Cycle Mata Deported

Cycle Mata Deported

          I found Sara already at breakfast, largely hidden behind the Daily Nation which was propped up against the huge teapot that she inherited from her mother. ‘Good morning darling,’ I said, as I sat down and poured myself a bowl of cornflakes. ‘What’s the news this morning? What’s Cycle Mata done now?’

          ‘He’s been deported,’ she replied.

          ‘Don’t be silly,’ I laughed. ‘He’s the one who does the deporting, so how can he be deported?’

          ‘I only know what I read in the paper,’ she said. ‘It says here that reliable sources from within State House have confirmed that Cycle Mata was helicoptered out of State House in the early hours of Tuesday morning.’

          ‘Ha ha,’ I laughed, ‘did he serve himself with the deportation order?’

          ‘According to this report,’ said Sara, ‘it was all arranged very smoothly. ‘He was just told that he was being flown to Mpulungu, where he would officially designate two new provinces and twelve new districts in the area which was previously known as Lake Tanganyika.’

          ‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘that bit certainly rings true. It was a project very dear to his heart.’

          ‘But instead,’ Sara explained, ‘he was flown to Dar-es-Salaam.’

          ‘Of course,’ I laughed, ‘there’s always been the suspicion that he’s really a Tanzanian. Perhaps he’ll do better there. And he’ll be able to create even more provinces in the Indian Ocean.’

          ‘You don’t believe this story, do you?’

          ‘When you’ve been in the newspaper business as long as I have,’ I said, ‘you learn to be skeptical. Yesterday’s screaming headline on the front page is tomorrow’s little apology on page twelve. Besides, it’s only the Minister for Bullets and Deportations who can issue a deportation order, not reliable sources from within State House.’

          ‘You’ve been so busy scoffing at the story,’ said Sara, ‘that I haven’t yet been able to read you the quote from the Minister, Mr Eager Bungle, where he confirms that on Monday night he issued a deportation order against Cycle Mata.’

          ‘Poof,’ I poofed. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. What reason did he give for deporting Cycle Mata?’

          ‘What a silly question,’ Sara laughed. ‘Everybody knows that the Minister of Bullets and Deportations issues a deportation order when he decides that a person is a threat to peace and good order.’

          ‘Ah ha!’ I laughed. ‘Now I see the minister was put in an awkward position, with all the rising public resentment against the broken promises, firing on peaceful demonstrators and malicious prosecution of political opponents. Ha ha! Obviously he realized that Cycle Mata was a serious threat to peace and good order. His public duty was clear! He had no option but to issue the order!’

          ‘There must be more to it than that,’ Sara objected. ‘Surely these ministers have to take their instructions from Cycle Mata.’

          ‘Exactly,’ I laughed. ‘That’s why I say the story is ridiculous.’

          ‘No it isn’t,’ said Sara, as she read another bit from the front page. ‘The reliable source from State House explains what happened. It seems that, late on Monday night, Cycle Mata was meeting with his Kitchen Cabinet when…’

          ‘Kitchen Cabinet?’ I wondered. ‘What’s that?’

          ‘You don’t know them?’ laughed Sara. ‘They’re the little gang of unelected mafia who actually run the country. People like Mulembe Cheato, Red Mwimbi, Mumbwe Malole and Splinter Kapimbe. Apparently that fateful Monday night one of these slimy creatures attempted to ingratiate himself by saying Cycle Mata, O Beloved Master, your ministers are just office boys who will do whatever you tell them. And another of the odious flatterers said Yes, you are such a Mighty Leader, they respect you so much, they’ll do whatever you say! Then another went further, saying Your word is law O King! Even if you phoned Eager Bungle and told him to deport you, the halfwit would do it straight away!'

          ‘Then apparently Cycle Mata got annoyed with this nauseating and dangerous flattery, and reacted angrily by saying OK, let’s try it! So he phoned the mentally challenged Eager Bungle and shouted Send me a deportation order immediately, otherwise I’m demoting you to DC in Mwinilunga!’

          ‘So the whole thing was just a joke,’ I laughed. ‘A storm in a teacup. Just another cock-up from a confused and incompetent government, drunk with power. Bungle can put things straight by just admitting that he made a mistake and reversing the deportation order!’

          ‘But according to this report,’ Sara laughed, as she read again from the newspaper, ‘it’s not as easy as that. Bungle now says that the deportation order can be reversed only if the proper channels are followed.’

          ‘But what are the proper channels?’

          ‘Obviously,' said Sara, 'He has to get new instructions from the Great Leader.’

          ‘But that’s impossible!’ I gasped. ‘If Cycle Mata has been deported, then there’s no legitimate authority to give him fresh instructions! The government has collapsed!’

          ‘Don't worry about that,’ laughed Sara, ‘A small country like ours can’t afford a huge expensive government, we’re better off without them. Now we shall be able to afford to build more universities and create more jobs and get rid of the infestors and parasites. Now Cycle Mata’s promises will all come true at last! More money in our pockets!’

          ‘It’s too good to be true!’ I shouted, as I grabbed the newspaper from behind the teapot and read the headline: HAKAINDE ARRESTED FOR DRIVING TOO SLOWLY AND REFUSING TO BRIBE A POLICEMAN.  

          ‘I knew it!' I laughed in triumph. 'I said from the start that I didn’t believe it! You were just having me on! You made it all up!'

          ‘Read the Hakainde story,’ she laughed. ‘It’s even more unbelievable!’  

            

          

Colonial Mine

Colonial Mine

       

          ‘It must be time for the news,’ said Sara. ‘Turn on Muvi TV.’

           As the picture on our ancient Supersonic came into fuzzy focus, we were presented with two rows of men, facing each other in sullen confrontation. In the foreground stood a line of soldiers, guns at the ready, and pointing at an opposing line of thin and starving workers, dressed in rags. Behind them was an ugly black entrance to a mine, just big enough to take a small railway line down to the depths of hell. Over the top of entrance was written Colonial Mine.

          ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, ‘What’s going on? Is this Afghanistan? Or the Americans bringing democracy to Iraq?’

          ‘Worse than that,’ said Sara grimly, ‘This looks more like labour relations at one of our mines. They’re probably conducting wage negotiations.’

          ‘What?' I gasped. 'Conducted by a three star general in full ceremonial uniform?’

          ‘That must be the Military Attaché of the Imperial Power,’ explained Sara.

          As we spoke the Military Attaché opened his attaché case and pulled out a pile of pieces of cardboard all connected by string, took hold of two sticks and held them high, and, hey presto! suddenly there appeared a cardboard puppet.

          ‘The Imperial Power never speaks directly to us,’ explained Sara, ‘they always speak through one of their local puppets.’

          ‘What’s the puppet’s name?’ I wondered.

          ‘Do puppets have names?' she chuckled. 'He’s just one of the nameless members of the Puppet Front. He’s probably the Minister for Starvation Wages.’

          ‘But where does he come from?’ I persisted.

          ‘From the Puppet Factory,' laughed Sara. ‘That's where they all come from. The first thing any Imperial Power does is to set up a Puppet Factory. Then they bow to the puppets they have manufactured for themselves, and call them the Puppet Front.’

          Now the Military Attache bent down and whispered something into the ear of his personal Puppet, who then spoke with borrowed ferocity to the hapless starving miners. ‘You useless donkeys,' began the captive Puppet Fraud, 'you show no gratitude. Your Beloved Puppet Fuhrer is working so hard to find more investors that he has had to double his own salary. Therefore there is no money to pay you more!’

          ‘He’s calling them donkeys,’ I protested. ‘But he’s the one who looks like a donkey!’

          ‘Some people can’t recognise their own inadequacies,’ explained Sara. ‘Instead they project their own inadequacies onto other people.’

          At last one starving skeleton plucked up courage and shouted at the Puppet Fraud, ‘We want our housing allowance!’

          As the Military Attache again whispered in Puppet’s ear, the Puppet shouted back ‘You donkeys do not need houses, you’ve always lived in kraals!’

          ‘We want transport money!’ shouted another.

          ‘This is a Christian Nation! The Lord gave donkeys four legs for their own transport!’

          ‘We want protective clothing!’

          ‘God gave you donkeys a thick skin for protection!’

          ‘We want the minimum wage! We were employed as miners, not donkeys!’

           ‘The Imperial Experts are the miners,’ sneered Puppet Fool, ‘you were hired as donkeys. Try reading your employment contract.’

          ‘The Imperial Experts have no skills,’ shouted the angry miners, as the Military Attache continued to busily chew the ear of the Puppet, and the soldiers levelled the barrels of their rifles at the ungrateful mob of miners.

          Now the Puppet assumed a very serious and offended expression. ‘Do not insult the brotherly love between our two countries. Our friends have come here to help you. They have certificates in carpentry, drilling, digging, welding and escaping from prison. Others have diplomas in whipping and shooting.’

          ‘Just give us the money!’

          ‘However,’ continued Puppet Farce, ‘my Imperial brother and I have discussed your plight and we are prepared to be generous. We have agreed between the two of us, and on your behalf, that if you go back to work immediately we are prepared to forget your previous bad behaviour of refusing to work for nothing. Of course we shall have to fire the ringleaders.’

         ‘Just give us enough to feed our children!’

         ‘Only education can help your children. In this regard, I am please to inform you had my Imperial brother has also intimated to me that the Empire is planning to build a university in Lusaka where your sons and grandsons can learn drilling and digging. Then your sons and grandsons will become Mining Experts, and the Imperial Experts can go back to home, and this mine will be yours forever. Your own land will finally be yours!’

         ‘This mine is dangerous,’ shouted one brave skeleton. ‘At least pay us danger money!’

         ‘This mine is very safe,’ retorted Puppet Frantic. ‘I’m told by the mine manager that there have never been more than ten deaths in any one week!’

         But as he spoke there was a rumbling sound from below. Then the ground began to sink under Puppet Fright and his platoon of shivering soldiers. With no further warning, and very suddenly, they all disappeared into a large hole in the ground, leaving behind a cloud of rising dust. The miners looked over the edge of this instant precipice, and crossed themselves earnestly, thanking the Lord for their own deliverance from this dreadful collumity.

        ‘It’s not just us,’ said one miner sadly, ‘the entire country is on the edge of disaster.’

         ‘I suppose,’ said another, ‘that we’ll all go to jail for this.’

         Now the TV screen was suddenly filled with the seriously sleepy face of Comatoze Mwanza. ‘I hope you enjoyed our Muvi Historical Documentary on the Miners’ Riots of 1947. Standby for the news, which follows shortly.’

        ‘I hope you didn’t think that the documentary was part of tonight’s news!’ laughed Sara.

        ‘Of course not,’ I replied. 'I realised immediately it was ancient history.'
         'History,' said Sara, 'has a habit or repeating itself.'

          

Ukwa's Wives

Ukwa’s Wives

       It was Sunday morning, and as good Christians Sara and I were at the Cathedral of the Very Cross.

      ‘The lesson this morning,’ intoned the bishop, ‘is taken from the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 13, Verses 23-37...’

     In those days Babylon was ruled over by the Great King Ukwa, who was so powerful that he had a harem of sixty wives. For in those days the power of a ruler was measured by the size of his harem.

     And in neighbouring Samaria there ruled the talkative little King Mumbo Jumbo. But there was great trouble and tension between these two kingdoms because King Ukwa had the habit of stealing wives from the harem of King Mumbo, which made Mumbo look foolish and powerless.

     Ukwa would send one of his indunas, dressed as a woman, into Mumbo’s harem to whisper into the ear of one of the most beautiful wives, saying ‘Your king is old and fat and past it. Come to the harem of the Great King Ukwa and he will make you a princess, and give you a mansion, and you shall eat dates and drink wine and enjoy all the fleshly pleasures three times a night.’

     ‘In those days,’ I whispered to Sara, ‘If a rich man had fifty wives, then a poor man had none!’

     ‘So what has changed?’ she hissed.

     And so Ukwa became more powerful as Mumbo became more powerless. As Babylon grew bigger and bigger, Samaria shrank smaller and smaller. And it came to pass one day that Mumbo suddenly lost his temper. He stood up from his little throne and declared to his few old seedy indunas ‘I have had enough! This is war! We march on Babylon! We shall storm Ukwa’s castle! I shall recapture my stolen wives!’

     But when Mumbo Jumbo banged on the door of the castle, the malonda just laughed and said ‘Go away!’ And when he tried to climb the castle wall he found that his arms and legs were too short, his belly too fat and his fingers too greasy. So instead he turned around to address the puzzled onlookers, saying ‘I am storming Ukwa’s castle to rescue my stolen wives.’

     And everyday crowds came to watch the enraged little Mumbo make his ineffectual and impotent attacks upon the castle wall. He punched at the mighty wall with his little fists, shouting ‘It is written in the scriptures that thou shalt not steal another man’s wife!’ And the crowd would laugh and shout back ‘Just blow your trumpet and the walls will all fall down.’

     ‘In those days,’ I whispered to Sara, ‘There were no TV programmes to entertain them.’.

     ‘Same as today,’ she replied.

     And this went on day after day, until some people stopped laughing and began to weep for the sad plight of poor little Mumbo, with stolen wives inside the wall. Then Ukwa’s crafty advisor, the insidious little Splinter Kapimbe, spoke to King Ukwa, saying ‘O Great King, he is beginning to evoke sympathy from the mob. Better to let him inside. Then he will have a bigger problem than how to get in. He will have the problem of how to get out.’

     ‘Verily I say unto you,’ agreed King Ukwa, ‘that a man standing outside the castle is a very different man after he has walked inside the castle.’

     And the wise words of King Ukwa proved to be a great prophesy. For when Mumbo Jumbo came before Ukwa he stopped shouting and screaming. Instead he knelt before King Ukwa saying ‘Let us not quarrel, O Great King. Let us not differ over a few wives when we kings have so much in common. I’m sure we can come to an agreement beneficial to both parties. My only little problem was that we did not agree on a mutually acceptable arrangement before you took my wives.’

     ‘If we are going to agree on the harem,’ said King Ukwa sternly, ‘then you must first understand that my harem is not merely a place for decadent entertainment. It is also essential to the running of the state. The job of my wives is to chatter about politics during the daytime and confine their fleshly pleasures to the night.’

     ‘An early form of parliament,’ I whispered to Sara.

     ‘Or the National Assembly Motel,’ she replied.

     ‘It’s not that you can’t have my wives,’ whined Mumbo Jumbo. ‘Of course we can share our wives, provided we agree to share our power, and then we can overcome these divisions and unify the nation. So I suggest you just make me your vice, and then all can be resolved!’

     ‘Verily I say unto you,’ declared the king, ‘You have made an excellent suggestion. There is no better place for vice than my harem. We shall declare the unified state of Babylon, with you in charge of the harem and myself in charge of the government!’

     ‘Very good,’ declared Mumbo Jumbo, now standing up and puffing out his flabby little chest. ‘In fact I was never a real Samaritan, I have always really been a Babylonian at heart.’

     But Mumbo Jumbo had been tricked. He had entirely overlooked one tradition that was common to both Samaria and Babylon – that only a castrated man can take charge of a harem. And so, with a single slice of the knife, his position was gained but his power was lost.

     Now the bishop looked up from the Good Book. ‘What is this story telling us? It is telling us that we must be willing to sacrifice ourselves for national unity.’

     ‘It is telling us,’ I whispered to Sara, ‘that we should beware of being given what we have always wanted.’

     ‘More than that,’ Sara replied, ‘it is telling us that a sell-out always gets his just deserts.’

Gone Missing

Gone Missing

            It was the strangest case of a missing person that I had ever heard of. Because, you see, usually you’ve never heard of the person until they go missing. They become famous by going missing.

          This was scarcely the case with the famous Employment Policy. He was already famous before he went missing. He rose to fame last September, standing on the election platform and promising everybody ‘Vote for me and I’ll bring full employment!’ And he won by a landslide.

          But after the election, when the excitement had finally died down, and different people had been assigned ministerial jobs, and the president’s friends and relatives had all been given jobs in diplomatic missions, it gradually began to dawn on people that the famous Employment Policy had gone missing.

          Where was he? Where was his constituency? Which was his ministry? Had he been given a job? Was he unemployed? As the weeks went by, and the weeks turned into months, these were the questions that people were asking each other. They couldn’t ask the president, because he adamantly refused to hold a press conference. And so the mystery continued, and deepened.

          That was when my editor called me in. ‘Look Kalaki,’ he said, ‘you’re supposed to be my Chief Investigative Reporter, but you’ve never investigated anything!’

          ‘On the other hand,’ I retorted, ‘You’ve never paid me anything!’

          ‘That’s because you’ve never investigated anything!’ he sneered. ‘Get off your backside and find out what happened to the famous Employment Policy. Has he been allocated to a non-existent ministry? Decentralised? Reshuffled? Merged? Murdered? Dismembered? Or what?’

          So I phoned Dotty Scotty. ‘Hallo,’ he replied, ‘This is the Vice-President in charge of Cutting Ribbons, Funerals and Miscellaneous Ceremonials.’

          ‘I thought,’ I said, ‘that you were also in charge of Disaster Management.’

          ‘That also,’ he admitted. ‘I’m very good at disasters. Which disaster are you particularly interested in?’

          ‘Employment Policy,’ I said. ‘He seems to have disappeared. I can’t find him anywhere.’

          ‘I only deal with sudden disasters like floods and by-elections,’ he explained. ‘Employment Policy is not a sudden disaster, he’s a long-term problem, an unsolved mystery. I suggest you try Education. When it comes to impossible problems, we usually just add them to the curriculum.’

          So I phoned the Honorable Minister for Insulting Students, Professor Pompous Phiri-Phiri. ‘This is Kalaki here,’ I said, ‘I wonder whether I might find Employment Policy at your ministry?’

          ‘Certainly not!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Education has nothing to do with employment. That’s why all of my students remain unemployed. Sitting around in classrooms for twenty years has made them completely unemployable!’

          ‘Then Honorable Minister, without upsetting yourself any further, perhaps you could give me a hint on where I might find the famous Employment Policy.’

          ‘I suggest you talk to an employer,’ he shouted. ‘He’s the sort of fellow to have an Employment Policy.’

          So I rang Lumano Mine, and asked the Mine Manager, Mr Boss Muzungu. ‘Nobody of that name here,’ he answered. ‘We have only three employees – myself as Managing Director, my wife as the Mine Secretary, and my son as the General Manager.’

          ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, ‘I thought you employed thousands!’

          ‘We have a contract with Modern Slavery Ltd,’ he explained. ‘The mine provides only essential equipment for their labour force.’

          ‘Such as overalls, boots, hardhats and that sort of thing?’

          ‘No. We only provide essential control equipment such as whips, shackles, batons, handcuffs and that sort of thing.’

          ‘So you don’t have any Employment Policy?’

          ‘Certainly not. Not here. Try the Ministry of Labour. I’m told they have an office in Lusaka. But they never come here.’

          So I phoned poor old Feckless Shambles. ‘Is that the Ministry of Labour?’ I asked.

          ‘Certainly not,’ he snapped irritably. ‘This is the Ministry of Information! No, wait, I mean this is Youth and Sport. No, half a minute, it’s Youth without the Sport. Is that Kalaki? No, you’re right, this is Labour, I’d quite forgotten. You caught me in the middle of my afternoon nap.’

          ‘Do you have the famous Employment Policy?’ I asked.

          ‘With all these reshuffles,’ sighed Feckless, ‘the poor fellow got lost. He’s been reported as a missing person. Phone the Suspector General.’

          So I did. ‘Hullo,’ I said. ‘This is Kalaki from the Daily Notion. I’m told that the famous Employment Policy has been reported as missing. What are you doing to find him?’

          ‘My dear Kalaki,’ she assured me, ‘This is a caring government, so everything possible is being done. The vendors are being swept off the street so that they can join the search. School leavers are being sent to the Zambian National Service and trained in how to look for Employment Policy. The World Bank is funding the search, they’ve always wanted us to find our own Employment Policy. Within ninety days we expect a million people to join the search!’

          I was so impressed that I rang Dotty Scotty. ‘A million people will soon be employed to search for our famous Employment Policy,’ I told him. ‘This will solve the employment problem!’

          ‘You see! Let this be a lesson to you!’ cackled Dotty Scotty. ‘You must trust this government, and not be criticizing us all the time!’

          ‘There’s only one problem,’ I said.

          ‘What’s that?’ he wondered.

          ‘If they find our dear Employment Policy, they’ll all be out of work again! And people will blame PF’

          ‘PF?’
          ‘Yes, PF,’ I said. ‘Policy Failure!’
  

Ambushing Bush

Ambushing Bush

          It was Sunday afternoon at State House, and I was having my usual cup of tea with Michael and Christine. ‘Well, Kalaki,’ said Christine, ‘how do you think Michael is doing?’

          ‘I have to be honest,’ I admitted, ‘I’m very disappointed.’

          ‘In what way?’ she asked.

          ‘Because,’ I explained, ‘it’s my job to see the funny side of things, and to make Michael look ridiculous. But he’s always doing my job for me. Everywhere he goes he deliberately says the wrong thing, just to make people laugh.’

          ‘I see your point,’ she laughed. ‘It’s very difficult to make fun of somebody who doesn’t take themselves seriously. Michael is putting you out of a job.’

          ‘And yet he’s the one who’s always talking about creating employment,’ I laughed.

          ‘I don’t understand how you two can sit there talking about me as if I’m not here,’ said Michael gruffly. ‘If Kalaki wants a job I can send him as the new district commissioner for Rufunsa.’

          ‘Not good enough,’ I laughed. ‘I want your job!’

          ‘Ha ha!’ laughed Christine, ‘that’s a good idea! We’ve got that awful George Bush coming later this afternoon. Let Kalaki be the president for this afternoon! Then we’ll find out if he can be more ridiculous than you!’

          ‘He’ll know I’m not the president!’ I laughed.

          ‘Him!’ laughed Christine. ‘He doesn’t even know which country he’s in!’

          ‘I was planning a real star performance,’ Michael protested.

          ‘Stop trying to hog the limelight,’ said Christine severely, ‘and give Kalaki a chance. Anyway, you’re not supposed to spending all your time on these silly ceremonials. You’re supposed to be thinking up some serious policy. The whole nation has been waiting for months to hear your new employment policy, but all they get from you is more ministerial reshuffles, new districts and silly jokes!’

          So Christine and I left Michael thinking about employment, and set off to meet George the Second. When we got to the front door we found the American Ambassador, Supercilious Spaghetti standing there as if he owned the place. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got to wait,’ he said with a slimy smile, my president is running late.’

          ‘I’m the president, not him,’ I snapped. ‘I can’t be kept waiting by a mere former president. If I had known he was going to be late I would have sent somebody else. And anyway, what’s an Italian immigrant like you doing here posing as the American ambassador? Don’t you have any native Americans to run the government?’

          Christine whispered something in my ear, as the salivary smile disappeared from the face of the Italian mafia. ‘Yes, I know that,’ I replied loudly to Christine, ‘they massacred all the American natives and now the country is run by foreigners.’

          As I was talking a massive black armoured car, about thirty metres long and flying a huge American flag, drew up in front of the portico. Out stepped a wrinkled eagle with a beak instead of a nose, wearing faded blue jeans and a check shirt. He was followed by a bright eyed little hen, to whom he turned and said ‘My my, Laura, look at this cute house, just like my Grandma Martha’s little house on the prairie. Ah’m mighty pleased to be visiting this little country of Gambia, and spreading liberty and demarhcracy everywhere…’

          Quickly Mr Slimy Smile moved forward to shake George’s hand, hissing ‘Zambia, Mr President, you’re in Zambia. Gambia was last week. Let me introduce you to the His Excellency the President of Zambia…’

          The eagle stepped up to me and caught my hand in his claw, like a vice, and started pumping my arm up and down as if he was trying to pump blood out of my mouth, all the while talking and suffocating me with his bad breath  ‘Ah sure ahm pleased to meet the Prezdent of Samoa…’

          ‘Zambia,’ insisted Slimy Smile.

          ‘Wherever,’ said George the Second. ‘Ah’m sure the Prezdent knows where he is, even if the rest of the wurld don’t. Ah just came to say we Amairicans are so pleased to have brought you the gift of demarhcracy, just as we brought it to Eye-Rack…’

          I stamped on his foot and he finally let go of my right hand. ‘I saw what you did to Eye-Rack,’ I screamed, as I nursed my crumpled hand, ‘So you can take you demarhcracy, stick it up your exhaust pipe and take it back to Washington.’

          ‘Aarrgh!’ screamed George the Second, ‘This is not a friendly country! This must be Zimbubwee, this man is Mahgabby! Let’s get out of here!’ So saying, the eagle and his hen jumped back into the tank and went screaming up the drive, tyres screaming, sirens wailing and guns blazing.’

          We found Michael sitting where we had left him. ‘You’re soon back,’ he said, ‘what happened, what was all that noise?’

          ‘The A-Team left in a hurry,’ I said. ‘They didn’t appreciate my sense of humour.’

          ‘The way they left,’ said Christine, ‘I think Kalaki may have started a war!’

          ‘At least that’ll solve the unemployment problem!’ said Michael.

          ‘What!’ we both shouted. ‘Are you serious?’

          ‘Just joking,’ said Michael.   

           

Stripped Naked

Stripped Naked

     ‘Come in,’ said Cycle Mata wearily as the vast wobbly obese figure of Chipembele Kambilimbili waddled insolently into the room. ‘Take a seat,’ said Cycle Mata, as he sat with his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. ‘How on earth did this happen?’

     ‘How did what happen?’

     ‘Let’s start with the bus station. I came back to Lusaka expecting everybody to be talking about my having lunch with the Queen, and all I hear is that one of my minister’s has been assaulted at the Inter-City Bus Station.’

     ‘Just one of those little incidents Your Excellency,’ sniggered Chipembele. ‘You know our cadres can be a bit boisterous when they meet their Honourable Minister of  Football.’

     ‘I’m told you were stripped naked!’ said Cycle Mata sternly.

     ‘Even me,’ admitted Chipembele, ‘I was a bit surprised, I thought they only did this to women. I think we should raise the matter in parliament, this is taking gender equality a bit too far! Now they are beginning to discriminate against us men!’

     ‘How were you dressed?’

     ‘Well, as you know, I can never find clothes big enough. Suddenly I was accosted by some nasty thugs…’

     ‘You mean our loyal party cadres to whom we have entrusted the management of our bus stations?’

     ‘Exactly, our young party stalwarts. Suddenly they started shouting things like His boobs are hanging out! He’s not wearing a bra! His trousers are too tight! Maybe he’s a fruitcake! Let’s see what he’s got inside those trousers!’

     ‘I’m told that you were stripped naked!’

     ‘They were shouting  Mufumyeni ibolo! Tuteye bola! Find his balls and we’ll play football!’

     ‘And did they find them?’

     ‘Luckily my essentials are well protected by my ample belly. Even me, I can’t find them. Haven’t seen them for years.’

     ‘But then you were rescued by the boma?’

     ‘A police car happened to come by, a bystander wrapped me in a chitenge, and I was whisked off to the police station.’

     ‘And did boma arrest anybody?’

     ‘No. But they said that if I did it again they’d arrest me for indecent exposure and inciting the callboys to commit rape. Then they slapped me around a bit and let me go. It was a terrible experience. I’m even beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t take more interest in human rights.’

     ‘This has nothing to do with human rights, you silly man!’ shouted Cycle Mata angrily. ‘Don't you realize that you brought this upon yourself!’

     ‘Did I?’ said Chipembele, genuinely baffled. ‘Where did I go wrong?’

     ‘You’re the one responsible for losing the football match in Sudan! That’s why they’re after your blood. You sent the team to a wrong country for training and then put them on a wrong aeroplane! Now everybody is blaming the government!’

     ‘I’m not in charge of the government,’ laughed Chipembele. ‘It’s you!’

     ‘And I’m in charge of you,’ growled Cycle Mata. ‘I know walisavuka ne miponto sana mwaiche, but I thought at least you’d be able to organize a game of football!’

     ‘So that's it!’ sneered Chipembele, ‘you thought that was all I was good for!’

     ‘On the contrary,’ replied Cycle Mata grimly, ‘Niiwe nachetekela mwaiche. All the other ministries were failing, and the people were getting angry. No new jobs. No money in their pockets. No windfall tax. No Barotseland agreement. No new constitution. Kwacha on the skids. Everything was going down the drain. But I knew that if we could just keep Chipolopolo winning then this would maintain public morale, and people would overlook all the other disappointments. But then you also let me down!’

     ‘Don’t panic,’ sneered Chipembele. ‘No vundu bakamba twalaka sova!’

     ‘You don’t seem to understand that iyi naizanda mwaiche,’ shouted Cycle Mata.   ‘Everything else had failed, and the only thing to hide our shame was success at football. Now the final veil had fallen, and we are left naked. When you were stripped naked at the bus station, it was the entire government that was being stripped naked! We have been shamed! Humiliated! Nothing is working! What can we do?’

     So saying, poor old baffled Cycle Mata put his head in his hands and groaned. Don’t despair,’ laughed Chipembele. ‘Umenifye ilya ine muma! Appoint a twenty person commission of inquiry to find out who leaked the information about going to the wrong country for training, and the botched travel arrangement. It was a conspiracy by the opposition to embarrass the government. Such leaks obviously contravene the Official Secrets Act and endanger the security of the nation. We must take stern action. As for me, I’m currently being troubled by unemployed relatives, so I can also help you by recommending several names for the new commission of inquiry.

     ‘Thank you very much for your advice,’ sneered Cycle Mata. ‘But the time has come for yet another reshuffle. I have decided to appoint King Kalulu as the new Minister of Sport, to be in charge of strategy and logistics. Monsieur Boom Boom will be the Deputy Minister in charge of training and tactics. And I’m appointing you as Chola Boy in charge of organizing the katundu.’

     ‘Chola Boy!’ exploded Chipembele. ‘How can a man of my reputation, vast experience and considerable weight be demoted to a mere Chola Boy?’

     ‘I’m giving you one last chance to succeed at something,’ declared Cycle Mata. ‘If you can prove yourself as a Chola Boy, then I shall consider appointing you as my next Vice-President.’

[Kalaki is pleased to acknowledge some assistance from Moses Chipepo]  

A New Husband for MMD

A New Husband for MMD

     ‘The hour has come,’ declared the Chairman, as the crowd cheered and gave the one finger salute. ‘We are here at the Rock of Authority to choose a new husband for our dear Mother Mary of Democracy, fondly known to all of us as MMD.’

     ‘Hurray,’ shouted the crowd, ‘bring on the suitors!’

     ‘Let me first advise everybody on the sort of husband we are looking for,’ said the Chairman. ‘Mary of Democracy is the Mother of our Great Family who has always guided us. Unfortunately, because of our tradition, she could not be the Father of the Nation, so we have always had to elect a man as to take care or our Mother.’

     ‘And they always treated her badly!’ shouted a woman from the back.

     ‘Abash gender violence,’ shouted another.

     ‘Unfortunately,’ admitted the Chairman, ‘Our Mother has not been fortunate with her husbands. We gave her Kafupi, but she left him after he became the Master of Multi Deceit. She fell in love with the Mighty Muwelewele Democrat, but he was so good he was taken by the Lord. Then came the dreadful Monster of Muddled Depravity, who drove our poor Mother to her grave.’

     ‘So if she’s dead,’ somebody shouted, ‘why does she need a husband?’

     ‘Is there no way to escape a husband?’ cried one woman.

     ‘She is our soul and our spirit,’ explained the Chairman, ‘which lives on. Ours is a matrilineal clan, and all authority is derived from the Founder of the Clan. Any new leader must undergo ritual and symbolic marriage to our Mother who, according to our sacred tradition, founded the Clan in 1991 at the Garden Hotel in Lusaka, where she gave birth to a room full of instant leaders.’

     ‘Where are they now?’ somebody asked.

     ‘In jail,’ answered another.

     ‘Get on with it!’ shouted somebody else. ‘Where are the suitors?’

     ‘I now call upon the first suitor,’ said the Chairman, ‘to come to the microphone and tell us why he thinks he should be the new husband for our beloved MMD. I give you the first candidate, Mr Fidgit Mutanti.’

     Onto the stage climbed a stiff robot of a man, who began to speak in a continuous monotone, while jerking his arms in a strange mechanical manner, and speaking without moving his lips. ‘I am the right man for MMD because I understand economics and supply and demand and fiscal discipline and foreign investment and I have memorized all the IMF guidelines all the way from the contents page to the bibliography and …

     ‘Get him off!’ shouted the crowd, as they hurled rotten tomatoes, and the robot climbed stiffly down from the stage, never to be seen again.

     ‘I now call upon Mr Shitulene Musokelela,’ declared the Chairman, as a shifty old bald fellow slid slyly up to the microphone, his eyes looking left and right and up and down. Then he began to mumble into the microphone, saying ‘I have over a thousand bicycles at my farm which will be your reward when you vote for me…’

     ‘Rotten egg!’ shouted the crowd, as a rotten egg hit Musokelela full in the face.       ‘Bring on Mumbo Jumbo!’

      A fat greasy little fellow immediately jumped energetically onto the stage and shouted at the crowd. ‘Do you believe in God?’

     ‘Yes!’ shouted the crowd enthusiastically, ‘Hallelujah!’

     ‘Do you believe in the resurrection?’

     ‘Yes!’ they all shouted.

     ‘And life everlasting?’

     ‘For ever and ever, Amen,’ chanted the crowd.

     ‘Then why should you choose one of these dead suitors to marry a dead woman, when you have a live pastor who can resurrect our dear MMD, so we can live together as Father and Mother of the Nation!’

     ‘Hurray!’ they shouted. ‘Eternal life with Pastor Mumbo Jumbo!’

     ‘Can he really do resurrections?’ some people asked

     ‘Oh yes,’ somebody else answered. ‘He has resurrected himself six times already!’

     ‘Then let him resurrect MMD!’ everybody shouted.

     ‘By popular acclamation,’ declared the Chairman, ‘Mumbo Jumbo is the winner!’

     ‘Now I am your leader!’ shouted Mumbo Jumbo. ‘Follow me to the graveyard!’

     It was an hour later when Mumbo Jumbo stood by the broken gravestone, pointed to the letters MHSRIP and said ‘Tell me, what do these letters mean?’

     ‘May Her Soul Rest in Peace,’ chanted the crowd.

     ‘No!’ shouted Mumbo Jumbo, as he raise his arms to Heaven. ‘You must have faith! These letters mean May Her Self Resurrect in Person! And I call upon the Lord to bring her back to us right now!’

     And, sure enough, as he spoke there was a crack of thunder, and the earth in front of the gravestone began to move, and rise up. Then out of the ground rose a thin and ghostly figure, wearing a white shroud on which was written CC in large letters.’

     ‘CC!’ people asked one another. ‘What can it mean?’

     ‘Perhaps it means Christ Crucified!’ somebody suggested.

     ‘Or Christian Country,’ said another.

     ‘Perhaps it’s our new party slogan,’ shouted another. ‘Corruption Cancelled!’

     But another shouted ‘It means that the Christian Coalition has been resurrected!’

     And even as he said it, ghostly figures were beginning to rise up from all the graves, as the crowd began to panic, running helter-skelter, over the unkept mounds and broken gravestones, some shouting ‘Judgement Day!’ Others shouting ‘Witchcraft!’

     Pastor Mumbo Jumbo was left standing in the gathering gloom, surrounded only by his ghosts. ‘Yes,’ he announced with satisfaction, ‘A marriage in a graveyard. My beloved Christian Coalition is back!’

    

Judging the Judge

Judging the Judge

‘All rise,’ ordered the Clerk of Court, as in swept the Judge Mutunga, latest star of our entertaining  judiciary. ‘Today,’ intoned the Clerk, ‘we return to the case of DBZ vs Mr Red Miimba. I call upon Mr Miimba to return to the witness box.’

     ‘Mr Miimba,’ said the judge, ‘Disbursing Billions of Zillions, trading as DBZ, is suing you in your capacity as a director of Postmortem Tours. DBZ is demanding the return of the twenty billion pin which they made the mistake of lending to you. What do you have to say for yourself before I pass judgement?’

     ‘M’Lord,’ replied Miimba wearily, ‘this is well known to be a politically motivated case. As the manager of DBZ, Mr Dubious Brainless Zombie has already explained to this court that the loan was to support the Postmortem Bus Tours of Monstrous Mansions in New Kasama. These tours were organized so that ordinary citizens could see how their tax money had been squandered and misappropiated by the previous government. This was part of the Fight Against Corruption.’

     ‘Mr Miimba,’ said the judge sternly, ‘I am not interested in whether your bus tours were to New Kasama or Timbuktu. But I am interested in how you were lent twenty billion pin when you were notoriously insolvent and owed money all around town.’

     ‘M’Lord, the government backed the loan because my tours were exposing corruption.’

     ‘Hmmm,’ murmered the judge. ‘But if this corrupt loan was such an important part of the Fight Against Corruption, then why did DBZ suddenly call in the loan? Was this an unexpected sign that the Fight Against Corruption had begun to succeed?’

     ‘A new government came in,’ explained Miimba. ‘And the new government immediately started the Fight Against the Fight Against Corruption, and realized that I was now part of the Fight Against the Fight against the Fight Against Corruption. So DBZ called in the loan because they had to follow instructions from the new government.’

     ‘So DBZ brought you to court to get their money back?’

     ‘Yes, M’Lord.’

     ‘Was that really because the loan was corruptly obtained?’

     ‘Certainly not, M’Lord. That could not possibly have been the case, because the government’s new Fight Against the Fight Against Corruption was in support of corruption.’

     ‘But why didn’t you just repay the loan?’ wondered the judge.

     ‘It was a matter of principle,’ explained Miimba. ‘From the outset it was understood that this money was just a grant for our good work, and only described as a loan for accounting purposes. Therefore the demand for repayment was obviously being made in bad faith.’

     ‘I put it to you,’ said the judge, ‘that DBZ stole this money from the people, and you were stealing it from DBZ, and this was understood on both sides.’

     ‘Exactly,’ agreed Miimba. ‘I quite agree that if one thief lends money to another thief, the second thief should perhaps be open to the accusation of receiving stolen property. But I should not need to remind Your Lordship that no such charge is before this court, and you would do well to concentrate your mind on the actual matter in hand.’

     ‘It seems to me,’ retorted the judge, ‘that despite all your claims of political machinations, the simple truth of the matter is that you borrowed twenty billion pin and you should repay it. What do you say about that?’

     ‘I would warn you to be careful,’ said Miimba ominously. ‘The previous judge in this case was about to rule in my favour, and see what happened to him!’

     ‘What do you mean?’ laughed the judge. ‘Don’t you want me to rule in your favour? Anyway, I wasn’t thinking of doing so!’

     ‘You don’t seem to understand the political predicament of the judiciary, or the danger of your own position’ replied Miimba. ‘The last judge failed to understand that the government wanted a judgment against me, so when they saw that he was about to rule in my favour, he was recused.’

     ‘Nonsense,’ said Judge Mutanga, ‘a judge cannot be recused, he can only recuse himself.’

     ‘Well,’ said Miimba, ‘maybe he was infused or excused or just confused, but he certainly had to leave in a hurry. That’s why you were suddenly allocated this case.’

     ‘Oh good,’ said the judge, ‘so if I rule against you, I shall be doing the right thing!’

     ‘Don’t you understand anything?’ sneered Miimba. ‘The government has changed since then, the Fight Against Corruption has resumed, and the people in government are all my friends again. So I am just giving you a friendly warning that if you rule against me, you are putting yourself in a fix.’

     ‘Well,’ said the judge, ‘The law says that if you borrow money you should repay it. So I order you to do so.’

     Two days later the TV evening news included the following item: ‘High Court Judge Mutanga has been arrested and charged for stealing a pencil from Shoprite. ACC Spokesperson has revealed that, after the judge’s home and office were searched for twenty-four hours, investigating officers found the pencil concealed in a desk draw, and Judge Mutanga could not produce a valid receipt to justify his possession of the item suspected to have been stolen. The charge is further aggravated by the suspicion that this allegedly stolen pencil is the very one used by another judge when he was forced to recuse himself. Police bond has been refused on suspicion that the judge could easily repeat the same offence if allowed out of custody.’