The A Team!

The A-Team

            

           On board the Challenger jet sat the A-Team in all their impressive glory. In the centre of the aircraft, on his gold-plated throne, sat the Leader of the A-Team, His Excellency Cycle Mata. On his right, on a little wooden stool, sat his Minister for Nonsense and Disasters, Wobbly Dotty Scotty. On his left, sitting on the toilet, was the Smelly Hatchet Man, the frightening Splinter Kapimbe.

          ‘Well,’ said Cycle Mata, ‘Why are we going to Mansa, what’s the problem there?’

          ‘By-election,’ said Hatchet Man. ‘The forces of darkness and evil are plotting to take over the entire constituency by capturing votes which rightly belong to the Punching Fist. The opposition has been using Mansa Community Radio to claim that the PF is really the Bufi Party.’

          ‘So what’s our plan?’ said Cycle Mata.

          ‘We could offer to supply electricity to all the local primary schools,’ suggested Dotty Scotty.

          ‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Cycle Mata. ‘We promised that in the previous election. That’s why they’re calling us the Bufi Party.’

          ‘The answer is simple,’ snarled Hatchet Man. ‘We just declare a state of emergency, lock up the opposition and cancel all by-elections.’

          ‘Too grand a plan,’ cackled Cycle Mata, ‘I’m saving that one for later. This is just a preliminary operation. We shall just move in quickly, cancel the radio station license and arrest the station manager on suspicion of drug trafficking. Dotty, go and ask the pilot for our expected time of arrival so I can make some preliminary arrangements.’

          Two minutes later Dotty Scotty came wobbling back from the pilot’s cabin, his face even more pale than usual. ‘There’s nobody there!’

          ‘What are you talking about, you old fool!’ shouted Cycle Mata.

          ‘The cabin is empty. His parachute is missing.’

          ‘He’s Bemba,’ said Hatchet Man darkly. ‘He’s joined the B-Team.’

          ‘But look at those clouds all around us,’ said Cycle Mata, as he looked out of the window. ‘We’re still up in the air!’

          Dotty Scotty peered out of the window. ‘Those clouds are not moving!’ But even as he spoke, the clouds cleared and they could see that the plane was sitting on dry land.

          ‘Thank God for the autopilot,’ laughed Cycle Mata rather nervously. ‘We’ve arrived safely at Mansa Airport!’

          And so they stepped down from the Challenger, only to find no welcoming party, no salutes, no bootlickers, no dancing girls and no party thugs. Over in the distance they could see a queue of people going through a large gate. A gateman seemed to be in charge.

          ‘Iwe malonda, bwela!’ shouted Cycle Mata rudely at the gateman, as the old man in a long white beard came slowly over. ‘Iwe, mudala, where is the DC, where is the Paramount Chief Mwata Kazembe, where is our convoy of Mercedes?’

          ‘No, no, no,’ said the old man. ‘It looks like your plane must have crashed. I am St Peter, and you have arrived at the Pearly Gates of Heaven!’

          Now Cycle turned to whisper to his two chola boys. ‘This is the Master Plan we need. If we can just get in to see God he can work a few miracles for us. Put money in Mansa pockets. Give them jobs overnight. Put nurses and medicines in the clinics. All the things we promised in ninety days, nice Old God can do it for us in a flash of lightening. This could be the solution to all our problems! We can win the by-election after all!’

          So now Cycle Mata turned to the gateman, ‘Well malonda, or whatever you call yourself, just let us in through your Pearly Gate so we can go and talk to your Paramount Chief. People of our stature can’t waste time talking to the malonda at the gate!’

          ‘I’m in charge of issuing visas,’ said St Peter calmly. ‘You have to apply beforehand. Some people wait years to get in here. Even Archbishop Milungu has been waiting more than ten years.’

          ‘Piffle and nonsense my man,’ sneered Dotty Scotty. ‘Look at that crowd of people just walking in straight through the gate. I don’t see any sign of visas!’

          ‘They are poor people from Zambia,’ explained St Peter. ‘We have a special Memorandum of Understanding with their Ministry of Health to let them straight in. They are innocent souls who have suffered enough, and automatically qualify for Heaven. For them all visa requirements have been waived.’

          ‘Ha ha,’ scoffed Hatchet Man, ‘We’re also from Zambia. And we’re not just Zeds like those bedraggled ruffians and street kids, we are the A-Team!’

          ‘A-Team?’ wondered St Peter. ‘What does this ‘A’ stand for?’

          ‘We are at the top!’ explained Dotty Scotty. ‘Those Zeds are at the bottom! We are the ruling class! We have diplomatic passports, we don’t even need visas! We have all the privileges! We have the money and the power!’

          ‘It is easier,’ said St Peter, ‘for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’

          Dotty Scotty whispered under this breath ‘These damn villagers talk in riddles.’ But turning to St Peter he said ‘Look, old chap, let’s do a deal. You give us the visas and we’ll give you the contract for the new road from Chama to Mongu. Half the contract price up front! How’s that?’

          ‘Oh?’ said St Peter. ‘Why didn’t you say that was the sort of deal you’re looking for? Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Let me explain to you where to go. You see those stone steps over there at the edge of the cliff. Walk over to those steps and keep going down until you reach the place where such arrangements are organized.’

[Partly based on a storyline suggestion from facebooker Nelson Langford Ndhlovu]

Drunk with Power

Drunk with Power

           

            ‘All was not well in the Kingdom of Mfuwe. The Great Elephant King Cycle Mata had become too powerful, and his elephant ministers were trampling on the other animals...’

          ‘Grandpa’ Nawiti interrupted, ‘Why was he called Cycle Mata?’

          ‘Nobody’s quite sure,’ I said. ‘But some people say it was because he was always running round and round in circles and never getting anywhere. In those days elephants often ran round in circles after eating too much marula, the favourite fruit of the elephant. It was marula that gave elephants their great size and power.’

          ‘Mummy says that money is power.’

          ‘But in those days in Mfuwe, marula was power. You see, the elephants had enormous bellies and could eat huge quantities of marula. This was what enabled the elephants to become so big and strong, and to rule over all the other animals.’

          ‘So what was the problem?’

          ‘The problem was that the elephants became greedy for more power, and began to eat too much marula, and became drunk with power. You see, if an elephant eats too much marula, the juice ferments in its belly and turns into alcohol, and the elephant becomes drunk. Of course nobody knew about alcohol in those days, they just thought that the elephant had eaten too much and was suffering from indigestion.’

          ‘So the elephants couldn’t run the country properly?’

          ‘They were always blundering around, not knowing what they were doing, trampling on other animals and knocking over trees. And then things got worse.’

          ‘What happened?

          ‘The Great King Elephant Cycle Mata fell over sideways and couldn’t get up. He was very sick.’

          ‘What was wrong with him? Too much marula?’

          ‘Everybody thought it must be his allergy. He had always been very allergic to corruption.’

          ‘What is corruption, Grandpa?’

          ‘Corruption is when the ruling elephants, who are supposed to ensure that all animals get their fair share of marula, instead eat it all themselves and leave the other animals to starve.’

          ‘So who was in charge while the king was sick?’

          ‘That was the problem. His ministers had always taken instructions from the king, none of them has any brains of their own. That was why he had chosen them. In addition, of course, they were drunk all the time, and the country was falling into ruin and the other animals were starving.’

          ‘Couldn’t they do anything at all? Like stop stealing the marula?’

          ‘All they could do was quarrel amongst themselves about who should take over from the king. The Minister for the Indefensible, The Great Belly of Marula, or GBM as was he was known, declared that the king would live forever, meaning of course that he himself would take over. But the little elephant Splinter Kapimbe, who had a small belly but a big head swollen with marula, declared that GBM had raised the matter too soon and he would be disciplined. This meant of course that Spinter was the one in charge and he would soon take over. Then GBM rented a pack of hyena to change the minds of Splinter and his supporters.

          ‘The country was going to the dogs,’ said Nawiti sadly.

          ‘Not only that,’ I said. ‘An angry rhinoceros called HaHa started to laugh and sneer, shouting that These elephants have stolen all your fruit, they are corrupt. You think they are building you roads, but these roads are just to take all the marula from the trees to the palace and leave you with none. The previous king used to give you a subsidy of dried marula during the dry season to keep you alive, but they have removed the subsidy and left you to starve. Why does the king have a hundred ministers, all chewing our marula? Appoint me as king and I shall manage the entire kingdom properly, just as I manage my beautiful impala farm in the Zambezi Valley.’

          ‘So what happened next?’

          ‘The king’s wife, the Great She-Elephant, came back from India with a doctor, who took one look at the king and declared that the king’s belly was full of overly fermented marula. The alcohol had turned to acid which was beginning to eat the king. So he made a hole in the king’s belly, let out the acid, and the king leapt back to life and started castigating everybody:

          ‘You fools!’ he shouted at his ministers. ‘You can’t even answer HaHa! While I was sick you couldn’t even say Booo!’

          ‘He had forgotten,’ said Nawiti, ‘that he had been too sick to give them instructions.’

          ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He had forgotten that he had deliberately chosen ministers who were incapable of arguing with the king, and therefore equally incapable of arguing with anybody else. And he’d also forgotten that they were so drunk with power that they were too arrogant to even answer simple questions.’

          ‘And what did he do with the two elephants who had been fighting over his crown?’

          ‘He declared that anyone challenging him should not hide their intentions, but should nominate themselves as candidates.’

          ‘And did they?’

          ‘Unfortunately, while paddling their canoes to the nomination centre, they were both eaten by crocodiles.’

          ‘Wow,’ said Nawiti, ‘it must have taken a lot of crocodiles.’

          ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The crocodiles were very well organized.’

          ‘So did HaHa become the new king?’

          ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All the animals went to him and pleaded with him to take over. He said he was a good businessman, and would soon sort everything out.’

          ‘And did he?’

          ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He abolished the monarchy and introduced free enterprise.’

          ‘Meaning what?’ asked Nawiti doubtfully.

          ‘He sold the whole country to the Americans, as a game park.’