In the Dark

In the Dark

Yesterday afternoon I was at the Downtown Shopping Mall with Kupela, who was looking for a car at Japan.Salaula.Com. ‘I’ll find you back here,’ I said, ‘I need a drink.’

Going down the corridor, I came to a row of windows all painted over in gothic letters saying In the Dark. I pushed on an elaborate chromium handle, and in I went. Sure enough, I was completely in the dark.

I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust, I finally made out the shape of a chair, and sat down. I could just see that I was sitting at a black table in a large black room. A row of white teeth suddenly appeared in front of me.

He put out his hand to shake mine, and then spoke authoritatively into the darkness, ‘Bring a double brandy for Spectator Kalaki!’

‘You know my name?’ I asked, more than a little surprised.

‘You may be in the dark,’ he laughed gruffly. ‘But I’m not.’

Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a few pencil beams of green laser light, just enough to reveal a thin bony man with black suit and black shirt and black tie. He had a thin face, shaped like a hatchet.

‘I seem to recognize the face,’ I said.

‘Whiplash Bandit,’ he replied, ‘I’m the Protector General.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said hopefully. ‘What do you protect?’

‘I thought you knew these things, Kalaki. I protect the rich from the poor, the powerful from the weak, and leaders from the led.’

‘Ah ha,’ I said, ‘Now I recognize you. You work for the MMD!’

‘Not the Movement for Marketing Dictatorship,’ he replied. ‘The Militia for Modifying Dissidents.’

Just then the drinks arrived, as if from nowhere, and an invisible voice announced ‘A lemon juice for Mr Bandit and a double brandy for Mr Kalaki.’ Then a swinging laser beams briefly illuminated the owner of the voice, an angel carved out of pure black ebony with black hair and wearing a black apron. ‘Thanks,’ I said, then watched transfixed as her beautiful blackness swayed rhythmically away into the blackness.

‘As far as I can make out,’ I said, as I gulped down the entire brandy, ‘she’s not wearing anything except that little black velvet apron.’

‘She’s one of the Nude Nubile Nubians from Nubia,’ he smiled, revealing a gold tooth. ‘They fetch a good price down in Hillbrow. Here in Lusaka, we’re on the main trade route.’

‘What about human rights?’

‘Exactly,’ he snarled. ‘We don’t want human rights interfering with good business. That’s why we must vote for the MMD.’

‘Half a minute,’ I said, ‘I thought you said your MMD is not anything to do with the MMD?’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘The Militia for Modifying Dissidents is a business organization, set up by the Godfather of the Nation, to protect big business from any unnecessary change in the political system.’

‘So you are working for the Movement for Marketing Dictatorship!’

‘Big business is non-political,’ explained Bandit. ‘We’re not interested in one party or the other. We work at modifying dissidents because we want stability. We’re naturally conservative. Big business just doesn’t like change.’

‘Why not?’

‘Take the present system of corruption. If the government changes, how shall a businessman know which one to bribe? How much to pay? He could easily get arrested for bribing the wrong person! His business could collapse!’

‘Better not to bribe!’

‘Bribery is only part of it. We have a system for avoiding tax. Half the copper on the black market. All the emeralds under the radar. Pay ten percent and you can do anything. That’s why the economy is developing, because we business people are accumulating capital rapidly!’

‘And it could all change?’

‘Exactly. We could get some nutter voted in by promising to collect all the surplus money as taxes and using it to pay the poor and starving! Or putting up wages so we can’t employ anybody! Or wasting money on the dying! The whole nation could be destitute within ninety days!’

‘You have to save the nation!’

‘Exactly. These dissidents are obviously trying to use this election to undermine the government! Treason! They even admit that they oppose the legitimate government of the day! We must stop them!’

‘Kill them?’

‘Oh no, we’re opposed to violence. We just buy their voters cards, give them sugar and mealie-meal. Bicycles and chitenges. Beer and roast beef! We’re a benevolent organization, just like the Rotary Club.’

‘No violence at all?’

‘Never. Not unless they insult our Godfather, then we shall come down on them heavily. If they talk too much, we shall cut out their tongues. And of course if they raise their fists in the air, we shall have no option but to shoot!’

‘Protect the government from being overthrown!’

‘Exactly! Protect the nation! Instill discipline! Maintain the rule of law! The police will help us! They’re on our side!’

‘Thanks for the chat,’ I said, as I made for the door. ‘I’ve got enough for this week’s article!’

‘Feel free,’ he sneered. ‘Nobody believes a word you say!’

I walked out from the dark, into the bright light of day, to find Kupela laughing with her friend Lorraine. ‘Everything may seem happy and marvelous to you!’ I exclaimed, ‘but I just found something very dark and dangerous!’

‘Poor old bally,’ laughed Kupela. ‘It’s all in your mind!’

Kiss of Death

Kiss of Death

‘Grandpa,’ pleaded Thoko, ‘Tell us a story before we go to bed.’

‘You’re far too old for fairy stories,’ I replied.

‘Then tell us a horror story,’ said Khoza.

‘Once upon a time,’ I began, ‘in the Land of Zed, the Great Leader died suddenly and there was nobody to replace him.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Thoko.

‘Because in those days,’ I explained, ‘a leader always threw all his competitors in jail, or had them murdered, and instead surrounded himself with complete dunderheads who were too stupid to topple him.’

‘So how did they find a new leader?’ asked Thoko.

‘The elders went to the Leaders Graveyard,’ I said, ‘and started digging, to see if there was any life left in any of their dead leaders.’

‘Uhhgghhh,’ said Thoko with a shudder. ‘How disgusting!’

‘And did they find one?’ asked Khoza.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They found a grave marked King Nyamasoya, Born 937, Died 1008, May His Soul Never Rest in Peace. So they thought that sounded hopeful, and dug him up. Sure enough, when they opened the lid of the old stone coffin, out jumped old King Nyamasoya, shouting What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here for nearly a thousand years!

‘But why aren’t you dead? they asked. ‘Ah Ha! He laughed, The foolish fellows forgot to drive a stake through my heart!’

‘So he was a vampire!’ Khoza gasped.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But in those days the people hadn’t heard about vampires. And anyway, they were in a hurry to find a new king so they didn’t ask too many questions.’

‘Very foolish,’ said Thoko.

‘So what sort of king did he make?’ Khoza wondered.

‘He started off alright,’ I said. ‘Seemed to be a very jolly fellow. Ate a lot, drank a lot, laughed a lot. Better than the previous fellow who had a nasty temper.

‘Don’t call me Nyamasoya, I never liked the name, declared the new king. Just call me RB! But when he said that, the people began to shake with fear, because there had been previous leaders who had been called RB. There had been Rig the Ballot, and Rob the Bank, and Run from Bullets. Don’t worry, laughed the new king, RB stands for Royal Blood. After all those years of democracy, you now have a king!’

‘He had come to suck their blood,’ said Thoko.

‘Things began to go wrong,’ I admitted, ‘after he appointed his first minister. When the new minister came out from the palace he was looking very pale and thin.’

‘He’d been given the Kiss of Death!’ declared Thoko. ‘The king pretended to kiss him, but instead sucked all the blood out of his jugular vein!’

‘In those days,’ I said, ‘before taxes were invented, kings grew fat and rich by sucking blood from the people. Soon all the king’s ministers were bloodsuckers. Just as the king sucked blood from his ministers, so the ministers sucked blood out of the people. And so the people grew thinner and thinner as the king and his ministers grew fatter and fatter. Soon there was a national surplus of blood, and the king began to export blood to Ching Chang, where all the people were small and thin because of a shortage of blood.’

‘So the Land of Zed soon became rich?’ suggested Khoza.

‘Don’t be silly,’ snorted Thoko. ‘The government became richer as the people became poorer. They had to keep working harder and harder to grow the food to replace the blood that was constantly being sucked out of them.’

‘But I thought a king was supposed to be the servant of the people,’ said Khoza, ‘not just a gigantic blood sucker.’

‘The king did his best to explain how he was really working for everybody’s benefit. Every day the Zed National Blood Corporation was busy telling the people about the new hospital where they could donate their blood, and the new mobile hospitals that would seek them out wherever they went. And new roads to enable the blood to be exported to Ching Chang. Free agricultural inputs to produce more food for increased blood production. More schools for pupils to learn the process of turning mere peasant blood into fine Royal Blood. And billboards everywhere repeating the national slogan Your blood, working for you!’

‘Didn’t the people protest? Rebel? Riot?’ asked Thoko hopefully.

‘The Kiss of Death didn’t just affect ordinary people,’ I explained. ‘The police would round up protesters to suck the blood out of them, to replace the blood that was being sucked out of them. Similarly the courts had to offer up victims to have their blood sucked, or the king would suck the blood out of the judges instead.’

‘No elections?’ asked Thoko.

‘Of course not,’ I laughed. ‘The king sucked all the blood out of the Electoral Commission, and their desiccated corpses were put on display in the National Museum.’

‘No constitution?’ asked Khoza.

‘It had so much blood sucked out of it,’ I replied, ‘that it was reduced to only five words: The King’s Word is Law!’

‘So the Kiss of Death destroyed even the state itself,’ said Khoza glumly.

‘Completely,’ I said.

‘What I can’t understand,’ said Thoko, ‘is why Nyamasoya hadn’t had that stake driven into his heart in the first place, to prevent him ever coming back.’

‘That was the problem,’ I said. ‘He didn’t have a heart.’

______________________

Just then Sara put her head round the door. ‘Time for bed! Give Grandpa a goodnight kiss!’

‘Aarrghhh!’ they both screamed, and ran helter-skelter out of the room.

‘You’ve been telling them another of your horror stories!’ said Sara. ‘What a horrible frightening Grandpa!’

‘It’s a frightening world,’ I replied.

_______________________

[Story based partly on suggestions from my Facebook friends, especially Francis Mwelwa Bwalya]

Buffaloes and Rabbits

Buffaloes and Rabbits

‘Once upon a time,’ I began, ‘a long time ago, the Land of Mfuwe was ruled by an old dinosaur called King Nyamasoya.’

‘An old dinosaur as king,’ laughed Nawiti, ‘what a silly idea!’

‘Not in those days,’ I explained. ‘Those were the days when huge fat animals ruled all the smaller ones.’

‘Why?’ asked Nawiti.

‘This was in the days of the jungle, when might was right, and power went to the high and mighty, and smaller mortals had to do as they were told.’

‘Why?’ Nawiti persisted.

‘In those days, when a naughty little monkey asked her Mummy Why?, her Mummy would reply saying This is the way it has always been, or We have to support the government of the day, or We’re not supposed to ask questions like that!

‘My Mummy says it’s good to ask questions.’

‘But in the Kingdom of Mfuwe,’ I said, ‘asking questions was seen as a threat to the power of Nyamasoya, and he could send his hyena to eat you.’

‘But were these large animals in power because they were large,’ Nawiti wondered, ‘or were they large because they were in power?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ I admitted.

‘You’re a Grandpa!’ Nawiti scoffed. ‘You’re supposed to know these things!’

‘It’s not that simple,’ I tried to explain. ‘The large animals always claimed that they were in power because they were larger and stronger, with bigger brains.’

‘But did the small animals believe that?’

‘Their large powerful leaders had always told them so. Their mummies and daddies had always told them so. Their teachers and priests always told them so. It seemed like the natural order of things. The lords of the jungle were born to lord it over the smaller animals. Big animal superior, small animal inferior. This was the only commandment in the Jungle of Mfuwe.’

‘This story,’ said Nawiti, ‘is crying out for a hero.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And so it happened that along came a cobra called Cycle Mata.’

‘Who upset everything?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Oh good,’ she laughed, rubbing her little hands with glee.

‘He told the small animals that the dinosaur and the elephants and the hippos were all excessively large and fat because all the monkeys and rabbits and duikers have to pick the masuku fruit and take it to their leaders, who grew too fat because they were overfed.’

‘And all the animals were too small because they were starving?’

‘That too.’

‘So Cycle Mata was really saying that the rich were stealing from the poor!’

‘Exactly. So Nyamasoya was furious, saying that stealing only happened when the poor took from the rich, but when the rich took from the poor it was called taxation.’

‘Then Cycle Mata said that taking all the masuku fruit was corruption. This caused Nyamasoya to get into a rage, saying the leaders were entitled to eat all the masuku, because they were larger and needed the extra energy to power their huge brains, and that there was no such thing as corruption in Mfuwe.’

‘What is corruption?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Corruption,’ I explained, ‘is when everything goes rotten.’

‘And was everything going rotten?’

‘The elephants and hippos had so much extra masuku that they were letting it go rotten, and making it into kachasu. While their subjects were starving, the leaders were over-fed, over-weight and completely drunk.’

‘Drunk with power?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That was what Cycle Mata said. But at first the obedient little animals didn’t believe him, for they had been brought up to respect their leaders, who always did their drinking in private.’

‘But then they saw one drunk?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘One day, when Cycle Mata was holding a meeting, there was a great crashing and trumpeting, and out of the forest stumbled a great she-elephant, the dreaded Dolla Tujilijili. She staggered right into the meeting, insulted everybody, urinated all over the elders, and then fell down flat in a drunken stupor.’

‘That was when they really lost respect for their leaders?’

‘Exactly. That was when Cycle Mata led all his followers into the Land of Zed, and established democracy.’

‘What is democracy?’

‘It means that rich animals assist poor animals, and not the other way round. The large assist the small, the strong assist the weak, and so on. All animals are declared equal.’

‘So did all the small animals follow Cycle Mata to the Land of Zed?’

‘Only the rabbits ran away to join Nyamasoya, after they were offered larger rations of masuku.’

‘And did they get their extra rations?’

‘No. It was the hyenas who got the extra rations when they ate the rabbits.’

‘And did any big animals join Cycle Mata?’

‘Only the buffaloes,’ I said, ‘because they were promised leadership positions.’

‘And were they given?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘They were all given the job of pulling ploughs to till the land.’

‘Was that fair?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘In a democracy, leaders are servants of the people.’

Juju

Juju

‘Once upon a time, a long time ago,’ I began, ‘there was a beautiful young woman called Zambia. She was so beautiful that Chief Nyama Soya wanted Zambia all for himself…’

‘But did she love him?’ asked Nawiti.

‘That was the problem,’ I said. ‘Zambia was in love with a mere villager called Cycle Mata.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘So the Chief wasn’t pleased!’

‘Not at all. He kept saying I am the Chief and you must respect the government of the day and give me Zambia!’

‘But did Nyama Soya really love Zambia?’

‘Oh yes. But the problem was that Zambia didn’t love him.’

‘But why did she love Cycle Mata, was he young and handsome?’

‘That was the funny thing. He was old, with rather a battered face. But he had a marvelous sense of humour and could tell the most amusing stories.

‘Better than yours, Grandpa?’

‘Even better than mine,’ I replied.

‘No wonder she loved him,’ said Nawiti, giving me a little hug. ‘But even so, she must have liked the idea of being the wife of the Chief. Couldn’t Nyama Soya win her love?’

‘That was the problem,’ I explained. ‘He went about it the wrong way. He would send her presents which, instead of pleasing her, caused offence.’

‘Such as what?’

‘He sent her a big blue chitenge with his face printed all over it, so that Zambia was heard squealing He thinks he can put his big fat face on my bottom. This caused the entire village to burst out laughing. Next he sent her a huge brown envelope full of money, causing Zambia to protest Does he think I can be bought like a hule? Then he sent her a beautiful emerald necklace, which caused the entire village to shout with annoyance How is the chief so rich when we are living in poverty? He bought these things with our money!

‘So Zambia asked Cycle Mata if she should send back these gifts. But he replied Just keep them. But don’t kubeba. When the time comes to choose a husband, choose the one who will look after you forever, not the one who tries to buy you.’

‘So what did Nyama Soya try next?’

‘Nyamasoya said that he would build a road all the way from his palace to the village of the beautiful Zambia, so that he could travel all the way down the road to propose marriage. But the people sneered, saying All these years he has never built a road, but now he wants to win Zambia for himself, suddenly he can build a road!

‘Again his plans backfired!’ said Nawiti.

‘Very much so,’ I said.

‘So what did he try next?’

‘Next was even more foolish. He started a rumour that Cycle Mata had never kissed a woman and that he only kissed other men.

‘So Zambia was annoyed?’

‘Since Zambia was in love with Cycle Mata, she was the very one who knew that this was a lie. And some people were even saying that this Chief is misbehaving, and maybe we should instead put Cycle Mata as our Chief.’

‘So after that,’ said Nawiti, ‘Nyama Soya had no hope of winning the hand of Zambia!’

‘Of course not,’ I laughed. ‘But he didn’t realize that, because he wasn’t very bright.’

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

‘He was now getting desperate, so he turned to juju. He went to the ng’anga and asked for special muti which would make Zambia love him.’

‘And did the ng’anga give him the special muti?’

‘Not exactly. But he told him where to find it. The ng’anga told him to go into the forest and find a lion. Then he should pull a hair from its tail and bring the hair to the ng’anga.’

‘And did he manage, or did the lion kill him?’

‘Nyama Soya may not have been very bright, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He came back to the ng’anga with a hair from the tail of a hairy dog, claiming that he pulled it from a lion. And the ng’anga laid out the hair on a piece of paper and added some dried lizard powder, followed by a generous portion of chamba, and finally rolled the mixture into a long cigarette. After that he waved some old bones over it, and muttered some strange incantations in frightening gibberish. Then he turned to Nyama Soya and said Smoke this on the night of the next full moon and you will become young and handsome again, and your breath will smell so intoxicating that the beautiful Zambia will just fall into your arms.’

‘And did he become handsome?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ I said sadly. ‘Instead the rolls of fat on the back of his neck began to spread, until they completely covered his face, so that his appearance caused small children to run screaming to their mothers.’

‘And did his sweet breath attract the beautiful Zambia?’

‘His breath was so foul that the people had to chase him out of the chiefdom in order to get a breath of fresh air!’

‘And did Zambia marry her beloved Cycle Mata?’

‘Of course. The Chief Justice joined them together the very next day.’

‘And was Cycle Mata made Chief?’

‘No. Zambia became Chief, and Cycle Mata was made her Faithful Servant.’

‘And did they live happily ever after?’

‘That,’ I replied, ‘is another story.’

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.’

The Memorial Service

The Memorial Service

It was Friday August 25^th 2012, and Sara and I were attending the Memorial Service for Nyamasoyaurus, the last of the Mad Mighty Dinosaurs, who had dropped dead the day after the election, exactly one year earlier.

‘We are gathered here today,’ intoned the priest, ‘to honour the memory and life of Nyamasoyaurus, the Great Dinosaur who managed to get rid of the dreaded MMD that had been ravaging this country for the previous twenty years.’

I looked round the church, which was packed, with people even standing in the aisles. The front three rows were filled with Nyamasoyaurus’s many widows and former mistresses, all dressed in somber black, except of course for the Swazi girls, who sat there completely naked, according to their tradition.

‘As I look around this Cathedral of the Very Cross today,’ the priest continued, ‘I see a great multitude of people. Any yet, when I officiated at Nyamasoyaurus’s funeral only a year ago, this great cathedral stood empty, except for the six men from the undertakers who were employed to carry the coffin.

‘I remember looking around the empty church and asking the empty pews whether such a man, so despised and abandoned, could ever reach the Kingdom of Heaven. Seeking the answer to this question, I read from the Gospel according to John, Chapter 14 Verses 1-2, where Jesus advises Simon Peter on the difficulty of getting into heaven…

‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you so. I go to prepare a place for you.

‘Of course, we all thought at that time that Nyamasoyaurus was a sinner who would go to hell. But we now know that the Lord found a mansion for Nyamasoyaurus. Because the Lord knew, as we did not know, that Nyamasoyaurus sinned not for himself, but he sinned for us, that we might enter the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth.’

The huge congregation murmured in approval.

‘The Lord in his wisdom realized that Nyamasoyaurus’s chosen life work was to enable us to rid ourselves of the dreaded MMD. But he also knew the weakness of the people of the Land of Zed, who had been brought up to respect authority and to believe that their leaders were working for the people.

‘And the people were easily deceived, because the Dubious Kafupi and Monstrous Muwelewele always talked very fair about good governance, and did their sinning in secret.

‘And so Nyamasoyaurus conceived a great plan to save the people from their tormentors. Upon the untimely death of the Monstrous Muwelewele, Nyamasoyaurus stepped forward and declared that he was the only one to continue the legacy of the Great Departed, because he was the most ancient of the dinosaurs, and therefore the only one to lead the Mighty Mad Dinosaurs, the dreaded MMD.

‘And the new Great Leader Nyamasoyaurus continued to speak continually of good governance. But he dropped the policy of sinning in secret. Instead he openly instructed the judges to find the guilty innocent and the innocent guilty. He set up the palace as the contract centre for all public works, and took ten percent. He boasted that he was taxing the people to raise money to subsidise rich business men. He increased unemployment and reduced wages until people were destitute, while all the time boasting that their predicament would attract investors.

‘But very few people complained, and most continued as usual, saying the government must know what it is doing. So now he went further, borrowing vast amounts of money for huge hospitals which were left empty because there were no doctors or nurses, and building huge schools where there were no teachers, because he adamantly refused to pay them.

‘But his plans to destroy the reputation of the MMD did not work. People just said He means well, he’s just a bit stupid. Only a few people protested. So next he sent the police to shoot these few protesters. Now there was more discontent, but the results were still very disappointing.

‘Then, at last, the Church took an interest, and castigated the MMD for leaving the poor to starve to death. Now Nyamasoyaurus saw his big chance. He cursed the entire Church for plotting against the state, denouncing cardinals and bishops as Satanists, witches, homosexuals and perverts. He waged unrelenting war on Mother Church, swearing to kill her.

‘Now the people were really annoyed, for the Church had always protected them from parasitic leaders. They finally realized that the MMD was nothing more than a gang of criminals who had captured the state. So they threw them out at the next election, and elected St Michael as their next Great Leader.

‘Nyamasoyaurus died immediately afterwards. His great work was now complete. He died alone and unappreciated, for the people hadn’t realized that he died for them.

‘And now, to conclue this Memorial Service, we shall sing Hymn No.338, sung to the tune of The Church’s One Foundation.’

The congregation rose to their feet, and lifted the roof with this rousing hymn…

The Church’s one destruction

Was Nyamasoya Lord;

She must support election

By fire and by sword;

From hell he came and sought her

For his unholy bride,

With her own blood he killed her,

And for his life she died.

Mid strife of the election,

And tumult more like war,

She arose by resurrection

And faith for evermore;

With election victory glorious

St Michael proved the best,

And now the Church victorious

Is free like all the rest!

The Divorce Court

The Divorce Court

The judge leant towards the beautiful woman sitting in front of him. ‘Zambiana,’ he said in a kindly voice, ‘please explain to the court why you are seeking a divorce from this man.’

Tears welled into her eyes as she tried to explain. ‘Your honour, this man has ruined me. When my first husband died, his last wish was that I should marry the farm manager. He said that Nyamasoya was the right man to look after me and the family farm. So I respected my husband’s dying wish, even though my relatives warned me that he was not to be trusted. But they were right. He has stolen everything and left me destitute.’

The judge now turned to Nyamasoya. ‘Is this true?’

‘Your honour, it is the exact opposite of the truth. The late Muwelewele would be proud of the way I have developed the farm. I have gone into production of jhathropa for export, installed an irrigation system, invested in planting and harvesting machinery, and the annual turnover is now ten million dollars a year. When I took over it was just a subsistence operation, they were just scratching around with chickens, vegetables and a few pigs.’

The puzzled judge now turned to Zambiana. ‘There seem to be two very different sides to this story. Is the farm prosperous or ruined?’

‘Both, your honour,’ said Zambian sadly. ‘All this development was done with borrowed money. He has borrowed more than the value of the farm, which is now run by the Ching Chang people from whom he borrowed the money. All the money from sales goes straight to the Ching Chang for repayment of the loan. In the meantime all my relatives and workers on the farm are starving and dying. We are destitute.’

The baffled judge now turned back to Nyamasoya. ‘Is this true?’

Nyamasoya now treated the judge to a broad and genial smile. ‘Of course it is true, your honour. It is entirely normal to borrow money against the value of the land in order to invest in development...’

‘Yes yes,’ interrupted the judge irritably, ‘but is it true that all Zambiana’s workers and relatives are now destitute?’

‘I am in the awkward position having to contradict my dear wife,’ smiled Nyamasoya, ‘but she has little understanding of business. That’s why the late asked me to take charge. As a matter of fact, when I first took over, everybody on the farm was unemployed. But I have now given them all jobs.’

The judge now turned to Zambiana with a weary smile. ‘It seems that all your workers and relatives are fully employed. From what your husband has told us, we imagine that people on neighbouring farms must be jealous of your prosperity!’

Now Zambiana stood up shaking with rage, pointing at Nyamasoya. ‘This man has stolen our farm. They were once all self-employed farmers, growing their own food in a mixed farming operation and selling the surplus to the late. Now Nyamasoya has rented the land to the Ching Chang and all the farmers have now become wage labourers on what was once their own farm. They are paid only five pins a day, and they cannot eat jhathropa. We are all destitute.’

‘I notice,’ said the judge, ‘that your husband is dressed in a very smart suit, and arrived at this court in a new Mercedes. This appearance doesn’t seem to tally with your story of poverty and destititution.’

‘Him!’ shouted Zambiana, ‘the Ching Chang allow him to keep 10% of everything, so that they can externalize all of the remainder to Hung Hong. Nyamasoya is busy buying a farm in the Bahamas while the rest of us are starving.’

‘I also notice,’ said the judge, smiling at the beautiful Zambiana, ‘that you are wearing a very nice new blue chitenge, which I must say suits you very well.’

‘It’s the first time in years that my husband has bought me anything,’ sobbed Zambiana. ‘But he saw the danger of my appearing here in my usual worn out rags.’

‘I wonder if there is not more to this dispute than meets the eye,’ said the judge. ‘How are the marital relations between the two of you?’

‘There you’ve put your finger on it!’ shouted Nyamasoya. ‘She never wanted me, she was just following instructions from the late departed. But now she has fallen for some smoothy from the big city, a dubious character called Cycle Mata!’

‘Is there any truth in this story?’ asked the judge, as he turned towards Zambiana.

She blushed and cast her eyes down. ‘Yes, your honour. He doesn’t shout at me or insult me. He listens to me. He loves me. He doesn’t steal from me. He’s the one I want.’

‘I have come to a decision,’ declared the judge. ‘You, Nyamasoya, should not attempt to cling on where you’re not wanted. I grant Zambiana a divorce, and further order that the farm must be returned to her as the rightful owner. I further declare that Nyamasoya should be investigated for attempting to steal the farm when he was only given the job of looking after it.’

As Nyamasoya strode angrily from the court, the judge turned to smile at Zambiana. ‘Well, there you are my dear. What are you going to do now?’

‘I’m going to marry Cycle Mata,’ she replied. ‘He’s going to manage my farm properly!’

The judge put his head in his hands. Then he looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘My dear Zambiana,’ he said softly, ‘I hope you’re making the right decision.’

Rationality

Rationality

It took me days to track him down. Finally I was directed to a crumbling house in Garden Compound, right next to the sewage pond. I knocked on the door and walked in.

Suddenly, it was as if nothing had changed. There behind a large mahogany desk sat diminutive figure of the former Minister of Lies and Misinformation, the formerly Honourable Mouth Mulufyanya. In front of him on the otherwise empty desk were the usual six flashy cell phones and a little national flag. Behind him, hanging on the wall, was a picture of himself, looking like a crafty little rat.

‘Good morning Kalaki,’ he said cheerily, shaking my hand and directing me to a large armchair. ‘Make yourself comfortable. What brings you here?’

‘I just wanted to hear your side of the story on this precipitous fall from power.’

‘Well,’ he said, stroking his little pointed chin, ‘I certainly do find it sad that poor old Nyamasoya is facing such a precipitous fall. After all, I was the one who put him up there, got him elected and showed him how to do the job. Now that he’s thrown me overboard, all the other rats are abandoning the sinking ship.’

‘So you admit to being a little rat?’ I laughed.

‘Certainly not!’ he immediately objected. ‘Maybe by human standards I’m very small, but by rat standards I’m very large. In the company of politicians, nobody even realized I was a rat.’

‘Ha!’ I cackled, ‘I suppose politicians are humans who behave more like rats, and by comparison rats behaves more like a humans. But I didn’t expect you to admit all this to me!’

‘Nobody believes your stories, Kalaki. That’s why we can tell you the truth.’

‘So tell me the true story of you and Nyamasoya. How did it all begin?’

‘It began when Muwelewele sent me to fetch the old dinosaur from Mfuwe. He wanted to offer him the job of Number Two.’

‘I often wondered why he chose him.’

‘I was the one who advised him to follow the basic strategy: Choose somebody who’s so useless that he can never challenge the Big Man for the Top Job.’

‘But how did you, a mere rat, become so influential at the Palace?’

‘Don’t be silly, Kalaki, we rats have been advisers at the Palace since colonial days. Of course it’s not generally known because we come in and out through the tunnels.’

‘Rats as advisers? Why should government need rats as advisers?’

‘How little you know about politics, Kalaki. These politicians face one major problem. They talk fine words about democracy and serving the people, but what they actually do is help themselves.’

‘We know that. But where do you rats come in?’

‘Humans can’t understand themselves. They often genuinely believe their own fine words and get genuinely perplexed by their own opposite actions. And they suffer terrible agony when this causes them to become a public laughing stock. But we rats can observe humans from an objective point of view, and come to a scientific understanding of the strange gap between their words and their deeds. So we are in a position to propose more rational behaviour.’

‘Rats are more rational?’

‘Exactly, that’s where the word comes from.’

‘So was government rational under Muwelewele?’

‘We rats really helped him. We kept the words very beautiful, and the dirty deeds almost impossible to see. The only problem we had was the dreaded Red-Lipped Snake, who kept saying nolle prosequi when he was supposed to say justice, and saying corruption when he was supposed to say constitution.’

‘He was conducting the Fight Against the Constitution instead of the Fight Against Corruption.’

‘The poor man couldn’t quite grasp the contradiction between fine words and dirty deeds. But apart from him, everybody kept our dirty deeds very secret.’

‘But then Muwelewele departed without saying goodbye.’

‘Very sad. It was myself who proposed Nyamasoya as the new Great Leader.’

‘Where was the rationality in that?’

‘Any other candidate would have split the party. But Nyamasoya was not wanted by anybody, so therefore he was equally acceptable to everybody. A perfect compromise.’

‘And he was so grateful to you that he made you an MP and Minister. Despite being a rat you became honourable on the spot, by royal decree.’

‘I had done everything to make him look like a Great Leader. I dressed him in a nice suit and fitted him with contact lenses. Taught him the basic principles of rationality, and made him practice public speaking in front of a big mirror. I led his campaign, wrote his speeches and got him elected.’

You were on top of the world! What went wrong?’

‘After we had installed him, a strange thing happened. He suddenly imagined himself to be a Great Leader and a genius. He began to look up from the carefully prepared speeches, and to say what he actually thought!’

‘What a disaster!’

‘Exactly. Instead of using words to justify deeds and to conceal misdeeds, he started boasting of all his misdeeds, and justifying them on the basis that he was the Great Leader who could do as he liked! Complete irrationality!’

‘So now all the rats have deserted the sinking ship.’

‘Not exactly. The ship is sinking because rationality has deserted it. But the rats are still there, waiting in the tunnels for the next ship to come along.’

‘So soon you’ll be honourable again!’

‘I must bring back rationality,’ he said. ‘It is my duty to serve the nation.’

THE MARCH PAST

The March Past

On Sunday, like all good journalists, I was there at the Freedom Statue to see the marching of our loyal workers past their Great Leader, the carrying of banners and the great speeches. What a glorious and impressive occasion of state, enough to stir the patriotic heart of all loyal citizens! Bugger the Royal Wedding, we have Labour Day!

I was standing on the pavement opposite the Great Leader’s dais, where the Beloved Father of the Nation stood to take the salute from each marching cohort. First down the road, behind a big red banner proclaiming Chambeshi Exploitation, marched a brigade of identical ill-fitting brown suits. As they drew level with the Great Leader their commander shouted Eyes Right! Salute! and the Great Leader picked up his microphone and shouted Starvation Wages for All! Whereupon they all responded in hearty unison Thank you Sah!

Now came the next cohort, behind a bright yellow banner announcingSlavery PLC. The sequence was very similar.

Eyes Right! Salute! shouted the commander, as the brown suits all saluted.

Strikes are illegal! declared the Great Leader.

Thank you Sah! sang the workers joyfully.

Then came another cohort of ill-fitting suits behind a bright blue banner reading Work, Sweat and Blood and Company Ltd,

Eyes Right! Salute!

I give you batons and bullets!

Thank you Sah!

I turned to Ample Mapulanga from The Digga Deepa, who happened to be standing right behind me. ‘Why do the workers keep saying Thank you Sah! when they are promised death and destruction?’

‘What workers?’ asked Ample, looking around with the keen eye of an investigative reporter.

‘The workers marching past our Beloved Leader!’ I hissed angrily.

‘They’re not workers,’ he laughed. ‘Workers were banned from Labour Day years ago, after one cheeky worker shouted at the Great Leader and asked for a wage increase.’

‘So who are all these people in horrible brown suits?’

‘They’re all Chinese managers from the new extractive industries,’ explained Ample.

‘Extracting copper?’ I suggested.

‘Extracting flesh and blood,’ sneered Ample, ‘and possibly a few kidneys.’

Finally all the identical cohorts of identical brown suits had given their identical salutes, and now stood at attention to hear further gems of wisdom from the Great Leader, our Beloved Father of the Nation.

‘We are gathered here today,’ began the Great Leader, ‘at the Freedom Statue, which represents the figure of Capital breaking free from the chains of regulation and workers rights, in order to be free to accumulate wealth.’

‘Ching Chang!’ cheered the Chinese managers

‘Only by keeping down wages can we encourage more investors to come to this country. And only by brutally putting down protests and strikes can we keep down the wages down.’

‘Hing Hong!’ cheered the identical brown suits.

‘How does the Great Leader expect the workers to vote for him when he says such things?’ I whispered to Ample

‘That’s why he imported two million Chinese,’ said Ample. ‘They’ve all been given the vote.’

‘I am taking this opportunity,’ continued the Great Leader, ‘to announce that Desertification Unlimited of Shanghai are investing 500 million dollars in a new project to clear all the trees from Northern Province. This will create 10,000 new jobs, provide a dollar a day for the workers and a further dollar a tree for the treasury.’

‘Ho Ho Bling Bling!’ cheered the brown suits, now jumping up and down with excitement, as the surrounding crowd stood there in sullen disbelief.

‘It seems everything he says and does,’ I said, turning again to Ample, ‘is intended to please the Chinese rather than us!’

‘What d’you expect?’ laughed Ample. ‘He’s a Chinese puppet!’

‘But how did he become a Chinese puppet?’

‘Same way as other Chinese puppets,’ laughed Ample. ‘He was made in China!’

‘You mean they’re pulling the strings?’

‘Exactly,’ said Ample. ‘You see the canvas canopy on top of the dais? That contains the Chinese puppet master. He’s pulling the strings. If you look carefully, you can even see the strings. But the puppet is a brilliant imitation, every roll of fat and obscene gesture is replicated perfectly. See that Chinese lorry behind the statue? That’s where they keep all the gear!’

‘A mobile Great Leader! He must have imported it from China!’

‘He imported nine of them,’ laughed Ample. ‘One for each province. That’s why you see him on the TV every night, laying foundation stones in ten different places. The election campaign will have ten Great Leaders, but only one Cycle Mata!’

‘So if this Great Leader is just a Chinese puppet, where is the real one?’

‘You know our Great Leader is very fond of traditional ceremonies. I’m told he’s gone to Solwezi for the Dance of the Naked Virgins. This is the time of year when they initiate their young girls into womanhood. You know he takes his duties as Father of the Nation very seriously.’

‘Couldn’t one of the puppets do the job?’

‘Oh no,’ laughed Ample. ‘That one needs the real thing.’

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!’