The Great Ukwa

The Great Ukwa

          The Master of Ceremonies moved to the front of the podium to announce ‘I now bring to you, all the way from Lusaka, the most marvellous magician the world has ever known, the Great Ukwa!’

          As he spoke, onto the podium glided the imperious magician, extravagantly dressed in the cream satin suit of a Chinese emperor, although on his head was the cap of a police constable, and around his shoulders the red satin cloak of a medieval king.

          Around the podium stood a ragged crowd of villagers, mostly men, for the women were away working in the fields. The scene was set in the middle of a dusty football pitch that boasted not a single blade of grass, in a bare landscape of miserable poverty.

          The Great Ukwa moved slowly in regal fashion to the front of the podium, fixed them with the terrible glare of his beady eyes, and scowled. The crowd trembled in anticipation. Suddenly and unexpectedly his right arm shot out and punched the air, and simultaneously there was a fearsome red flash and crack, and a puff of white smoke rose up from his clenched fist. ‘I am the King of this Land and All Beyond! I am the Mighty Ukwa, the Great Magician. I have all the powers!’

          ‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd, as they punched their fists into the air, although no clouds of smoke rose up from their fists, because they did not have any power, let alone all the powers.

          ‘I have come here today to ask you, in this by-election, to give your vote to the candidate of the Punching Fist,’ shouted Ukwa, as he punched his fist into the air, causing another crack, flash, and puff of smoke.’

          ‘What is the name of our candidate?’ laughed the crowd.

          ‘His name is Nangu Umo! I am giving him to you as your member of parliament!’

          ‘Where is he?’ laughed the crowd.

          ‘I have made him invisible!’ declared the Great Ukwa, with another bang and puff of smoke. ‘Members of parliament are never seen in their constituencies! They just disappear in a puff of smoke. If I were to show him to you now, you would never see him again. Better that you never see him in the first place!’

          ‘Then who is going to help us?’ shouted the crowd.

          ‘I, the Great Ukwa the Magician will help you!’ he answered, punching another explosion into the air. ‘I have brought this magic all the way from China and I can do anything! I have all the powers! Am I not the one who ended the drought in Southern Province by transferring the Mosi-o-Tunya to Choma? Am I not the one who ended the poverty in Chirundu by transferring it to Lusaka? Was it not my mighty Punching Fist which knocked Itezhi-Tezhi District clean out Southern Province and right into Central Province, thereby bringing it nearer to Lusaka!’ He gave the air another explosive punch, as another puff of smoke rose in the air. ‘And all done with immediate effect!’

          ‘But what are you going to do for us?’ demanded the crowd.

          ‘I am Ukwa the Magician, and I have come here today to announce a big transformation. For fifty years the government of this country ignored Nsala. But today you are lucky, I have noticed it. I therefore hereby declare you to be a District, which means that you qualify for six clinics and a secondary school, which will appear within ninety seconds, as soon as I punch the air!’ So saying, the Great Magician punched the air. Flash! Bang! Boomagazang! A huge cloud of smoke enveloped the entire podium. But when it had finally cleared, the Mighty Magician was gone. And with him had gone the six clinics and a secondary school. All gone in a puff of smoke.

          ‘Here one minute and gone the next!’ laughed the crowd.

Now the Master of Ceremonies leapt back onto the podium. ‘I now give you our candidate for Nsala, the famous Mr Butuntushi Butungulushi of the By-Election Bonanza party…’

As the crowd cheered, onto the stage bounced a fat and jolly gentleman. ‘My friends,’ he began, ‘We brought the Great Magician Ukwa here, not just to entertain you, but also to remind you of how we have been treated in the past. How were we treated?’

‘Promised everything, got nothing!’ chanted the crowd.

‘Exactly!’ responded Butungulishi. ‘How many clinics were we promised?’

‘Six!’ answered the crowd.

‘And how may did we get!’

‘Nelyo chimo!’they cried.

‘When did we ever get anything?’

‘Only during the election,’ they answered.

‘Exactly!’ cried Butungulushi. ‘During the election we got brown envelopes, chitenge, bicycles, beer, fertilizer, relief food and empty promises. So what is the policy of the By-Election Bonanza party?’

‘More by-elections!’ shouted the enthusiastic crowd.

‘The voice of the people must be heard!’ shouted Butungulushi. ‘You shall have more by-elections! You just send me to parliament, and I will represent you by immediately selling myself to the ruling party for a hundred million. This money will be brought back here to you my people. Once I have sold myself on your behalf, this will trigger another rewarding by-election, when more gifts will be showered upon us. In this by-election, you can again elect somebody from the By-Election Bonanza party, who will of course again sell himself to the ruling party. As we continuously repeat this developmental cycle, we shall soon become the richest constituency in the country!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Three cheers for democracy!’  

          

I Knew He'd Lose!

I Knew He’d Lose!

Tuesday 20th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday 21^st

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday 22^nd

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

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

‘Shut up!’ he said.

‘I’ll start packing,’ I said.

Friday 23^rd

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

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

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

Monday 26^th

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

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

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

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

Slippery Selection

Slippery Selection

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

‘Another mfwiti!’ I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So what happens?’ we all asked.

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

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

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

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

Just then my friend Mr Kalandisha raised his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Next constituency,’ says His Prospective Excellency.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But how did she get elected?’

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

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

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

‘Supposing some don’t raise their hands?’

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________

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

Tujilijili

Tujilijili

Saturday

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

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

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

Sunday

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

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

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

But I worry tellibly.

Monday

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

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

Tuesday

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

Wednesday

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

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

Friday

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

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

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

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

We should never have left the farm.

ELECTION PETITION

Election Petition

I remember the day very well. It was Thursday 13^th September in the year 2013, and the Supreme Court was convened for yet another day, listening to a petition from the Mad Militia Delinquency claiming that the General Election of August 2011 had not been free and fair. Beside me sat my old friend Dr Mankhwala Sangoma.

Addressing the court was a lawyer wearing an empty black suit and a wig made from a horse’s bottom. He rocked back and forth on his feet as he addressed the Chief Injustice. Inside the empty suit lay the stinking remains of the dreaded Red-Lipped Snake.

‘M’Lord,’ the Red-Lipped Snake was saying, ‘I have presented incontrovertible evidence to this court that the MMD spent billions of taxpayers money bribing voters with bags of sugar, in a desperate attempt to prevent our legitimate government being overthrown by subversive elements within the Psychiatric Fiasco, otherwise known as Pabwato.’

The Chief Injustice, who had apparently been asleep until this point, opened one eye at the mention of the word bribe, a topic in which he had a well known private interest.

‘Yes, M’Lord,’ hissed the snake, encouraged by this sign of interest from the Chief Injustice, ‘we have always been willing to pay handsomely to any patriot who is brave enough to stand up to the subversive behaviour of Pabwato.’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd from the floor of the court. ‘The Chief Injustice needs a bag of dollars, not a bag of sugar!’

‘Silence in court,’ shouted the Chief Injustice, as the crowd rolled around on the floor laughing. ‘How can the MMD ask me to nullify the election on account of rampant bribery, when – on their own admission – it was the MMD doing the bribing?’

A sneer now distorted the ugly red lips of the snake. ‘M’Lord,’ he said, bowing in mock humility, ‘may I refer you to the judgement in the petition brought by Mr MMD Mufumbushi after the Mufondo by-election of 2010, where MMD complained that he lost the election because he brought in ten busloads of thugs to terrorise the entire electorate. Judge Musoposopo ruled in favour of MMD, saying the by-election had not been free and fair because of MMD thuggery, and therefore annulled the election result.’

‘I am obliged to my learned colleague for such an amusing story,’ replied the Chief Injustice, now rousing himself from his slumber. ‘And may I prevail upon my learned colleague to go even further, and advise the court by giving us some hint of the relevance of this parable to the present proceedings.’

‘I just thought that the court might recognize a legal precedent,’ said the Red-lipped Snake, his face twisted with sarcasm, ‘that a losing candidate may have an election result overturned on ground of election malpractice, even though he was the one guilty of the malpractice.’

Now the Chief Injustice rubbed his hands together and licked his lips with undisguised glee. ‘I must congratulate my learned friend on finding such a precedent. But unfortunately I have to advise him that he has entirely misunderstood the precedent. What the precedent actually tells us is that a losing candidate may expect a favourable judgment if he is a member of the ruling party. But since your client is the president of a party which is no longer the ruling party, your precedent actually means that you will need evidence that the other party cheated.’

‘Well if that’s the case,’ answered the Snake, his red lips curling in derision, ‘I have plenty of evidence that Pabwato won by dubious means. For example, when we gave the voters bags of mealie-meal to vote for us, Pabwato told them to accept the bribe but vote PF. This was a clear breach of the Law of Contract.

‘Also, knowing that we were buying voters cards, Pabwato printed fake cards for us to buy, therefore breaking the Law on Counterfeiting and also the Law on Trade Description.

‘And when we bought mobile polling stations from China, and hid them where only our party members could find them, the devious Pabwato employed a Global Positioning Satellite to locate the polling stations, thereby contravening the Official Secrets Act and endangering the security of the government…’

‘From what I have heard,’ said the Chief Injustice, ‘it seems that you have established a prima facie case against the MMD for election rigging. I adjourn this hearing until Thursday next week, when I shall consider whether to commit the former president of the MMD to the International Court of Justice in...’

But as he spoke, into the room ambled a burly figure in a big blue shirt and a John Wayne hat, followed by a mob of thugs who hit out at the crowd with their knobkerries.

‘It’s Nyamasoya and his thugs,’ I whispered to Sangoma.

Nyamasoya walked up to the judge, caught him by the scruff of the neck, lifted him up, and then threw him into the middle of the gang of thugs.

‘On the contrary,’ announced Nyamasoya, ‘next week we shall hear the case of Mr Pong Mponga, who is accused of stealing a teaspoon from Arakan Barracks in July 2005, thereby misusing his position as Minister of Defence.’

‘Ha Ha,’ I laughed, ‘wasn’t it a splendid idea of President Cycle Mata to commit all the previous government to Chainama!’

‘It was the right thing to do,’ agreed Mankhwala. ‘As the Chief Psychiatrist, I know how to keep them busy. Their form of madness is quite harmless and entertaining if kept within the confines of a lunatic asylum. But if they are let loose on the general population they can cause havoc!’

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]

Birthday Party

Birthday Party

One of the perks of being a journalist is getting invitations to the lavish functions of our leaders. Huge feasts given by people who wouldn’t offer you a cup of tea before they entered public life, but who are now enormously generous with public money.

And so it was that last Saturday I was sitting with other members of the press at the Birthday Bash for our Great Leader, His Excellency the Ancient Dinosaur Nyamasoyaurus, to celebrate his 74^th millionth birthday. The Master of Ceremonies was a wizened little fellow by the name of Mouth Mulufyanya, who had to stand on a chair in order to be seen.

‘Why’s he so shrunken?’ I asked Sam from The Boast, who was sitting next to me.

‘Verbal diarrohea,’ cackled Sam, as he swilled down another cold Mosi. ‘He used to be full of big fat words, but now he’s left with only small thin ones.’

‘We are here this afternoon,’ began Mulufyanya, ‘to celebrate the birthday of our Great Leader, who has graciously cancelled his three week trip to Libya in order to be with us this afternoon.’ Everybody clapped politely, and nobody

dared to laugh.

I leant over to Sam. ‘Is this event being organized by the party, the government or the state?’

‘If they know the difference,’ laughed Sam, ‘they’ve never shown any sign of it.’

‘We shall proceed as follows,’ Mulufyanya was saying. ‘First the arrival of His Excellency, then the arrival of the cake, then the cutting of the cake and

finally the distribution of the cake.’

As he was speaking the Great Dinosaur’s arrival began, as the huge monster limped clumsily towards his massive throne, surrounded by a huge gang of thugs all wielding machetes.

‘Those are the Brown Shirts,’ whispered Sam. ‘They’ve just been recruited from Egypt, where they are now surplus to requirements.’

‘Now we bring on the cake,’ announced Mulufyanya, as a small army of starving slaves, dressed in rags, carried in the huge sumptuous cake on a silver platter, and placed it on the table in front of His Excellency the Monstrous Dinosaur. ‘This Birthday Cake,’ announced Mulufyanya, ‘has been provided free of charge by the Chinese Bakery, in gratitude to His Excellency for his wise suspension of all labour laws.’

As he spoke, the Brown Shirts used their machetes to chase away the starving slaves, who had been trying to pick a few crumbs from the table.

‘Your Excellency,’ said Mulufyanya, bowing low, ‘it is now my humble duty to ask you to cut the cake and distribute it according to our democratic party tradition. Your Excellency, with all due respect, I am aware that you have only recently arrived from the United National Intolerance Party, and may not be fully aware of our democratic traditions…’

As he spoke there was a deadly silence, broken only the swishing of machetes and the hissing of the deadly Red Lipped Snake.

Apparently undeterred, Mulufyanya continued ‘… according to the democratic principles of the Movement for Multiple Distribution, we must first elect twelve representatives who will be responsible for the fair distribution of the national cake, as stipulated in the rules of our constitution. So after the election of representatives, I shall ask His Excellency Nyamasoyaurus to step forward and cut the cake into twelve equal pieces.’ But as he spoke the Brown Shirts with their machetes surrounded little Mulufyanya, as if they were going to divide him into twelve pieces.

But Mulufyanya, who was apparently oblivious to the danger of his predicament, proceeded with his confident prattle … ‘I therefore call upon all those amongst you who would like to stand as candidates to raise your hands and make yourselves known.’

As he spoke, the Brown Shirts began to move amongst the crowd, and people tried to become invisible. Some slid off their chairs and sat under tables. Others lay flat on the ground with their faces down. Others covered their heads with table cloths or table napkins.

But still undeterred, Little Mulufyanya raised his own hand. ‘Somebody has to take the lead,’ he declared, ‘so I put myself forward as the first candidate, to help His Excellency the Dinosaur to distribute the… ’

He was interrupted by a terrible roar from the Dinosaur. ‘I am the Sole Candidate, and it is my job to eat the cake!’ So saying, he picked up the whole cake and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he picked up Mulufyanya and also swallowed him in one gulp.

At this point Colonel William Bandit and all his Brown Shirts raised their arms towards the Dinosaur in a flat hand salute and chanted the National Praise Song to the Great Leader:

Our Fuhrer, who art in power,

Hallowed be thy name;

Your kingdom has come,

Your will must be done

In Lusaka as it is in Mongu,

Give them their daily dread

And whip them for their trespasses

As we shall whip them who trespass against you.

And lead us not into democracy,

But deliver us from elections,

For you art our Fuhrer,

With guns and machetes,

For ever and ever,

Amen.

______________________________

[Based on a story idea from Hilary Mulenga, with assistance from other Facebook friends, especially Patrick Pami, Humphrey Milimo 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!’

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.’

My Dear Husband

My Dear Husband

Monday

Dear Diary, had a brief breakfast with My Dear Husband, before he went off again on one of his official trips. If only the people of this country knew how hard he is working for them. ‘Where are you going this time my dear?’ I asked him.

‘All the kings of Southern Africa have been invited to attend the Dance of the Naked Virgins in Manzini,’ he replied.

‘Ooh,’ I laughed, ‘I hadn’t realized there were any virgins left in Swaziland.’

He reached for his bottle of large blue pills, and swallowed a couple. ‘It’s a big problem, caused by the shortage of men. That’s why we’re all going down there to see what we can do to help.’

My Dear Husband, he’s very concerned about the plight of women, and he has so much love to give.

Tuesday

Dear Diary, It’s such hard work being a Queen. Today I had to spend all day at my Personal Tailor, making sure that I look like a real Queen. And to think, it’s only a couple of years ago that I was wearing ordinary chitenge and nshaupwa bwino. But now I wear bright green chitenge with yellow satin skunaz. I have had the royal chitenge embroidered with gold and silver thread all around the edges, with little fairy lights attached, so that it lights up in the dark.

Mother can’t adjust to my new status. When I showed her my new dress she turned on me like a market woman, saying ‘Thandi, you look like a Christmas Tree.’ How we can be disgraced by our relatives from the village! I had to tell her to know her place, and address me as ‘Your Excellency’ in future. Then I sent her upstairs to bed. If she doesn’t behave herself she’ll soon find herself on the bus back to Lundazi.

Wednesday

Dear Diary, Today My Dear Husband arrived back from Manzini, complete with three Swazi virgins. He was given them by the King of Swaziland, and apparently they’re specially trained in how to look after a king. He says that according to the national policy on women’s advancement, he’s going to appoint them as Ladies of the Bedchamber.

And while they’re settling in, he’s sending me to Mpulumushi to give royal gifts to all the women.

Thursday

Dear Diary, I spent all day in Mpulumushi, giving the women brown paper envelopes, bags of sugar, and royal blue chitenge printed with the face of the king. So as they danced with joy, the king also danced on their bottoms, which showed how much the king loves his women.

And I explained that they must vote for the king at the next election because the king believes in women’s development. But obviously he can’t bring them development if they don’t vote for him, and if he’s not allowed on their bottoms.

Friday

Dear Diary, I was back at the palace in time for supper with My Dear Husband. The new Ladies of the Bedchamber served the supper very nicely, also making sure that the King swallowed his pills. But I was a bit concerned that they were wearing nothing except short grass skirts. But My Dear Husband assured me that we are Pan Africanists, and we must respect African Kulcha.

He also explained that, after my successful trip to Mpulumushi, and because of his government’s policy on gender equality, I would now be equal to the King, with my own separate bedroom. And because of the policy of affirmative action, the three Ladies of the Bedchamber had been promoted to Vice-Queens, and would serve directly under the King.

Saturday

Dear Diary, Oh Dear, My Dear Husband went to an official ceremony today but came back limping badly. ‘What happened, My Beloved?’ I asked him. He explained that he had been dishing out the Distinguished Order of the Golden Boot to two cheeky politicians, but that he had put the Boot in too hard. ‘They were political heavyweights,’ he explained, ‘and I may have done more damage to myself than I managed to do to them.’

So this evening he flew off to Cape Town, to get treatment at the Naughty Girls Massage Parlour.

Sunday

Dear Diary, This morning I had an awful row with Mummy, who again deliberately called me Thandi instead of Your Excellency, then went on to claim that the King was cheating on me, that the three floozies in the Jacuzzi were actually his wives, and that the real reason for his trips abroad is that he is busy with Foreign Affairs. So now, as I write, the Old Bat is already on the bus back to Lundazi.

But now, Dear Diary, please forgive me, but I must hide you under this cushion. I’ve got Spectator Kalaki coming for tea this afternoon, and I don’t want him to find my Dear Diary!

[Kalaki's Note: Special thanks to Goli Shi’Nozipho for advice on Lundazi Bling Bling, and to Sipho Muleya for the intrusion of the Vice Queens]