A Strange Disappearance

A Strange Disappearance

  

          
          ‘Have you heard the latest?’ asked Kupela. ‘Michael seems to have disappeared again.’

          ‘Are you saying he has completely evaporated?’ Sara wondered. ‘Or that he disappeared from one place in order to re-appear somewhere else?’

          ‘Obviously I mean that he seems to have disappeared from Zambia,’ Kupela retorted. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.’

          ‘So where has he reappeared?’ asked Sara.

          ‘I didn’t say that I knew where he had gone. All I’m saying is that nobody has seen him since he was supposed to have come back from Brussels last Friday.’

          ‘But how can you possibly know that nobody has seen him? Or do you just mean that you haven’t seen him? Were you supposed to have lunch with him or what?’

‘Your mother has got a point,’ I said. ‘I mean, taking another example, you haven’t seen us for a couple of weeks, but did you suspect that we had disappeared? Luckily lots of other people have seen us during the past two weeks, so we haven’t been worried that we had disappeared.’

‘Look,’ said Kupela irritably, ‘I’m not talking about two retirees in Chainda not being seen. I’m talking about the president, who we expect to see on TV or facebook. Why didn’t we see him being greeted at the airport when he got back from Brussels? Why has there been nothing on George Chellah’s facebook page, leaving ZNBC without any news to report? Without the latest news on Michael murdering the constitution we have had to listen to the latest news on Oscar Pistorius murdering his girlfriend. And this is not the first time.’

‘Not the first time Oscar has murdered his girlfriend?’

‘Not the first time Michael has disappeared after attending a conference. ’

‘After the previous conference he didn’t disappear,’ laughed Sara, ‘he was seen by Zambian doctors in London. Being a patriotic fellow, he didn’t want to be seen by foreign doctors, so he had to go to London.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘even if Michael has disappeared from George Chellah’s facebook page it doesn’t mean that he has disappeared from Zambia. And even if Michael had departed to some secret destination, Chellah could easily have written a few lies about Michael being in Zambia, busy consulting with his advisers, or whatever.’

‘That’s exactly why I think he has disappeared!’ replied Kupela. ‘If Chellah actually knew where Michael really was, he could easily have made up a plausible lie. But to tell a good lie you need to know what the truth actually is. So the absence of any story on facebook means that he doesn’t know the truth either! That’s why I say Michael has disappeared.’

‘So what’s your theory about what has happened to him?’ I asked.

‘The last report we have from Michael was on the Real Michael Sata facebook page on Friday, when Michael reported that he was stranded at Amsterdam airport after George Chellah ran off with an air hostess, accidentally taking with him all the tickets for the entire entourage. After that, all was silence. And then, later in the day, it was reported that flight MS370 from Amsterdam to Johannesburg had disappeared from radar screens and was last seen headed for the Indian Ocean.’

‘Ha ha,’ I laughed. ‘Now we have an even less believable version of Michael’s disappearance story. If I am not on a radar screen, does it mean I have disappeared?’

‘And if he disappeared from Chellah’s facebook page,’ laughed Sara, ‘that was more likely because Chellah was fired after running off with the tickets.’

‘If that were the case,’ persisted Kupela. ‘Why haven’t we been given the TV entertainment of Michael firing Chellah? And why no questions in the media about Michael’s strange disappearance? What’s going on?’

‘If there were any mystery about his whereabouts,’ I said, ‘Watchdog would tell us where he really is.’

‘That concludes my argument,’ declared Kupela triumphantly. ‘He has disappeared so completely that even Watchdog doesn’t know where he is!’

‘You are suffering from a lack of logic,’ I laughed. ‘It is always impossible to prove a negative proposition. Just because Michael is not seen does not prove that he has disappeared. It just means that nobody has seen him.’

‘So what’s your explanation for nobody seeing him?’ asked Kupela.

‘There’s an infinite number of possible explanations,’ I said. ‘It may be that he is being hidden for reasons of economic and political stability.  For example, every time he opens his mouth the value of the kwacha goes down. Every time he fires a few ministers, investors say the government is unstable. Every time he threatens a bishop he loses more votes from the Catholics. Every time he campaigns at a by-election his party loses the seat. So perhaps his handlers have finally realized that it is better to lock him up in a cellar in State House where he can’t cause any more trouble.’

‘We’re missing the news,’ I said, as I turned on the TV, ‘Perhaps he’s back.’

And sure enough, there he stood, his angry eyes fixed upon the nation, saying ‘Those demanding for the constitution are just yapping. Let them yap!’

‘It’s him that does all the yapping,’ Sara laughed. ‘Our job is just to listen to him yap.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘the kwacha is going to sink again.’

‘I’m so disappointed,’ said Kupela, ‘I really thought he was gone for good.’

‘Never mind,’ said Sara, ‘at least we all had a nice little holiday.’

Action Man in Brussels

Action Man in Brussels

            I know you’re all waiting to hear the news of what I’ve been doing in Brussels, and how I am representing my country at the centre of power of the European Union. George Chellah is supposed to be giving you all the news on the ‘His Excellency’ page, but he hasn’t written anything for the past three days. He went shopping with Christine on Saturday and I haven’t seen either of them since. Anyway, his stories are all fake, he just makes them up.

          So I thought, as your Action Man, I should just do the job myself and tell you what’s going on here. All the members of my official delegation are completely useless. That’s why we got here three days to early, they got the dates mixed up. My press aide is particularly useless, even by the prevailing standards of uselessness. But don’t worry, despite all this, your Action Man has been very active, and will tell you what is happening.

          I am staying at a seedy little hotel in the centre of Brussels, called the Hotel Plaza, which has its front door right on the pavement, with no garden, no carpark, nothing except a rather smelly carpet in the foyer. How can an entire president be accommodated in such a place?

          And what is worse, the hotel is right next to the red light district. That’s why my security men disappeared on Saturday night and I haven’t seen them since. When I came down to breakfast this morning I was the only one in the dining room, apart from a disheveled travelling salesman from Malta and a family of Somalian refugees from Mogadishu. I know a lot about them because we are all sharing the same bathroom.

          I had come to scale the Summit of European power, but have fallen into this fusty smelly boarding house. But never mind, despite all this, I am here to represent the power and energy of the Zambian government. Your Action Man is here to put Brussels to rights.

          So I sat down and signaled a waiter to take my order for breakfast. He came over rather slowly and reluctantly and said ‘Yes, sir, is there a problem?’

          So I said to the insolent fellow, I said ‘Yes, you useless lumpen, there are two problems. Firstly I am My Excellency and you should address me as Your Excellency. And secondly you’re supposed to ask me what I want for breakfast.’

          ‘I’m sorry there seems to be some mistake,’ he answered, ‘I am not much interested in what you want for breakfast. That is entirely a matter for you to decide.’

          ‘Look here,’ I shouted, ‘How can you bring me my breakfast if you don’t know what I want?’

          ‘I’m sorry there seems to be some mistake,’ he repeated like a robot. ‘There is a selection of food on that long table over there and all you have to do is to go and select some for yourself. Here in Belgium we call it a buffet.’

          ‘What an insult to a person of my position!’ I shouted. ‘I am His Excellency, bring my breakfast!’

          ‘There seems to be some mistake,’ repeated the robot, ‘I only bring food in the case of physical disability or mental impairment. Do you have a medical certificate?’

          ‘Insolence!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve heard enough! I demand to see the Head Waiter!’

          ‘I am the Head Waiter,’ replied the robot.

          ‘Then bring me the Hotel Manager!’ I demanded.

          ‘I am also the Hotel Manager,’ he replied. ‘This is a small hotel.’

          This was when your Action Man swung into action, and spoke for the national interest. I marched straight down to the foyer to make some important announcements, as a small crowd gathered to watch a real Excellency taking command of a crisis situation.

          ‘The staff of this hotel are all useless. The waiter is useless. The Head waiter is useless. And the Hotel Manager is completely useless. They are all fired with immediate effect. In order to honour my promises to the people of Zambia to provide employment, the waiter will be replaced by twenty-five kaponya from Chawama. The government will set up a new Waiter Training College in Amsterdam to ensure proper training. I am hereby ordering my Minister of Finance to find the funds for a new road from Amsterdam to Brussels to facilitate travel from the college to the hotel. The Permanent Secretary of Muchinga Province is with immediate effect transferred to the Plaza Hotel as Managing Director, to be assisted by the entire PF provincial committee of Muchinga, who are all appointed Senior Hotel Managers. And just as the Congo was once a province of Belgium, I hereby declare that Brussels is now a province of Muchinga…’

          But as I was busy correcting the situation, into the foyer waltzed Christine and George. ‘What on Earth is this meeting all about?’ asked Christine.

          ‘I’m just preparing for the Summit by first sorting out this hotel,’ I explained.

          ‘I’ve just heard the Summit has been cancelled,’ said Christine. ‘Your friend Mugabe organized a boycott, nobody else is coming.’

          ‘Ha ha,’ I laughed, ‘nice try. But I had already noticed that today is April 1^st!’

The Real Michael Sata Reveals All

The Real Michael Sata Reveals All...

Constitution! Constitution! Constoootion!

Constitution! Constitution! Constoootion!

          
                     ‘Now that you’ve finished your breakfast,’ said the Queen, as she peered over her copy of the Daily Nation which was propped up against the teapot, ‘Don’t forget to take your pills. The brown one is for your prostate, the yellow one for your kidneys, the green one for your blood pressure, the white one for your heart, and the bright red one is for your temper.’

          ‘I shall swallow them all,’ said His Excellency King Chumbu. ‘I have to keep fit and healthy in order to rule the nation!’

          ‘It says here,’ said the Queen, reading from the newspaper, ‘that the students are rioting again because they haven’t been paid their allowances.’

          ‘That reminds me,’ said the King, ‘that nephew of yours that got redirected from Yunza, what’s his name?’

          ‘Kakokotwa?’

          ‘Yes, him.  Is he still unemployed?’

          ‘Yes. For the past three years.’

          ‘I think I’ll make him the Governor of the Bank.’

          ‘Hah,’ laughed the Queen, ‘he can’t even understand simple arithmetic!’

          ‘Then I could make him my Ambassador to Peru!’

          ‘We don’t have an embassy in Peru!’

          ‘Then we must build one! I’ll ask old Uncle Alex to get another loan from the World Bank!’

          ‘It says here,’ said the Queen, pointing at her newspaper, ‘that yesterday parliament was surrounded by armed police and…’

          But just then the King’s phone rang. He rummaged for the phone in his dressing gown pocket. ‘Yes, you are speaking to His Excellency … What? … Chief Kukumukulu? … Escaped from his hut? … Then I order you to put the entire army on full alert! Declare a State of Emergency! Confiscate all bicycles!’ Then he turned back to the Queen, ‘You were saying something, Your Royal Highness?’

          ‘Yes, Your Excellency, I was just saying that parliament seems to be in a turmoil over the new…

          ‘But the phone rang again. ‘What? … Well arrest him! … ‘What for?  Just find an offence and charge him with it! … Search his house and find something! … Call in the Trumped Up Charges Commission!’

          He turned angrily to the Queen. ‘That’s the last time I’m putting one of your relatives in charge of the police. Let’s send them all to Peru! We’ll build a very big embassy!’

          ‘I was trying to tell you, dearest,’ said the Queen gently, ‘that parliament is up in arms, saying that you have swallowed the Constitution!’

          ‘Don’t you worry your little head about them, My Dearest Queen, that place is just an empty talking shop. I am the one in charge!’ So saying, he puffed out his little chest and declared ‘As the King I am supposed to swallow the Constitution. I am the Constitution! I have all the powers in my person!’

          ‘But parliament is saying that your powers are fading and you no longer have a strong Constitution,’ said the Queen, pointing at the newspaper. ‘This editorial says you are preoccupied with trivial issues while the country is going to rack and ruin. They want a new Constitution.’

          Now King Chumbu rose in all his fury and stood on his dining room chair, grandly addressing his empty dining room as if it were the entire world, and pointing to the various parts of his royal person to illustrate the parts of the Constitution. ‘With this brain, I am the Executive. With this Heart, I am the Judiciary! With this right arm I am the army! With this other arm I am the Panga Force! With this right foot, I am the Police Farce! With these eyes I am the Shushushu who peers into every bedroom. With this bladder I piss on all my critics! With this voice I speak for the people! With these boots I shall trample on this cheeky parliament…’

          But as he explained it all so eloquently to himself, a rising chant could be heard from the other side of the palace walls, ‘Constitution! Constitution! Constitution!’

          ‘But with your ears,’ said the Queen quietly, ‘you are unable to hear the voice of the people. Your Constitution is fading. You are losing control. You can’t even control the Paramount Chief Kukumukulu.’

          The King remained standing on his chair, addressing his invisible supporters. ‘I am the King. I am the State. My constitution is the State Constitution. I have all the powers!’

          But outside the chant grew louder as the protesters entered the palace grounds. ‘Constitution! Constitution! Constitution! We want a People’s Constitution! Not the King’s Constitution!’

          ‘I am the King,’ shouted the King, his eyes now bulging and his face turning purple. Then he fell down flat on the floor. His Constitution had collapsed.

          The Queen immediately summoned all the doctors and nurses who were always on hand to attend the ailing king. ‘The time has come,’ she told them, ‘for the operation.’

          When the king came round from the anesthetic he was covered in bandages and sustained by three different drips and a tube of oxygen. ‘It was a long transplant operation,’ the Queen whispered to him. ‘We have given you an ordinary people’s Constitution. That King’s Constitution has been removed, and turned into a book which explains the various responsibilities which will now be done by different people, because they were all too much for one man.’

          ‘So what job remains for me?’ asked the thin little voice of what remained of the King.

          ‘You will take the salute at all march-pasts,’ explained the Queen.

          ‘Will I have to hold press conferences?’

          ‘My poor dearest little Chumbu,’ she said, putting a kindly hand on his head, ‘even when you had all your powers, you were too frightened to hold a press conference.’  

         

           

An Animal-Driven Constitution

An Animal-Driven Constitution

           
          ‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘tell me another story about the awful King Chimbwi.’

          ‘The most awful story about the awful King Chimbwi is called The Animal-Driven Constitution,’I replied.

          ‘Grandpa, what’s a constootion?’

          ‘Listen to the story,’ I replied, ‘then you’ll find out.’

          A long time ago, most of the animals in Africa lived in a beautiful paradise in the Lower Zambezi Valley, in a country called Chiawa, which was ruled over by the rough and bossy King Chimbwi.

          One day, when the animals met at their watering hole, they began to discuss the problems they were having with King Chimbwi. They had to discuss in whispers, for fear of attack by the king’s secret police, his wild dogs and jackals.

          ‘We are living in the forest like animals,’ complained Monkey, ‘while the King lives in a huge palace and eats us one by one.’

          ‘Not only that,’ said Lion, ‘but he has let in these humans with their guns, and they are killing us like Sitting Ducks.’

          ‘I’m not a Sitting Duck,’ said Duck, ‘I can fly.’

          ‘These humans are cutting down all the trees and giving money to the King. Soon we shall have no forest to live in,’ said Giraffe.

          ‘The King never listens to us,’ said Zebra, ‘he only listens to his friends, the wild dogs and jackals who come looking for us at night.’

          ‘There is only one thing to do,’ said Elephant gravely. ‘We must draw up a Constitution and give it to the King!’

          ‘A Constootion?’ said all the other animals. ‘What’s that?’

          ‘A Constitution,’ explained Elephant, ‘is a set of rules on how the king must govern this country. Now he has all the power and thinks he can do anything, however foolish or murderous. We the animals must write a Constitution so that he is brought under control. That is what is meant by an Animal-Driven Constitution.’

          So that’s what the animals did. But it was a long and difficult job because most of the animals couldn’t read or write. And they had to do the job secretly, so that the wild dogs and jackals didn’t find out. But finally, after twenty years, the animals wrote out the ten rules of their Constitution on white bark cloth made from an Acacia Tree. And this is what it said:

         

                 Rules of the Constitution

1.                    All animals are equal

2.                    No animal shall be above the law

3.                   All animals must obey the law

4.                   All animals have freedom of expression

5.                   All animals have right of assembly

6.                  All animals shall have freedom of movement

7.                  Elephants shall protect animals from the King 

8.                  No humans shall be allowed into the Kingdom

9.                 Any animal may be elected King, provided his parents are Chiawan

10.            No King may rule for more than 5 years

            Armed with their Constitution, they all went to the palace, where they found King Chimbwi rolling in the grass with one of his forty-nine concubines. And Elephant said solemnly ‘Oh King Chimbwi, we the animals of Chiawa, have brought you a Constitution.’

          ‘A Constootion?’ said the King gruffly. ‘What’s that? Can I eat it?’

          ‘It sets out the rules by which we the animals demand to be governed,’ said Elephant calmly. ‘It is an Animal-Driven Constitution.’

          ‘Of course it is,’ scoffed the King. ‘Whoever heard of a Human-Driven Constootion!’ And so saying, he opened his large mouth and swallowed it, washing it down with a bucket of chibuku. ‘Maybe this Constootion will cure my Constipation. I have swallowed it so that I can digest it properly. And when I have fully digested it, and ruminated upon it, we shall one day see it again, and then I shall nail it to the palace wall.’

          And all the Animals waited another twenty years for their Constitution, because the Constipation of the King was very severe, so things moved very slowly at the palace. But finally, after another twenty years, the Constitution reappeared, nailed to the palace wall. The once beautiful white bark cloth was now badly soiled and smelly, and on it was written:

           Rules of the Constitution

1.               All animals are equal, but the King is more equal

2.              The King shall be above the law

3.              All animals shall obey the King

4.             Only the King shall have freedom of expression

5.             All animals have right of assembly, in groups of no more than two

6.             All Chimbwi shall have freedom of movement

7.             Elephants shall protect the King from other animals

8.             No humans shall enter the Kingdom without a hunting license

9.             Any animal may be elected King, provided his parents are Chimbwi

10.        No King may rule for more than 50 years

     ‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti, ‘That was a King-Driven Constitution.’

     ‘That’s what all the animals said,’ I admitted. ‘But the King declared that he was also an animal, and therefore this was an Animal-Driven Constitution.’

     ‘So how did the story end?’ asked Nawiti.

     ‘The animals were so angry that he was lucky to escape with his life. He fled to Holland with all his bars of gold.’

     ‘And lived in another palace?’

     ‘No. His gold was taken from him at the port because he didn’t have an import license, and then he was put behind bars in a zoo in The Hague.’

     ‘Why was that?’ Nawiti wondered.

     ‘Because,’ I explained, ‘Holland has a People-Driven Constitution.’

[Adapted from a story by Eric Blair]

A Strange King

            ‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘Tell me a story about a bad king.’

          ‘Ha ha,’ I laughed, ‘That’s a good one! A king is always good because he tells you he is good and what he says is right because he is the king.’

          ‘That’s not right!’ said Nawiti, ‘I don’t believe you.’

          ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

          ‘Because you’re not the king!’ she laughed.

          ‘Let me tell you the story of a rather strange king. Hundreds of years ago the Kingdom of Zed had a very strange king called King Chumbu…’

          ‘Was he a bad king?’

          ‘I’ve told you, in those days all kings were good. What the king said and did was what was meant by the word ‘good’, and if anybody said or did anything different, that was bad!’

          ‘So did anybody dare to say or do anything different?’

          ‘Good gracious no. To say or do anything different would be to insult the king. In those days you would be thrown in jail for that! The king was like a little God. Every time he spoke, everybody had to shut up and listen. The king told everybody everything, but nobody could tell the king anything. Because he knew everything. Because he was the king!’

          ‘Nothing could be stranger than being a king,’ laughed Nawiti. ‘But why are you telling me that Chumbu was a strange king when they were all strange? Was he more strange than the others?’

          ‘King Chumbu was strange because, even by kingly standards, he used to do some very strange things.’

          ‘Such as what?’

          ‘One day he assembled all his ministers and told them to their faces that they were all fools!’

          ‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti, ‘that was very bad.’

          ‘No,’ I said. ‘That was very good. He was trying to provoke them, to see if they would dare to answer him. But they all sat quiet.’

          ‘Very respectful,’ said Nawiti. ‘That was good.’

          ‘No, it was very bad,’ I said. ‘It showed the king that his ministers had no backbone or brains.’

          ‘Then the king began to worry that his people were too silent, too polite, and too respectful, and always waiting to be told what to do instead of having ideas of their own.’

          ‘Which was very bad,’ said Nawiti.

          ‘Yes,’ said, ‘But very good that Chumbu was worried about his people, because most kings only worry about themselves and their money.’

          ‘So what happened next?’

          ‘Something very strange happened. One man in the entire land showed a bit of courage. A man called Ha Ha stood up and told the king to stop insulting his people and behave like a king!’

          ‘Very bad,’ said Nawiti, ‘to talk to the king like that!’

          ‘But very good,’ I said, ‘that somebody could stand up to the king.’

          ‘Maybe people were now starting to laugh at the king?’ suggested Nawiti.

          ‘Very likely,’ I laughed. ‘But Chumbu didn’t seem to see the danger of his position. In those days, once you were a king you were always a king. And he was now beginning to enjoy himself.’

          ‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘What did he do next?’

          ‘Chumbu insulted all the old men in the Land of Zed, saying their heads were bald, and the next time he saw a bald head he would chop it off!’

          ‘Which was a bad thing to say!’ said Nawiti.

          ‘That’s what Paramount Chief Kukuchikuku thought, and he loudly complained to all his Kuku people that he had been insulted. So the king laughed and sent his army to throw the chief out of the Palace of the Paramount Chief.

          ‘Then HaHa spoke up again and told the king to stop his silly quarrels and start governing the country, because while the king was busy talking nonsense there were foreigners who were stealing the gold and people who were starving.

          ‘Now the king was not used to be answered back, so this sensible advice sent him into a senseless rage, ranting that HaHa was just a nobody who knew nothing, and didn’t even know his own father!’

          ‘That was very bad,’ said Nawiti.

          ‘It was very bad indeed,’ I admitted, ‘because half the women in the country had brought up children without the help of the children’s fathers, who had a bad habit of running away. So the women’s leader, Gorgeous Grillo, gave the king a grilling, telling him that he had insulted all the women of the Kingdom of Zed.’

          ‘Now people were beginning to gang up on him,’ suggested Nawiti.

          ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘These people had more brains and voice than the king had bargained for. They all converged on his palace and presented him with a piece of paper, called a constitution, setting out the Rules for the Proper Behaviour of a King.’

          ‘And did the king promise to behave himself?’

          ‘Not at all!’ I laughed. ‘He tore up the piece of paper and threw it out the window, then turned to them and asked Where is this constitution you people are talking about, I cannot see any such thing!’

          ‘So what did the people do then?’

          ‘They threw him out of the window so he could look for the constitution. Then they set up the Peoples Republic of Zed, ruled by the people themselves and without any need for a king.’

          ‘So was he a bad king?’ wondered Nawiti.

          ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘He was a very good king, because he was the one who brought democracy to the Land of Zed.’

          ‘Very strange,’ said Nawiti.

            

          

I Was There!

I Was There!

Independence Day, and I was slumped in front of the TV watching the beginning of the celebrations at State House, when in walked Sara wearing her best bubu. ‘Come on!’ she said, ‘we’re off to Plot One!’

‘What!’ I gasped. ‘Did you get an invitation?’

‘Hah!’ she laughed, ‘do you think those goons at the gate would dare to ask new ministers for their invitation?’

‘But we’re not ministers!’

‘We know that, but do they know that? There’s fifty new ministers and they’ve no idea who is who or which is which. When they see a confused old man with a beard, they’ll probably think you’re Fackson Shimenda!’

Half an hour later we were walking towards the gate, with Sara hissing at me ‘Try to look confused!’

As she spoke, the guard at the gate drew himself to attention and saluted, and the Protocol Officer moved forward to shake my hand. ‘Dotty Scotty, sir, welcome to the party! Is this your good wife, Lotty Scotty?’

‘Good gracious no,’ I laughed, ‘she can’t stand these rituals. This is Joyce Banda, the Vice President of Malawi. We have been very busy cementing good relations.’

‘Marvellous!’ laughed the Protocol Officer, ‘I just hope your wife doesn’t mind!’

'Dotty Scotty and I,' purred Joyce, 'are getting on so well together, that I'm thinking of staying here with him.'

‘Oh Christ!’ I said, as we reached the great circle of tents, ‘All the men are dressed in suits! They must be sweating like pigs!’

‘They don’t sweat,’ Sara sniggered, ‘they’re all cold blooded reptiles. Snakes that can wriggle out of anything, dinosaurs from previous regimes, lizards quicker than pickpockets and chameleons that change colour after every election.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Elections come and go, but the ruling class remains the same.’

As I was talking, a shushushu in a black suit, black tie and black shades tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me Mr Vice President sir, His Excellency has asked me to tell you that you’re not appropriately dressed for the occasion.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I wondered. ‘This is my best chitenge shirt!’

‘Exactly sir. H.E. has said that he doesn’t want people dressing like Africans. Follow me, sir, and I’ll find you a suit, so you can look more like a European.’

We followed him into an ante-room of State House. ‘I’m sorry this is the only suit left,’ he said. ‘The previous Excellency left this behind because he had grown too fat for it.’

‘It’s huge!’ I said, as I put it on, and Sara, I mean Joyce Banda, burst out laughing. ‘Better pull the belt tight or your trousers will fall down!’

‘Now you really look the part,’ she chuckled, as we walked back into the throng, ‘Dotty Scotty is known for always being badly dressed.’

People were now coming up to me, slobbering and fawning, saying ‘Should we call you Your Vice Excellency, or Your Excellency, Your Excellency?’

‘No,’ I told them, ‘The President is His Most Excellent Excellency, and I am His Almost Excellent Excellency.’

We walked grandly around, with people bowing and scraping on all sides, until we finally came to the Royal Tent. ‘Here’s my cell phone,’ I said, ‘you take my picture with Supersata, then I’ll send it to my Facebook friends on The Zambian People’s Pact, just to rub their ten thousand jealous noses into my extraordinary success.’

‘Hullo Kalaki,’ said Supersata, as we shook hands.

‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Everybody thinks I’m Dotty Scotty.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a message from him at the gate saying he can’t get in. They’re accusing him of being Spectator Kalaki, and telling him to bugger off.’

‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘One Dotty Scotty is quite enough, two would get the entire nation completely confused.’

‘Kalaki,’ said Supersata.

‘Yes, Your Most Excellent Excellency,’ I replied, getting down on one knee.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ I replied, ‘that’s why I came here for a bit of a grovel.’

‘I’m appointing you as my ambassador to Outer Mongolia!’

‘Oh thank you,Your Most Generous Excellency,’ I said, as I burst into tears of joy, and then rushed over to Sara, formerly Joyce Banda, to tell her the good news.

‘Outer Mongolia darling!’ I said. ‘The Auditor General has never managed to reach there! We’ll be rich! After all our years of struggle, now we can build our mansion in New Kasama!’

‘You silly bugger!’ she shouted, ‘You resisted when Muwelewele wanted to deport you to England, but now you celebrate when this one wants to deport you to Outer Mongolia!’

But as she was shouting at me, everybody else had fallen quiet. Supersata had begun his majestic walk to the rostrum, where he was about to honour a new batch of national heroes who had suddenly been discovered.

‘Our first hero this afternoon is Spectator Kalaki!’ he announced. I was bewildered! But humbled! I marched up to the rostrum, trying not to trip over Nyamasoya’s trousers, climbed up the steps, and stood in front of Supersata.

‘Spectator Kalaki!’ he announced, ‘You are a national hero. The PF victory was entirely due to your Facebook campaign.’ So saying, he took a fifty kwacha note from his wallet and stuck it in my front pocket. ‘Here’s more money in your pocket!’ he declared.

I saluted smartly, causing my trousers to fall down, so that when I turned to go down the steps my feet were caught in Nyamasoya’s trousers. The whole crowd cheered as I fell flat on my face, and then blacked out.

_________________________

The next think I knew, I was staring up at Sara’s face, and I was back home. ‘Did the ambulance bring me back?’ I asked.

‘What are you blabbering about?’ she laughed. ‘You fell asleep in front of the telly.’

Amock

Amock

I was sitting on the veranda having a quiet brandy, when round the corner came my old friend Amock. ‘Come and sit down!’ I exclaimed. ‘Have a drink!’

‘I’ve given up,’ he said.

‘Since when?’ I laughed.

‘Since this morning,’ he said seriously.

‘Ha!’ I scoffed. ‘I’m told there’s no booze in Heaven, so I’m taking my share now while it’s still available. But have it your way, you can have a glass of water! Tell me, what’s the latest?’

‘Have you seen today’s Post?’ he asked.

‘No, what’s happened?’

‘Nothing much,’ he laughed. ‘I was just amused by Nyamasoya telling us that Lusaka’s horrific traffic jams are the result of the government’s enormous success in promoting economic development.’

‘So instead of moaning, we should be grateful!’

‘That’s the obvious implication,’ Amock agreed.

‘Then perhaps we shouldn’t complain that Nyamasoya is flying to so many countries,’ I suggested. ‘Instead we should be proud that he is showing off Zed as a rich country, and distributing our tourist brochures all over the world.’

‘Very good!’ laughed Amock. ‘And we shouldn’t complain about the police or the Chinese shooting us, because Nyamasoya is building so many new hospitals to treat our wounds.’

‘And we shouldn’t complain,’ I said, ‘about the floods. Instead we should take advantage of the tourist potential by building waterfront lodges and fishing safaris.’

‘And people complain about the violent MMD cadres,’ said Amock, ‘not realizing that they are practicing for the world boxing championships.’

‘Ho ho,’ I laughed. ‘We could go on for ever! But what did Jennifer say about the government’s infuriating pride in gridlock traffic jams?’

‘I left early this morning, before she had woken up,’ he explained. ‘But her theory is that the government is deliberately trying to provoke everybody.’

‘Really? But why should they want to do that?’

‘You know old Nyamasoya is a leftover remnant from the one-party state. He wants to unite the whole country into one party!’

‘Unite behind the MMD?’

‘Of course not. He’s been sent there to destroy it!’

‘Then how's he going to unite the country?’

‘Well, obviously it’s a clever strategy,’ explained Amock. ‘Everybody will become so infuriated that all the parties will unite against MMD. It will be just like independence, a united struggle against the despised enemy. UNIP will rise from the grave and organize the Cha Cha Cha!’

‘Half a minute,’ I said. ‘Haven’t you over extrapolated a bit too much from this little example of praising traffic jams? What else is the ruling party doing to annoy the people?’

‘What else?’ laughed Amock. ‘Well may you ask! The evidence of the policy is everywhere. They have taken MMD’s original policy on privatizing parastatals, and are now privatizing everything!’

‘Poof!’ I scoffed. ‘They've only privatised ZAMTEL!’

‘Don’t you see what’s going on?’ he asked, rather seriously. ‘By legalizing corruption they have privatised the Treasury, and can now use our money as they please. They’ve privatised the Judiciary, so the government cannot be prosecuted for their crimes, and they can lock up their political enemies as they please. They’ve privatised the Police Force, to wage war on all those who protest. Next education is to be privatised, and government schools will be up for sale. Obviously this is a well orchestrated plot to infuriate everybody, provoke the revolution and destroy the MMD!’

So saying, he stood up, as if to leave. ‘Amock,’ I said, ‘you’ve only just got here, where are you going?’

But he was walking away from me, and into the house. ‘I haven’t got much time,’ he said. ‘I have to go upstairs.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I said, ‘this house hasn’t got an upstairs!’

__________________________________

Then I heard a voice saying ‘Dead! Dead!’

I woke up with a start. There was Sara standing at the bedroom door, in black skirt and scarf.

I sat up straight in the bed. ‘Dead!’ I shouted. ‘I’m not dead! I just overslept’

‘Not you!’ Sara sobbed. ‘Amock! He died suddenly. Early this morning.’

‘Nonsense!’ I cried angrily. ‘I was talking to him only two minutes ago. Then he went upstairs.’

‘We haven’t got an upstairs,’ said Sara.

__________________________________

Two days later I was standing in church as the congregation sang Amock’s favourite hymn. But I was singing it differently…

What a friend we had in Amock

All his food and drink to share!

What a privilege to send him

All the way to God up there!

Have we trials and tribulations?

Is there trouble anywhere?

Just climb up the stairs to heaven

You’ll find Amock waiting there!

Are we weak and heavy laden,

Cumbered with a load of care?

Go upstairs and talk to Amock,

You will find him waiting there!

Do your friends despise, forsake you?

Go to Amock up the stairs!

In his arms he’ll take and shield you,

You will find him waiting there!

_______________

[Kalaki acknowledges some input from Facebook friends Mweembe Hampande, Alexander Mwalula and Chola Bwalya. Amock Israel Phiri, who died last week, was the inspiration for the character Amock in many of Kalaki’s stories]