Never Mind the Cadres
‘This breakfast
is terrible,’ said Christine, as she looked up from her morning newspaper.
‘Even the mealie-meal porridge isn’t properly cooked.’
‘Huh,’
growled Michael, as he scowled at his i-pad, ‘You’re the one in charge of the
kitchen, I’ve got the whole country to run.’
‘That’s
the problem,’ said Christine. ‘Your party cadres have taken over the kitchen.
Those women from Petauke were all excellent cooks, but last week they were chased by a gang of your party thugs. And your cardres are useless, all they can cook is
chicken and nshima, and the nshima is lumpy.’
‘Look,
Christine,’ said Michael, putting his head in his hands, ‘For Christ sake give
me a break. I have the whole country to run, and all you can do is complain
about the kitchen staff.’
‘Excuse
me,’ said Christine. ‘An ignorant gang of your party thugs armed with pangas
have taken over my kitchen, and you’re telling me it’s nothing to do with you?
Then tell me, who is the one responsible?’
‘Try
to understand,’ he said, looking up grimly from the bad news on Watchdog, ‘We
promised in our manifesto to give jobs to unemployed youths…’
‘Did
you promise to put them in my kitchen?’ asked Christine, her voice rising.
‘You
don’t understand these things,’ growled Michael. ‘The president’s kitchen is of
the highest strategic importance. The previous cooks were a security risk, all of
them were MMD stalwarts who could have poisoned me. We promised in our
manifesto to put our faithful party members in all the important government
positions.’
‘From
what you say,’ sneered Christine, ‘it seems that the only promises you
have kept are the silly ones. And as for poisoning,’ she said, prodding her
finger disdainfully into the cold grey porridge, ‘I may already be in need of a
stomach pump.’
‘I’m
not willing to listen to this kichen tittle-tattle anymore!’ shouted Michael, ‘If
you’ve got any more questions about party matters, go and talk to Splinter
Kapimbe, he’s the one in charge of party matters. I have important matters of
state to attend to.’
‘Such
as what?’ she wondered. ‘Everyday you spend hours up there in your office, with
a long queue of people waiting. What are you doing all the time?’
‘They’re
all looking for jobs, and waving the damn manifesto in my face. Even you, I’ve
got your latest list of twenty-four nieces and nephews looking for jobs in the
foreign service.’
‘Each
embassy,’ said Christine, ‘has a first secretary, a second secretary and a
third secretary.’
‘I
know that,’ he growled. ‘All the vacancies have been filled.’
‘But
you could have a first assistant to the first secretary, and a second assistant
to the first secretary and so on. Then a first assistant to the second
secretary and a second assistant to the second secretary and a …
‘Well
done, my dear, I'd never thought of that. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You really are my best advisor. I’ll
make an announcement later this morning that I have just created another
thousand jobs…’
But
as they were talking there was a terrible racket of shouting and banging from
the kitchen, and then running into the breakfast room came a gang of ruffians
wielding kitchen knives and rolling pins! Crash! They went out as fast as they came in, straight through
the French windows. They were closely followed by a rival gang of murderous
looking thugs wielding pangas and carrying a coffin, who also disappeared
through the same French windows shouting ‘Fipayefye!
Fipayefye!’
‘So
how do you explain that!’ shouted Christine. ‘Fipayefye? Is that why they’re called the PF?’
‘Never mind them,’ said Michael. ‘Just ignore them. Splinter knows what he’s doing. Perhaps he’s cleansing
the party from anti-party elements that have infiltrated from the opposition.
Or maybe it’s normal militia training. Or it could just be rival party factions
quarreling over the food in the kitchen…’
But
as he spoke, his phone rang. ‘His Excellency here,’ replied Michael. ‘What …
The B-Team has taken over the airport? … Ten people dead? What do you expect me
to do? This is State House, not a funeral parlour … You sort it out or I’ll
sort you out!’
Michael
turned to his wife. ‘That Sillyman Jelly has lost control of his bowels again!
Why is asking me for instructions?’
‘I
thought that’s why you appointed him,’ said Christine.
Again
the phone rang. ‘His Excellency here … What? … the C-Team has captured Soweto
Market … Receiving reports of a massacre? … Just arrest them for spreading
false rumours calculated to cause general alarm and despondency … And don’t
disturb me again, I’m preparing for my Weekly Announcement of New
Appointments!’
‘That
silly whimpering Libonge Libonga,’ snarled Michael, 'she can’t take a decision
for herself.'
‘I
thought that’s why you appointed her,’ said Christine. ‘But what on Earth is
going on? The B-Team taking over the airport and the C-Team taking over the
markets? Is this a panga government? I see that your man Splinter is not called
Splinter for nothing! The entire country is falling apart!’
‘Don’t
worry,’ said Michael, completely unperturbed. ‘It’s nothing like that. The
party is just practicing for Splinter’s new constitution, when the A-Team will
be in charge of State House, the B-Team in charge of parliament, the C-team in
charge of the Supreme Court and the …
‘And
the panga in charge of everybody!’ said Christine irritably, as she stood up
and folded her napkin.
‘Are
you off?’ asked Michael. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I
just thought,’ she said, ‘I should go and have a look at the progress on building our retirement house.’
Absurd!
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