘I’ve invited you here for a little business discussion. As the Godfather of the Nation I provide protection to all businesses in the country. But I have been disappointed to find that I don’t seem to have any arrangement with the Laundry Bank…’

‘I should explain that…’ began Mataki, but then felt a gun butt in his butt.

‘Please don’t interrupt me,’ said the Godfather politely. ‘These gentlemen don’t understand any lack of respect for the Godfather of the Nation. As I was saying, I wonder why you haven’t visited me here, and offered me some of the well-known services of the Laundry Bank?’

‘How can I help?’ asked the hapless Mataki.

‘I understand,’ smiled the Godfather. ‘that your bank runs a discreet laundry facility for favoured customers.’

Mataki looked round at the heavies. ‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Well,’ continued the Godfather, ‘I sometimes receive large donations from friends and admirers, and I need a discreet account for recycling funds into legitimate business.

‘In addition, as commander-in-chief of the National Protection Service, I protect all big business from paying taxes, from paying wage increases, and from experiencing workers protests or strikes. So returns from this side of the business would entail quite large amounts of money being paid into your bank.’

‘I understand,’ said Mataki, venturing another sip of 50% proof.

‘Of course, in return, I expect some consideration. I would require a 20% shareholding in the bank. Secondly, as a major shareholder, I would expect the Board’s favourable consideration of unsecured loans to expand my investments on the London Stock Exchange. Thirdly, I would expect that you would call in all your present loans to any person who has criticized my good work for the nation. Fourthly, I would require information on the accounts of any of my enemies presently using your laundry services, so that these criminals can be prosecuted.’

‘And if I don’t agree?’ said Mataki, as one of the heavies gave him a good clip round the ear.

‘Look,’ said the Godfather, in a kindly voice, ‘you should know that you are already under my protection. Luckily the Chief Inspector of Banks is on my payroll. I have told him that I am protecting your bank, and all is well. But if I were to tell him that all is not well, he could suddenly notice all the things he had previously overlooked.’

‘Poor Mataki,’ said Sara. ‘He’s damned if he does, and damned if he doesn’t.’

‘It’s bad enough,’ I said, ‘living in a police state. But see what happens if you live in a criminal state.’

‘Terrible,’ said Sara. ‘Let’s hope that never happens here.’

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]

Contempt of Court

Contempt of Court

‘I sit here today,’ declared the Judge, ‘to make a decision on an application from the Attorney Degenerate, to register in Zambia the London judgment against Kafupi Mupupu.’

‘Is this the notorious Judge Contempt?’ I whispered in Sara’s ear.

‘Some say his full name is Contemptuous,’ she replied. ‘Others say he is really Contemptible’.

‘First of all,’ declared the judge, ‘I shall call upon the Attorney Degenerate to summarise his arguments in support of his application.’

Up stood a wig and gown, looking more like a penguin. ‘Your horror,’ he began, ‘I stand here on behalf of the good people of Zambia. The London judgment finds that Mupupu, whilst posing as a servant of the people, actually stole fifty million dollars from them, which he used to buy fancy suits and high heeled shoes, only keeping out of jail by bribing the judiciary.’

‘Mmmm,’ an angry murmur rose up from the packed audience.

‘Silence!’ shouted the judge, ‘or I’ll have you all locked up for contempt of court.’

‘That’s why he’s called Judge Contempt,’ whispered Sara.

‘The Foreign Judgments Act,’ continued the Attorney Degenerate, ‘can be used to register the London judgment, and recover the people’s money. Your horror, I rest my case.’

‘Doesn’t he mean “your honour”?’ I wondered.

‘Difficult to say,’ she whispered. ‘People are losing respect for judges.’

‘And now,’ said the judge, ‘I call upon the Defiant Defence to put the case for the Defective Defendant.’

‘Thank you My Lewd,’ said another wig and gown, this one looking more like a huge glass of milk stout. ‘I just rise to point out that my learned colleague the Attorney Degenerate is quite wrong to claim that my client was a servant of the people. As a matter of fact, he was the king. A king is entitled to take money from the people, so that he can live like a king, and have natty suits and lovely little sparkling shoes, as befit a king.

‘Futhermore,’ continued the Defiant Defence, ‘I am entirely puzzled at the constitutional confusion of my learned colleague, when he claims that he is here to represent the people. Was he not appointed by the present king? Did he not swear loyalty to the king?

‘And how will kings ever be able to rule in future, if former kings can be brought to court like common criminals, to have their lawful decisions reconsidered? We are even brought to court to hear tittle tattle about the king buying himself a suit! Is not the king a law unto himself? Is not all law signed into law by the king? Then how does my learned friend come here to misuse his legal training, to misuse the law he got from the king, to try to undermine the very king to whom he swore loyalty! He blatantly abuses his office to represent the people against the king, whilst simultaneously accusing others of corruption. My Lewd, I rest my case.’

The crowd sat there, silent and baffled, scratching their heads. ‘Are we living in a monarchy or a democracy?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘That’s the question,’ she replied, ‘which will be answered here today.’

‘The case now comes to judgment,’ announced the judge. ‘ Firstly, I find the arguments from the defence to be entirely inadequate. The constitution is very clear that the law is made by the people, through their representatives in parliament. Therefore the king is not above the law.

‘But there are also inadequacies in the arguments of the Attorney Degenerate. He claimed that the money in question, purported to be stolen, was used to corrupt the judiciary. But if believed his own claim, then he would not be wasting his time bringing this case to court.’

‘But perhaps he is wasting his time?’ I murmured.

‘That’s another question to be decided today,’ Sara chuckled.

‘Furthermore,’ continued the judge, ‘the Attorney Degenerate has not explained how ten year old suits and shoes can have any present value, bearing in mind that they are now frayed and worn, and only big enough to fit a dwarf. So how is this money to be recovered?

‘More fundamentally, whereas the Attorney Degenerate has correctly cited the Foreign Judgments Act, he has entirely overlooked the relevance of the Importation Act of 1971, which makes no provision for the importation of foreign judgments. The application is therefore denied, and the London judgment cannot be registered.’

‘Booo! Corruption! Bent as a cucumber!’ We all stood up, shouting.

‘Contempt of court!’ squealed the contemptible judge. ‘I sentence you all to ten years in jail!’

But by this time there were bags of rotten eggs and tomatoes being passed down our row, so we all started hurling them at the judge. ‘Sell out! Bought and paid for! Traitor!’

As the judge fled, we all rushed out to the carpark, just in time to catch Judge Contempt scrambling into his limo. More eggs and tomatoes flew. ‘He’s now a rich man!’ somebody shouted. ‘He’s retiring to the Bahamas!’ How we all laughed and cheered!

I turned to Sara. ‘The night is still young, let’s go back in for a drink!’

Everybody was in jovial mood in the Playhouse Bar. ‘That’s the best comedy I’ve seen in years,’ I said to Sara. ‘Participatory theatre! So realistic!’

‘You should go to the real court,’ she laughed. ‘It’s even more ridiculous!’