Under-Five

Under-Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Order! Order!

Order! Order!

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

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

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

‘It’s the Speaker.’

‘But is it a man or a woman?’

‘Difficult to tell,’ she laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Order! Order!’ shouted Sara.

‘Order? What do you order?’

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

Rumble in the Jungle

Rumble in the Jungle

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

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

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

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

‘So why do away with elections?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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