The Old Geyser

The Old Geyser

Sara and I were at the Lusaka Playhouse, watching the Zambia One Comedy Show. Onto the stage bounced the Master of Ceremonies, Henry B J Phiri.

‘Our next comedian is your friend and mine, a loveable and irrepressible lady who has come here tonight to give us another hilarious episode on how to develop Zambia. A big hand for Geyser Bwezani!

As we roared and cheered, onto the stage glided the star of the evening, the glitzy Bwezani, resplendent in a beautiful long blue chitenge dress with a floppy blue hat, all with her own battered face printed all over it. Her huge droopy eyelids were painted blue, her lips were painted purple, and she carried a bunch of red roses which she proceeded to throw at the audience one by one, as the audience continued to cheer and clap.

‘Oooh, what a lovely audience,’ she cooed. ‘But I wonder if you know why I’m called Geyser Bwezani?’

‘Coz you’re a silly old geyser,’ shouted a voice from the audience.

‘Oooh you naughty boy,’ she said, pouting her luscious lips. ‘I’m called Geyser Bwezani because I have the key to development. Just put a solar geyser on every roof and this country will be rich!’

‘We haven’t water for geysers!’ somebody shouted.

‘Listen to me,’ said Bwezani confidentially, as she leaned towards us and showed us her wrinkled cleavage. ‘I’m a businesswoman, I understand these things. I’ve started up a geyser business with my two sons, Harry and Hurry, and they’re sticking their things everywhere, whether you like it or not! They’re so hot! They’re in and out before you know what’s happened!’

‘And do people appreciate?’

‘Ooh you pretty boy, what a naughty question. Of course they like it, but woops, the husbands get annoyed if they find out.’

I leant over to Sara. ‘This old girl looks a bit like Nyamasoya’

‘Of course she does,’ she laughed. ‘Who did you think it was?’

‘I thought he was supposed to be in jail. How did he get out?’

‘He offered to put a free geyser on the governor’s roof, and that was the last they saw of him.’

‘What use are geysers,’ somebody laughed, ‘if there’s no piped water?’

‘Listen to that pretty boy,’ swooned Bwezani, clutching her ancient breast and feigning desire. ‘While the rest of his class was doing physics, he was doing naughty biology on the back row. Come home with me darling, I love a bit of naughty biology.’

‘So where does the water come from?’

‘Oooh, my pretty boy didn’t do geography either! Water comes from the river. They can all go down to the river and collect water, climb on the roof, and tip it in the geyser! This will solve the unemployment problem.’

‘We need food, not hot water!’

‘I know what pretty boy needs,’ purred Bwezani, as she ran her fingers up and down the microphone. ‘I’d love to have a hot bath with him! But of course these people don’t have baths or even sinks. Their hot solar geysers are for making steam for the steam engine!’

‘The steam engine?’ we all shouted.

‘The steam engine turns the generator to make the electricity!’

‘Where do the steam engines and generators come from?’

‘The steam engines come from the Hot Air Factory and the generators are generated at the New Generation Factory in the Tax Free Exploitation Zone!’

The audience was now warming to this farcical interchange. ‘And where is the Exploitation Zone?’ we all shouted.

‘It’s already here!’ laughed Bwezani, doing a little dance and waggling her bottom. ‘It’s on the billboards all along the Great East Road! This is your government and your money working for me!’

‘But people don’t need electricity,’ we all shouted. ‘they don’t have fridges or cookers!’

‘Oooh, quite right my lovelies,’ cooed Bwezani, giving a little curtsy. ‘What a lovely audience we have tonight!’

‘As I recall,’ I said to Sara, ‘Bwezani used to be a man.’

‘I’m told it happened in jail,’ explained Sara, ‘He had to change his orientation.’

Bwezani now ran her hand seductively up her thigh. ‘This, my lovelies, is what we mean by trickle up. Every home will be supplying electricity to the mines, enabling increased electrolytic production of copper and increased GDP!’

‘Hurray!’ we laughed, as a few vuvuzelas joined in the fun. ‘Wealth must trickle up from the poor to the rich! What genius!’

But there was a dull person at the back who was not amused. ‘If the people are all making the electricity, what is ZESCO going to be doing?’

‘Bwezani put her finger to her lips. ‘Shuuushh,’ she said, in hushed voice. ‘The Zambia Election Subversion Company will take over from the Electoral Commission, to organize the electronic digital rigging!’

‘Of course!’ we all cheered, ‘we must all support the government of the day!’

‘And will the people be paid for the electricity they produce?’ asked the same awkward voice from the back.

‘Of course not you silly boy,’ laughed Bwezani. ‘They have to pay back their loans for all those geysers, steam engines and generators!’

As we were laughing at the hilarious absurdities of Bwezani economics, six prison warders in uniform rushed onto the stage and lifted her into the air. As she was being carried off she turned her head to the audience ‘Farewell my lovelies, these naughty boys can’t do without me for a single night!’

‘His behaviour was too blatant.’ laughed Sara. ‘He’s being taken back to the closet.’

Gone to the Dogs

Gone to the Dogs

I was sitting on the veranda when round the corner staggered Aunty Cathy, flopping into a canvas chair in a cloud of dust. ‘Another funeral?’ I asked.

‘It’ll be my funeral next,’ she gasped.

‘Don’t say that,’ I laughed. ‘I shall need you to arrange mine. I’ll go and make a pot of tea, and you can tell me all about it.’

‘So what’s been happening?’ I asked, as I came back with a pot of tea and a glass of brandy for myself. ‘You look as if you’ve just escaped from the ruins of Benghazi.’

‘The ruins of Chilenje,’ she corrected me. ‘The place is now more like a war zone.’

‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘I thought you said everything would be alright with the takeover by the new Godfather, what’s his name?’

‘Round Belly,’ sighed Cathy. ‘Yes, we thought we’d be alright with him. Such a jolly fellow, always laughing and cracking jokes and inviting people for free beer, we really thought he’d look after us.’

‘Ha!’ I laughed. ‘A Godfather is always a Godfather. They just run protection rackets and collect the proceeds! You got what you asked for!’

‘It’s alright for you, living in Kalakiland. But in the Land of Zed we have to live in the world of reality, not the world of wishful thinking. Things were really bad when Round Belly offered us his protection.’

‘How bad?’

‘Every morning after waking up, the first thing you’d do would be to go to the sitting room and check if the TV was still there, then to the kitchen to see if the pots and pans were still there.’

‘Don’t your yards have walls and gates?’

‘One morning I woke up to find the gates had been stolen.’

‘So what was Round Belly’s solution to the problem?’

‘He said he’d employ patrol dogs to frighten the thieves away. Each household would pay him ten pins a month and all would be well.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘Before long, with all those ten pins, he’d built himself a double story house and bought a Merc.’

‘But did you get protection?’

‘We were terrorized by his dogs! They would come into the house and eat all the food. Soon the people were starving.’

‘But you still had your TV!’

‘Yes, but that was a mixed blessing. Every night on TV we had to watch stories of how Godfather Round Belly had saved the people of Chilenje, and how happy we were with the Godfather of the Nation.’

‘So why didn’t you protest?’

‘Some people tried to hold a meeting at Libala Football Field, but the dogs attacked them. Some lost legs, others had their bellies ripped open, and several died. The survivors were arrested for assault.’

‘Assault?’

‘They tried to hit back at the dogs.’

‘And did Round Belly know about all this?’

‘That was the thing. Nobody believed that such a nice jovial fellow as Round Belly could be behind it. Even me, I thought the problem was just that he had employed wrong people. For instance, a known criminal called William Bandit had been put in charge of the dogs.’

‘Perhaps Round Belly was also surrounded by wrong advisors?’

‘Exactly. That was just what people were saying. They didn’t tell him what was really going on, but what he wanted to hear. And he had a notorious crooked lawyer, called Red Lips, who used to whisper poison into his ear.’

‘Why didn’t you go and see him? Talk to him? Advise him?’

‘We did. We went to his big mansion, and he was absolutely charming. A real nice fellow. He showed us some of his dogs. Poodles and Labradors, which were playing with this children. He said his dogs were harmless, and these vicious dogs which were terrorizing us must have come from Chibolya. He had always been an activist for peace, and couldn’t stand violence in any form. He promised us that he would deal with the people that were trying to tarnish his name. Then gave us a nice braii of T-bone steak and beer, after which we all shook hands and left in high spirits.’

‘You were convinced?’

‘Oh yes. He seemed a very nice man.’

‘And did things get better?’

‘Things got worse. The next thing was that he gave away land to foreigners to set up factories. One factory for making coffins and headstones and another for making tea cups out of human skulls, which are very popular in Ching Chang.’

‘So more employment! That was good!’

‘That was worse. The workers were paid only four hundred pins a month. Their wives and daughters had to go on the street to support them.’

‘Then why didn’t the workers protest?’

‘They did. Most of them were killed by the dogs. The survivors were arrested for protesting without a permit.’

‘So did you still believe that Round Belly was really a very nice man?’

‘Yesterday morning I confided to my neighbour that I was beginning to think that Round Belly actually knew about all these things. That perhaps he was the one behind everything.’

‘And did she agree?’

‘She didn’t say anything. But last night a bulldozer came and flattened my house. That’s why I’ve come to take refuge in Kalakiland.’

‘What!’ I gasped. ‘You must report all this to the Human Rights Commission!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she sneered, ‘They went to the dogs years ago!’

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.’

GREAT BAG OF MAIZE

Great Bag of Maize

‘And when,’ I asked, ‘did you first become known as the Great Bag of Maize, or GBM?’

‘Look, Kalaki,’ he chuckled, as his vast belly wobbled around in his huge armchair. ‘I’m in the maize business. The fellows who grow maize become smaller and poorer. But the ones who buy it grow larger and richer.’

‘Sitting here and looking back at those events of two years ago,’ I said, ‘how do you feel about it now? There you were, with all the money you wanted. You’d bought yourself a mansion in Kabungula and a seat in parliament. Then suddenly you were arrested for beating your wife, and people were calling you the Great Bullying Monster. Wasn’t that a Gigantic Big Mistake?’

‘You don’t understand, Kalaki. I was the head of a large family and I had a big business and plenty of money. My next career move was obviously the presidency.’

‘I understand that alright. It’s a natural progression. You’d got plenty of excess cash to buy votes, you naturally want to go for the top job. But my question is, instead of getting yourself on all the front pages for some charitable work, such as distributing peanuts to the orphans of maize farmers who had committed suicide, you managed to get on all the front pages for battering your wife!’

‘Exactly. It was a good career move. You see, people were fed up with lies and hypocrisy. They wanted an honest man as president. God appointed me head of my household in Kabungula. So if my family respect God they must respect me. God has given me the job of maintaining discipline, to ensure that all members of the household are there to serve me and to fear me. When I walk into the house, I don’t expect to hear anybody cough, let alone be cheeky.’

‘But your party, the Putrefaction Front, was in favour of equal rights for women.’

‘The Putrefaction Front!’ shouted GBM, ‘stinks of hypocrisy! They support democracy in public, but they are little kings in their own homes! They beat their wives in private, but denounce wife-beaters in public.’

‘So when you came out of jail, you started your own party?’

‘When I came out of jail, I was a national hero. Within a couple of months, after I had got back into training, I won the vacant All-Africa Wife-Beating Championship (WBC) belt.’

‘You didn’t think of fighting other men?’

‘I am a peaceful man, I’ve always been against fighting, especially other men. We men must unite together, in order to discipline our wives. Only a properly disciplined wife can love her husband. When we have discipline in the home, then we can have discipline in the nation.’

‘So was that when you started your own party?’

‘Yes, that was the beginning of the New PF, the Punching Fist.’ He waved his fist proudly towards the huge French window, through which we could see the grand drive into State House. ‘We won the election easily, only six months after being registered. Velvet Mango devised such a crafty strategy that we didn’t even have to rig. The women’s vote was split between the three other parties, so we won easily.’

As we were talking, a woman with a bandage over her eye hobbled on crutches past the French window. ‘That’s my beloved wife Punchbag,’ said GBM proudly. ‘She’s wearing the latest in First Lady fashion, and many other women are now dressing like her.’

‘And is government now different under the wise guidance of the Punching Fist?’

‘Much the same,’ he laughed. ‘Our discrimination against women is much the same as during the previous government. The only difference is that the previous government claimed that it was struggling to end discrimination, whereas we are honest, and openly support the subordinate position of women in our traditional culture.’

‘And what about other policies?’

‘Our policy is to maintain discipline in the state just as we do in the home. Any critics or protesters are immediately jumped upon by the police, beaten up and thrown into jail.’

‘Isn’t that the same as before?’

‘Exactly. But the previous government claimed it supported freedom of expression and freedom of association. Whereas I am very clear that I am the Father of the Nation, and that anybody who says otherwise should expect to get thumped.’

Just then we heard a huge crash. GBM struggled to heave himself out of his chair. We rushed to the French window, to see that the huge wrought iron gates had been pushed over, and thousands of women were pouring into the garden as the guards scampered.

GBM ran squealing for his life, like a demented hippo, as angry women chased him across the ruins of the golf course. I stood there at the portico, watching the scene. Then towards me came Esther Phiri, punching the air with her red boxing gloves. ‘Thanks for delaying him, Kalaki!’ she said softly as she slipped her strong arm around me and gave me a powerful kiss. ‘I’m giving you a job in my new government. You’re going to be my First Lady!’

‘Not me!’ I shouted, as I jumped on my bicycle. ‘I’m off!’

[Kalaki acknowledges help from several Facebook friends, especially Vincent Sampa for introducing me to Esther, and Anthony Mwanaumo for the WBC]

My Dear Husband

My Dear Husband

Monday

Dear Diary, had a brief breakfast with My Dear Husband, before he went off again on one of his official trips. If only the people of this country knew how hard he is working for them. ‘Where are you going this time my dear?’ I asked him.

‘All the kings of Southern Africa have been invited to attend the Dance of the Naked Virgins in Manzini,’ he replied.

‘Ooh,’ I laughed, ‘I hadn’t realized there were any virgins left in Swaziland.’

He reached for his bottle of large blue pills, and swallowed a couple. ‘It’s a big problem, caused by the shortage of men. That’s why we’re all going down there to see what we can do to help.’

My Dear Husband, he’s very concerned about the plight of women, and he has so much love to give.

Tuesday

Dear Diary, It’s such hard work being a Queen. Today I had to spend all day at my Personal Tailor, making sure that I look like a real Queen. And to think, it’s only a couple of years ago that I was wearing ordinary chitenge and nshaupwa bwino. But now I wear bright green chitenge with yellow satin skunaz. I have had the royal chitenge embroidered with gold and silver thread all around the edges, with little fairy lights attached, so that it lights up in the dark.

Mother can’t adjust to my new status. When I showed her my new dress she turned on me like a market woman, saying ‘Thandi, you look like a Christmas Tree.’ How we can be disgraced by our relatives from the village! I had to tell her to know her place, and address me as ‘Your Excellency’ in future. Then I sent her upstairs to bed. If she doesn’t behave herself she’ll soon find herself on the bus back to Lundazi.

Wednesday

Dear Diary, Today My Dear Husband arrived back from Manzini, complete with three Swazi virgins. He was given them by the King of Swaziland, and apparently they’re specially trained in how to look after a king. He says that according to the national policy on women’s advancement, he’s going to appoint them as Ladies of the Bedchamber.

And while they’re settling in, he’s sending me to Mpulumushi to give royal gifts to all the women.

Thursday

Dear Diary, I spent all day in Mpulumushi, giving the women brown paper envelopes, bags of sugar, and royal blue chitenge printed with the face of the king. So as they danced with joy, the king also danced on their bottoms, which showed how much the king loves his women.

And I explained that they must vote for the king at the next election because the king believes in women’s development. But obviously he can’t bring them development if they don’t vote for him, and if he’s not allowed on their bottoms.

Friday

Dear Diary, I was back at the palace in time for supper with My Dear Husband. The new Ladies of the Bedchamber served the supper very nicely, also making sure that the King swallowed his pills. But I was a bit concerned that they were wearing nothing except short grass skirts. But My Dear Husband assured me that we are Pan Africanists, and we must respect African Kulcha.

He also explained that, after my successful trip to Mpulumushi, and because of his government’s policy on gender equality, I would now be equal to the King, with my own separate bedroom. And because of the policy of affirmative action, the three Ladies of the Bedchamber had been promoted to Vice-Queens, and would serve directly under the King.

Saturday

Dear Diary, Oh Dear, My Dear Husband went to an official ceremony today but came back limping badly. ‘What happened, My Beloved?’ I asked him. He explained that he had been dishing out the Distinguished Order of the Golden Boot to two cheeky politicians, but that he had put the Boot in too hard. ‘They were political heavyweights,’ he explained, ‘and I may have done more damage to myself than I managed to do to them.’

So this evening he flew off to Cape Town, to get treatment at the Naughty Girls Massage Parlour.

Sunday

Dear Diary, This morning I had an awful row with Mummy, who again deliberately called me Thandi instead of Your Excellency, then went on to claim that the King was cheating on me, that the three floozies in the Jacuzzi were actually his wives, and that the real reason for his trips abroad is that he is busy with Foreign Affairs. So now, as I write, the Old Bat is already on the bus back to Lundazi.

But now, Dear Diary, please forgive me, but I must hide you under this cushion. I’ve got Spectator Kalaki coming for tea this afternoon, and I don’t want him to find my Dear Diary!

[Kalaki's Note: Special thanks to Goli Shi’Nozipho for advice on Lundazi Bling Bling, and to Sipho Muleya for the intrusion of the Vice Queens]

THE GOOD SAUDI

The Good Saudi

The priest walked up to the lectern and opened the bible. ‘The lesson this morning is taken from the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 10, Verse 25 to 37, otherwise known as the Parable of the Good Saudi.

‘A man lay stripped and bleeding at the side of the road to Mecca. An ayatollah happened to be driving down that road, but he accelerated past, pretending not to see. Then came a busload of Palestinian pilgrims, but the driver said We have no time to stop, we shall be late for our prayers in Mecca.

‘Then along came a rich Saudi in his Cadillac. He stopped his car, lifted the poor man onto the back seat, took him back to his palace, bandaged his wounds and gave him antibiotics. And when he was well, he asked the man for his story.

‘I am a Yemeni, he explained, and I have been working as a watchman at an oil well for the past ten years. I had managed to save ten thousand dollars to take back to develop my village, to buy goats and plant olive trees, and to save my starving people. But I have been robbed and beaten, and now I might as well die, for my village will surely die.

‘Now the Saudi prince, who had never previously done a good deed in his life, suddenly saw a good chance to get to Heaven. My dear friend, he said, here is another ten thousand dollars to replace what you have lost, and another five hundred on top as transport money. Go back and develop your village. And if you have any more problems, just let me know.’

‘What is the moral of this story?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘We don’t have to worry about that,’ she replied, ‘the priest is employed to explain everything.’

‘And so it came to pass,’ continued the priest, ‘that a few years later the Good Saudi got an e-mail saying Village now doing better, exporting goats to Djibouti, but need village school for increasing number of children.

‘Now the Saudi saw the chance of an even better house in His Father’s Mansion, so he sent another ten thousand dollars. And so, as time went by, the Saudi had sent money for the borehole, for the clinic, and even a hundred thousand dollars to improve the road to Al Adan.

‘Hadn’t he read Dambisa Moyo’s book?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘All this happened before she was born,’ she replied.

‘And with the fullness of time, the good Saudi grew into an old man, and thought he’d better check on his direct foreign investment in Heaven. So he took a plane from Jiddah to Al Adan, and then a taxi to the village of Nyama El Soya, up in the hills of the Hadramawi.

And there, in the middle of the Empty Quarter, he found a sign saying Paradise on Earth, Funded by Prince El Riyal Bin Difid. He drove up a long palm drive, and came to a huge white marble mansion. A white uniformed servant opened the carved door into the mansion, and ushered him into a lush green garden. There he found his old Yemeni friend, now grossly fat, wearing only a towel, roasting a suckling pig on a huge mbaula. Round the huge swimming pool, fat old men were chasing naked young women.

‘Come in, come in, cried Nyama El Soya. Welcome! Another customer from Mecca! Taking a rest from the Haj! Ha ha! Have a glass of champagne! Sit down and choose your girl! Freshly imported from the Reed Market in Manzini! Only five hundred dollars a day! Ten thousand for take away!

‘Then the Good Saudi roared with indignation. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the one who saved your life, and invested in the development of your village. Where is the road, I found only desert? Where is the school and the clinic? Where are the goats and olive trees! You are a liar and a crook! I demand my money back!

‘Then the Yemeni roared with equal indignation. Don’t you come here poking your nose into my business! Yemen is a sovereign country, and we don’t want colonial foreigners telling us what to do! Pack your bags and go quickly, before I have you thrown out!’

Now the priest finally looked up from the Holy Book. ‘What,’ he asked, ‘do we think is the moral of this parable?’

Suggestions were quick to come from amongst the congregation…

‘Don’t try to help strangers.’

‘Don’t give money to crooks!’

‘Foreigners should be deported.’

‘Don’t try to buy a place in Heaven!’

‘Only rich people can help the poor.’

‘Foreign aid is the cause of corruption!’

‘Foreigners can’t understand the local culture!’

‘We must love our neighbours, especially the Swazi girls!’

‘No,’ said priest. ‘You’re all wrong, as usual. The moral of this story is that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Now, the collection plate is coming round, and I invite you to contribute to the bishop’s new church.’

‘Not me,’ I whispered to Sara. ‘He might be building a swimming pool!’

Contempt of Court

Contempt of Court

‘I sit here today,’ declared the Judge, ‘to make a decision on an application from the Attorney Degenerate, to register in Zambia the London judgment against Kafupi Mupupu.’

‘Is this the notorious Judge Contempt?’ I whispered in Sara’s ear.

‘Some say his full name is Contemptuous,’ she replied. ‘Others say he is really Contemptible’.

‘First of all,’ declared the judge, ‘I shall call upon the Attorney Degenerate to summarise his arguments in support of his application.’

Up stood a wig and gown, looking more like a penguin. ‘Your horror,’ he began, ‘I stand here on behalf of the good people of Zambia. The London judgment finds that Mupupu, whilst posing as a servant of the people, actually stole fifty million dollars from them, which he used to buy fancy suits and high heeled shoes, only keeping out of jail by bribing the judiciary.’

‘Mmmm,’ an angry murmur rose up from the packed audience.

‘Silence!’ shouted the judge, ‘or I’ll have you all locked up for contempt of court.’

‘That’s why he’s called Judge Contempt,’ whispered Sara.

‘The Foreign Judgments Act,’ continued the Attorney Degenerate, ‘can be used to register the London judgment, and recover the people’s money. Your horror, I rest my case.’

‘Doesn’t he mean “your honour”?’ I wondered.

‘Difficult to say,’ she whispered. ‘People are losing respect for judges.’

‘And now,’ said the judge, ‘I call upon the Defiant Defence to put the case for the Defective Defendant.’

‘Thank you My Lewd,’ said another wig and gown, this one looking more like a huge glass of milk stout. ‘I just rise to point out that my learned colleague the Attorney Degenerate is quite wrong to claim that my client was a servant of the people. As a matter of fact, he was the king. A king is entitled to take money from the people, so that he can live like a king, and have natty suits and lovely little sparkling shoes, as befit a king.

‘Futhermore,’ continued the Defiant Defence, ‘I am entirely puzzled at the constitutional confusion of my learned colleague, when he claims that he is here to represent the people. Was he not appointed by the present king? Did he not swear loyalty to the king?

‘And how will kings ever be able to rule in future, if former kings can be brought to court like common criminals, to have their lawful decisions reconsidered? We are even brought to court to hear tittle tattle about the king buying himself a suit! Is not the king a law unto himself? Is not all law signed into law by the king? Then how does my learned friend come here to misuse his legal training, to misuse the law he got from the king, to try to undermine the very king to whom he swore loyalty! He blatantly abuses his office to represent the people against the king, whilst simultaneously accusing others of corruption. My Lewd, I rest my case.’

The crowd sat there, silent and baffled, scratching their heads. ‘Are we living in a monarchy or a democracy?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘That’s the question,’ she replied, ‘which will be answered here today.’

‘The case now comes to judgment,’ announced the judge. ‘ Firstly, I find the arguments from the defence to be entirely inadequate. The constitution is very clear that the law is made by the people, through their representatives in parliament. Therefore the king is not above the law.

‘But there are also inadequacies in the arguments of the Attorney Degenerate. He claimed that the money in question, purported to be stolen, was used to corrupt the judiciary. But if believed his own claim, then he would not be wasting his time bringing this case to court.’

‘But perhaps he is wasting his time?’ I murmured.

‘That’s another question to be decided today,’ Sara chuckled.

‘Furthermore,’ continued the judge, ‘the Attorney Degenerate has not explained how ten year old suits and shoes can have any present value, bearing in mind that they are now frayed and worn, and only big enough to fit a dwarf. So how is this money to be recovered?

‘More fundamentally, whereas the Attorney Degenerate has correctly cited the Foreign Judgments Act, he has entirely overlooked the relevance of the Importation Act of 1971, which makes no provision for the importation of foreign judgments. The application is therefore denied, and the London judgment cannot be registered.’

‘Booo! Corruption! Bent as a cucumber!’ We all stood up, shouting.

‘Contempt of court!’ squealed the contemptible judge. ‘I sentence you all to ten years in jail!’

But by this time there were bags of rotten eggs and tomatoes being passed down our row, so we all started hurling them at the judge. ‘Sell out! Bought and paid for! Traitor!’

As the judge fled, we all rushed out to the carpark, just in time to catch Judge Contempt scrambling into his limo. More eggs and tomatoes flew. ‘He’s now a rich man!’ somebody shouted. ‘He’s retiring to the Bahamas!’ How we all laughed and cheered!

I turned to Sara. ‘The night is still young, let’s go back in for a drink!’

Everybody was in jovial mood in the Playhouse Bar. ‘That’s the best comedy I’ve seen in years,’ I said to Sara. ‘Participatory theatre! So realistic!’

‘You should go to the real court,’ she laughed. ‘It’s even more ridiculous!’

HAUNTED

Haunted

It was two o’clock in the morning, but the king couldn’t sleep. He was sitting up in his bed, his eyes looking into the gloom of his palatial bedroom. Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he heard an eerie high pitched whine, whoooo … whoooo ....whoooo. Then, as he stared into the darkness, he began to see the shape of a still figure in a long white robe, with large mournful eyes, staring at him…

‘Whooo do you think I am?’ whined the high pitched voice. ‘You know me, Nyamasoya. And I know youuuu …youuuu … youuuu. You said you would follow me! And you did! You followed me to my grave, Nyamasoya. Now I’ve come back to follow youuuu … youuuu …’

‘Aaarrghhh!’ the king screamed so loud that he woke up the queen, who also sat up in fright and turned on the light. ‘What’s happening? ‘Are we safe? Or are you having another of your funny turns?’

‘Over there in the corner!’ whimpered the king, ‘can’t you see him?’

‘There’s nobody over there.’ she scoffed. ‘It’s all in your head.’

‘Can’t you hear his voice, saying youuuu …youuuu … youuu?’

‘It’s just the wind in the trees, my dear. It happens this time of year. Just go back to sleep.’ So saying, she turned off the light. ‘I need my rest. I’ve got an important meeting of First Ladies tomorrow. We’re trying to sort out the awful mess our husbands have been making.’

But the king could not sleep. He sat there staring into the dark, fearing that the ghost would come back. Which it did, the next night…

‘Youuuu … youuuu … youuuuu,’ came the high pitched whine from the ghostly figure in the corner. Youuuu … youuuu chased me from this palace, but I have returned. You promised to follow me, but I am following you. You followed me to my office, and chased me out. Followed me to parliament, and threw me out. Followed me even to the hospital, followed me to my death. So now, O Great King, I am your follower, I shall always follow you…’

‘Aaarrghhh!’ screamed the king, as the queen woke up very annoyed. ‘For Christ’s sake be quiet!’ she shouted, hitting him with her pillow. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow, even if you haven’t.’

‘The ghost has come back,’ he blubbered.

‘I told you not to go round fixing your enemies,’ she replied sternly. ‘You haven’t got the stomach for it. Now they’re coming back to haunt you!’

The next morning the king called his Chief of Staff. ‘Get the royal jet ready, I’m off to see the King of Namibia!’

‘Do we have an invitation?’ asked the poor fellow. ‘Is it an official state visit?’

‘Never mind all that,’ shouted the king. ‘I need a change of air!’

‘But there was no escape. Even in the faraway palace of the Namibian king, there was still no sleep for the hapless Nyamasoya. ‘Youuuu … youuuu … youuuu thought you could escape me,’ came the same whining noise. ‘Just as you followed me, I am following youuuu. Your thugs followed my mourners to the funeral house, and had them beaten. They even followed me to my burial, so that they could beat anybody found weeping. And so I shall follow you to your unhappy end. Sleep no more, O King, for I am following you!’

For all his foreign trips, Nyamasoya could not escape the ghost. And his unfortunate subjects could not understand why their king was flying round the world like a demented soul, too frightened to return to his own palace.

And it got worse. One day, when the king was in Addis, and about to shake hands with the Chairman of the African Union of Dictators, the Chairman suddenly turned into a ghost, saying ‘Youuuu … youuuu … youuuu thought you could run away from me, but I am still following you!’

The poor demented king ran screaming from the conference hall, straight to his aeroplane, and ordered the pilot to fly to Heaven. ‘I’m going to fix this little pipsqueak once and for all!’ he roared.

High in the sky, he stepped out to find St Peter standing in front of the Pearly Gate. ‘I’m looking for a certain Lament Chipotamutima, who I think has been given accommodation here.’

‘Quite right,’ said St Peter. ‘A very sad case. He had been sorely persecuted by some mad king, so he was given instant admission. He’s now known as St Lament.’

‘You think he’s a saint, but he’s been haunting me!’ Nyamasoya shouted angrily. ‘So I’m here to clip his wings! I’m a king, here on a state visit! Let me in to see the Boss! A man in my position can’t stand here wasting time talking to the malonda! Iwe, open the gate, and be quick about it, or I shall get back in my royal aeroplane and return to Earth!’

‘Your aeroplane has already left,’ said St Peter calmly. ‘I have instructions from the Boss that you should go downstairs, where you will be accommodated in the Other Place.’

‘What!’ shouted the king. ‘Downstairs! How far down? What’s down there?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said St Peter. ‘I have asked St Lament to follow you.’

[Story based on an idea from Michelo Simuyandi]