Kalakiland

Kalakiland

            It was mid-afternoon, and I was sitting on the veranda of my little house in Chainda, sipping a glass of kachasu, when I heard a voice behind me, ‘Excuse me sir, my apologies for interrupting your royal contemplations, but am I right in thinking that you are Paramount Chief Kalaki?’

          ‘My dear fellow,’ I said, shaking his hand, ‘You have indeed found the Palace of the Paramount Chief. Sit down, have a glass of kachasu, make yourself comfortable, and introduce yourself.’

          Instead of sitting down he started to grovel on the floor. ‘No no, my dear fellow,’ I said, lifting him by his arm, ‘we don’t do that sort of thing here, we’re all very democratic. Just sit down and introduce yourself.’

          ‘I am the Africa Correspondent for the BBC,’ he replied. ‘My name is Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa.’

          ‘Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa,’ I said. ‘I’m very very very pleased to meet you. My name is Kalaki. You only have to say it once.’

          ‘I am used to interviewing other African presidents,’ he said. ‘I humbly seek your advice on the form of address which you prefer. Should I say Your Excellency the Paramount Chief and Father of the Nation, Professor Spectator Kalaki, Loved and Revered President of the Peoples Peaceful Republic of Kalakiland? That’s what I was told by the Africa Desk in London.’

          ‘When people call me that,’ I laughed, ‘they are just making fun of the pompous fellow in the neighbouring Republic of Zed, who insists on being addressed in such a ridiculous fashion. But when people are not making fun of the other fellow, then they just call me Komrade Kalaki, or just Kalaki. So now, Mr Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa, what can I do for you?’

          ‘Even me,’ said Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa rather shyly , ‘you can just call me Sishuwa. I’d be most grateful if you could answer a few questions for our Focus on Africa programme. First of all, how did you become president of Kalakiland?’

          ‘I sort of appointed myself. You see the job has no salary and no allowances and no state house. Just look at my humble little house, which my wife and I bought from our savings over the years. Somebody had to volunteer to do the job of calling meetings, and deciding how to deal with the troublesome neighbouring republic of Zed. So I do the job just as a public service.’

          ‘Public service!’ gasped Sishuwa. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing before. But tell me, how did the Republic of Kalakiland begin?’

          ‘Well, actually, it started from my little yard here, which used to be part of the Republic of Zed. People seeking refuge from the fearful government of Zed used to come and hide in my yard. The secret police never suspected that a retired schoolteacher could be harbouring refugees. And my dear wife Sara has such a sharp tongue that no blundering shushushu would think of knocking on our gate without good reason.’

          ‘Then how did Kalakiland grow to the size of Swaziland?’

          ‘It was rather surprising. But as Zed became more dictatorial, and with more refugees fleeing the increasingly vicious police state, we began hiding the refugees in more and more yards, until we had a large area outside the jurisdiction of Zed. Then people began to call it Kalakiland.’

          ‘But don’t the police invade Kalakiland to recapture their victims who escaped from Zed?’

          ‘My dear Sishuwa, it’s not that simple. Even the police chief in Zed knows that when he is fired, he will need somewhere to run to. Even the ministers know that when they annoy the Great Dictator, they need a neighbouring republic to which they can quickly run and where they will be safe. And they bring all their stolen money with them, which they have to share with us, because Kalakiland is a democratic country.’

          ‘But how is Kalakiland governed? Do you have a parliament, judiciary, police force and that sort of thing?’

          ‘We have avoided setting up all the institutions that destroyed Zed: we have no ministers to steal from the poor; no parliament to pass bad laws and increase their own salaries; no judiciary to be bent like a cucumber; no police force employed to fix the perceived enemies of any mad dictator.’

          ‘So without the police, how do you deal with crime?’

          ‘Most of the criminals were in the police force, which we abolished.’

          ‘What about education? Do you have schools to pass on knowledge from one generation to the next?’

          ‘We saw how schools were used to destroy the children’s imagination, and to turn them into unthinking robots to follow instructions irrespective of how stupid. We saw how schools cut off children from their traditional culture. So in order to restore education we have abolished schools.’

          ‘So you don’t have any national institutions?’

          ‘Only one,’ I laughed, raising my glass. ‘The Kalakiland National Distillery which produces the internationally famous Kalakiland Kachasu, the only truly African traditional spirit. It keeps our people happy, sells all over the world, and makes us the richest country in all Africa!’

          ‘One distillery makes you the richest country? How?’

          ‘Because we don’t have a government to steal all our money! Cheers!’

          ‘Cheers!’ he said, as he emptied his glass and rose to leave. ‘Thanks for the marvelous drink and fascinating interview. Tune into Focus on Africa next Thursday, and you’ll be able to hear it all!’

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‘Wake up! Wake up!’ Sara was shouting and shaking my shoulders. ‘You’re completely drunk!’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I’m just tired after a marvelous visit to Kalakiland.’