Republic of Femnia

Republic of Femnia

As I sat opposite her in one of the plush armchairs of her huge office, I thought she looked a bit masculine. After all, she was wearing a trouser suit, collar and tie. What’s more, her face was rather hairy. I had come to interview the rather fearsome Minister for Propaganda in the Republic of Femnia, Ms Lysistrata.

‘Kalaki,’ she said, rather accusingly, ‘that doesn’t sound like a female name!’

‘Oh it is,’ I assured her. ‘In my language Kalak means ‘collect’. I was named after my maternal grandmother who was called Kalaki, meaning the collector, because she collected so many husbands.’

‘So what brings you here, all the way from Zambia?’

‘I’m writing an article for Femnet News, which is publishing an issue on gender equality for Women’s Day,’ I explained. ‘They suggested I come here, where women are in charge, to see how the system works. Would you say you have gender equality here?’

‘Very much so,’ she said, as she lit a cigar. ‘I’m pleased to say that here in Femnia we treat our men very well.’

‘Your men?’

‘Oh yes, we give our men equal opportunity with women. So if they happen not to do well, it’s entirely their own fault.’

As she was talking, in came her secretary, wearing a see-through blouse and a short frilly skirt. As he bent down to put a tray of tea on the table, the Minister slipped her hand up his skirt. ‘Ooh you naughty boy,’ she said, giving him a little kiss, ‘you’ve forgotten to put your panties on again!’

‘That’s my boy Fluff,’ she said, as the secretary left, swinging his hips from side to side.’

‘I was just wondering,’ I said, ‘with women in charge, whether you have any problems with sexual harassment in the workplace?’

‘Never,’ she said, as she tenderly stroked her cigar.

‘So women and men get equal treatment?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then why do you think that women have all the top positions?’

‘These men are just not serious. They are more interested in lipstick and mascara, straightening their hair, shaving their faces and legs, painting their nails, and trying to look sexually attractive.’

‘Why? Is it difficult for a man to find a wife?’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Lysistrata. ‘You see, Kalaki, here in Femnia, prosperous women like a bit of young stuff, still full of sexual energy. Even then, he’ll probably be divorced by thirty when she goes for something younger. After that, he’ll be lucky to find a poor widowed grandmother.’

‘But why can’t men get jobs and earn their own money?’

‘We give them all the chances, but they’re too playful. They leave school early, trying to find rich older women. And some of these rich old women will pay a fat lobola for a young stallion.’

‘Nonetheless, you do have a few men in government. How did that happen?’

‘Because of the UN Convention on Gender Equality,’ she sighed. ‘We have to let in a few token men.’

‘So where do you put them?’

‘In the Ministry for Men, which was started especially for them. They organize small loans for men to start football clubs and hair salons, and that sort of thing. The programme is called Partners in Development, funded entirely by Sweden.’

‘So men can’t really get into mainstream politics?’

‘Not usually. But sometimes, when a famous woman dies without leaving a daughter as her heir, we may consider a widower or son to inherit the position. We dress him up in a suit and tie and he becomes an honorary female.’

‘But what about men who can’t inherit from their mothers?’

‘Then obviously they have to achieve it for themselves.’ she laughed. ‘They have equal opportunity with women, so if they fail then they have only themselves to blame. We can’t give them positions just because they are men, we can only appoint on merit. The problem with most of our men is that they’re too interested in sex, drink and football. It’s difficult enough to get them to behave responsibly in the home, never mind letting them into government!’

I leant forward and said confidentially into her ear ‘Look, we’re sisters here together, you can tell me. You keep them out, don’t you?’

‘Between you and me,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘We have to. You see, it’s our tradition. Once a woman has chosen a husband, he’s supposed to stay at home, be available to fertilize his wife, and look after her children. This is how it was ordained by God when She made Eve, and then fashioned Adam from Eve’s rib so that she would have a helper.’

‘Are men not suited for government?’

‘They’re biologically unsuited. Their brains are too small and their genitals are too large, and when they get sexually excited then all the blood rushes from their brains to their genitals. Of course we love them for that, but we can’t have that sort of thing in government.’

‘And do the men also accept this?’ I wondered.

‘Of course they do,’ she replied. ‘Our men are well educated to know their place. That’s what schools and churches are for.’

‘But supposing one day they rebel?’

‘Between you and me,’ she said confidentially, ‘if they ever get into government, it would be a disaster.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know what you mean.’

GREAT BAG OF MAIZE

Great Bag of Maize

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And what about other policies?’

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

‘Isn’t that the same as before?’

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

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

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

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

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

Matriarka

Matriarka

‘Why do we have Women’s Day?’ wondered Amock, ‘Women have equal education nowadays, so if they don’t get to the top, its their own fault!’

‘That’s not a fault,’ I said. ‘They don’t compete for the top jobs because they accept that men are supposed to be in charge, and they know we’ll look after them.’

‘Typical of the oppressors,' sneered Jennifer, ‘claiming that the slaves are happy serving their masters! ’

‘Typical of women’s logic,’ laughed Amock, ‘trying to politicise the natural order of things, which began with Adam and Eve. Man is the head of the household!’

‘What complete rubbish!’ Sara scoffed. ‘Have you never heard of Matriarka?’

‘Never heard of it!’ declared Amock.

‘I suppose you dodged Greek history at Munali,’ Sara scoffed. ‘Otherwise you might have learnt of the ancient Greek city state of Matriarka, where women ruled for a thousand years, with men as their slaves.’

‘Maybe,’ said Amock. ‘But a woman still had to bring up her own children!’

‘On the contrary,’ said Sara, ‘that was the job of her husbands.’

‘Husbands?’

‘Oh yes. In those days a man was allowed only one wife, but a woman could take several husbands. This was because a rich woman would need several husbands to produce all the food for the family and to look after the children, whereas her younger husbands would be kept entirely for sexual pleasure.’

‘What! Wasn’t a wife the property of her husband?’

‘Quite the opposite. Women chose their husbands and paid lobola for them. Men had to stay faithful to one wife, while at night the wife could roam the bars and nightclubs of Matriarka looking for sexually attractive young men as additional husbands.’

‘So the man had to try to attract a woman?’

‘Of course,’ said Sara. ‘Young men had to look beautiful to attract rich old women. Whereas women wore complete togas to hide their bodies, young men would parade almost naked, in order to flaunt their tight little bums and flex their pectoral muscles.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Amock. ‘I hope they weren’t completely exposed.’

‘Not completely,’ explained Sara. ‘A man’s bits had to be concealed inside a neat little soft leather pouch. Men would dance and sing and prance up and down, waggling their pouches, to try to arouse the interest of a rich woman.’

‘So size mattered?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Sara. ‘Men would stuff their pouches with falsies, while others even had extensions sown onto their equipment. Fathers would usually hang stones on the end of their sons’ bits, trying to stretch them longer. Young beauty kings would paint their lips and nails red and their faces orange, dye their hair purple, and hang beads from their pouches to make their bits look longer.’

‘And polish their buttocks with beeswax?’ I suggested.

‘Being a sexual slave is a serious matter,’ said Sara sternly. ‘A young man was sought to provide sexual entertainment and fertilization. Any sign of impotence of infertility would lead to divorce and disgrace, and banishment to the village.’

‘Half a minute,’ said Amock. ‘If rich women could afford so many husbands, then there must have been a shortage of men, leaving many women without husbands.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Sara. ‘Poor women could never afford a husband. Instead they would have to visit brothels, where resident gigolos would service them for a fee. A career as a gigolo was the only way a young man could achieve some independence, make his own money, and avoid the sexual slavery and drudgery of marriage.’

‘Wouldn’t the shortage of young men put up the price of lobola?’

‘Of course. Sometimes the shortage was so severe that rich women would buy little boys as young as ten, lock them in the bedroom, and give them pre-pubescent training in the arts of sexual athletics.’

‘Defilement!’ exclaimed Amock. ‘How did these Matriarkal women justify this dreadful sexual exploitation?’

‘They would say,’ explained Sara, ‘that this is the way things have always been done in Matriarka, and that they were looking after their men very nicely.’

‘But didn’t the men revolt?’

‘A few delinquent men, mainly of the gigolo variety, started a masculinist movement, demanding equal rights for men.’

‘And did the Matriarkal government agree?’

‘Not exactly. Instead they agreed to an annual public holiday called Men’s Day, when everybody would be allowed to mention men’s rights, provided they shut up for the rest of the year.’

‘And what were men allowed to do on Men’s Day? Were they free?’

‘Good gracious no!’ laughed Sara. ‘But they were allowed to march past the Great Queen and salute her Female Supremacy, after which she would then give them a good lecture on working harder. Then, as their reward, they were sent to the hospitals and clinics to scrub the floors.’

Amock looked at her suspiciously. ‘Is this real history, or is it a story you’ve just made up?’

‘Even the story of Adam and Eve is not history,’ she replied. ‘Somebody just made it up.’