Shepolopolo

Shepolopolo

           
          ‘Ha ha!’ Sara hooted. ‘See how we wasted all our money, effort, agony and support trying to get Chipolopolo into the World Cup. And instead along comes Shepolopolo with an effortless smile, trounces everybody and off they go. See how they have quietly shamed all the noisy, pompous and useless men!

          ‘Shush,’ laughed Kupela, ‘We women are supposed to pretend that our men are superior. It is our job to make them feel strong and powerful. Soccer is supposed to be a man’s game, and our job is just to wash and iron their football shirts and…’

          ‘Wash their football shirts!’ Sara cackled, ‘Hardly any of them play! Ten thousand go to the stadium to watch twenty-two men kick a ball up and down. Another fifty thousand watch on television. They cheer it, pay for it, discuss it, celebrate their victories with beer, mourn their losses with beer, but they don’t play it! Most of them are too fat and unfit to play it! If the Minister of Sport had the ball at his feet, he wouldn’t even be able to see it! The plain fact is that they’re no good at it. But when we put together a team of eleven young women – off they go to the World Cup!’

          ‘It was because they had a male coach,’ I said.

          ‘What do you know about it?’ scoffed Sara. ‘I’m giving you a red card!’

          ‘The way our society works,’ said Kupela, ‘our female role is to support our men, and make them feel successful and powerful. They run the government, they are the heads of household, they take the decisions. When they secretly feel uncertain and incapable, and get in an awful mess, but try not to show it, it’s our job to believe in them, console them, and tell them they are men, strong and clever. Now along come these Shepolopolo and upset everything, showing that women are better at the man’s own game! It puts the rest of us in an awkward position! Especially if we are caught laughing!’

          ‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I sneered, ‘one football game won’t overturn our traditional patriarchy. We men are quite safe.’

          ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ snapped Sara. ‘There never was traditional patriarchy. I know from what my grandmother Sibongile told me about village life in pre-colonial days. It was the women who were in charge of the men!’

          ‘Poof,’ I laughed. ‘How did they manage that?’

          ‘They produced the food, and cooked it in the matriarchal cooking pot, and therefore they controlled the production and distribution of resources.’

          ‘But the men were bigger and stronger.’

          ‘Not when they only got their fair share from the cooking pot. They were much smaller then. Their only useful function was fertilization. Otherwise they were sent away for the useless men’s games, such as fighting each other, hunting, stealing cattle, and so on.

          ‘Huh,’ I said. ‘How exactly did the women control them?’

          ‘In those days their games were very dangerous, so there weren’t many to control. That’s how polygamy started, because men were outnumbered. Men were controlled by the matriarchal cooking pot. Herbs and special muti were used to help them provide sexual services when specially needed. But the pot also produced beer and kachasu to put them to sleep when not needed. All sorts of feasts and festivities were invented to keep them drunk most of the time, so that the women could get on with their work in peace. The women had their own nsaka, or parliament, where they could discuss the problems of men who had become a nuisance, and also agree on suitable punishment  – such as banishment to another village, or even to live alone in the forest. In those days the playful men were under control, and the village was rich and prosperous, and starvation was unheard of.’

          ‘Oh yes,’ I sneered. ‘And how did this matriarchal utopia suddenly disappear?’

          ‘A terrible catastrophe hit the land!’

          ‘Oh yes? What was that? An earthquake? Volcanic eruption? Tornado?’

          ‘Worse than that,’ said Sara solemnly. ‘The Europeans arrived.’

          ‘I heard about that,’ I said. ‘They brought development.’

          ‘They brought disaster,’ she replied grimly. ‘They came from a patriarchal society. When the Europeans saw men being ruled by women they were appalled. They vowed to stay in the country until they had changed the whole system, and the men ruled the women.’

          ‘So how did they do that?’ wondered Kupela.

          ‘They came with their own patriarchal cooking pot, to cook up a different form of government.’

          ‘And what was in the pot?’

          ‘A completely new system of social organization: Schools; wage employment; civil service; army; parliament; ministers; beer halls; soccer games. A new public domain of control. These were the essential ingredients of the patriarchal cooking pot.’

          ‘No food in the patriarchal cooking pot?’

          ‘No. It was more ideological than gastronomical.’

          ‘And the pot was only for men?’

          ‘Exactly. The public domain was only for men, and women were kept out. Women had to stay in the home and in the village, which became the domestic domain. This foreign system was called colonial government, and it’s aim was to put men in charge.’

          ‘And did the Europeans succeed?’

          ‘It took them sixty years, but they successfully disempowered and subordinated the women, and put the men in charge. Having fully established this male colonial government, they left in 1964. All record of women’s earlier dominance was expunged from the history books.’

          ‘But today, at this late stage,’ wondered Kupela, ‘can we still return to our old traditional values, our earlier prosperity, and chase these hopeless playful men out of government?’

          ‘Of course we can!’ declared Sara. ‘And the revolution has already begun with the famous victory of our brave sisters, the heroic Shepolopolo!’

          ‘And what should we call this new revolution?’ wondered Kupela.

          ‘It shall be called,’ declared Sara, ‘The Struggle for Independence’.            

              

The First Press Conference

The First Press Conference

            I can remember the day clearly, as if it were yesterday. It was the morning of Tuesday 24^th September 2021 when Sara said ‘Turn on the TV, dear, Cycle Mata is having his press conference this morning.’

          ‘Dress conference?’ I said. ‘How can dresses have a conference?’

          ‘PRESS Conference,’ she shouted. ‘Are you wearing your hearing aid?’

          ‘No need to shout!’ I shouted angrily. ‘I’m not deaf. It’s just that you’ve got it wrong yet again! Firstly we don’t have a press anymore, it was banned years ago. Secondly, in ten years Cycle Mata has never held a press conference. Do you really imagine that he would risk his position in the Guinness Book of Records and destroy his reputation?’

          ‘Since you won’t do it,’ sighed Sara. ‘I’ll turn on the TV myself.’

          So saying, she heaved herself up from the sofa, reached for her Zimmerman frame, and began shuffling slowly over to our ancient Supersonic TV. She turned the knob, and the latest New Orleans hurricane slowly appeared on the screen.

          ‘You have to hit the screen with the flat of your hand,’ I advised. ‘You women don’t understand modern technology.’

          She did so, and a wizened old face immediately appeared. ‘Ha ha!’ she shouted in triumph. ‘Isn’t that the remains of Cycle Mata?’

          ‘Looks more like Robber Mugabby,’ I replied.

          ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘You never could tell the difference.’

          ‘He’s reading from his prepared script,’ I said. ‘So long as he doesn’t deviate from that, he’ll be fine.’

          ‘In conclusion,’ Cycle Mata was saying, ‘I called this press conference to explain how I have managed to keep all of my promises to the nation, despite the withdrawal of all foreign missions apart from our beloved Chinese brothers, despite the withdrawal of Western funding apart from Haiti, and despite the despicable UN sanctions. Despite these attacks on our sovereignty I have managed to end our dependence on copper and diversified the economy. Above all, I have found employment for all.’

          Now a huge fat fellow in dark glasses and a cigar stepped forward, saying ‘Our Great Leader will now take questions from the press.’

          ‘Who’s he?’ I wondered.

          ‘That’s Cycle Mata’s press aide, Gorgeous Fellah,’ said Sara. ‘Looks like he’s doing well.’

          ‘Scurrilous Slob from the Daily Scoop,’ said the first journalist. ‘I just wonder how you managed to achieve full employment.’

          ‘I employed a two pronged strategy which is now a model for the rest of the world. Half of the labour force ran away to UK and America to sweep their railway stations. The remaining labour force is being been sent to China to work in the coal mines.’

          ‘Wishy Washy from the Washington Post,’ said the next. ‘How have you ended the reliance on copper?’

          ‘The copper has all been sold to the Chinese, so we are now forced to depend on other things.’

          ‘Harry Hack from Hard Times. What other things?’

          ‘Weren’t you listening?’ Michael snapped, giving us a glimpse of the earlier waspishness which we knew when he was a young man of seventy-five. ‘I just told you, we export coal miners to China!’

          ‘Amiable Agness from Agricultural Action. Then who is producing the food to sustain the small remaining population?’

          ‘These Zambian farmers don’t like work, so I gave all the land to the hardworking Chinese. Their farms produce maize for local consumption and coal miners for export.’

          ‘Heavy Harriet from Hard Talk. Is Zambia a one party state?’

          ‘Certainly not. In fact we don’t even have any political parties. They were all banned in favour of national unity and working together amicably.’

          ‘Sceptical Sam from the Southern Sun. Is the Patriotic Force not a political party?’

          ‘Silly question from Silly Sam of the Silly Sun,’ cackled Cycle Mata, giving a rare glimpse of his dentures. ‘No, the Patriotic Force is not a political party, it is the government.’

          ‘Peter Pester from Political Probe.  It has been ten years since the last election. Are you thinking of calling another one?’     

‘Of course. We’re just waiting for the new constitution.’

          ‘Grumbling Gertrude from Grandma Guardian. When do you expect the new constitution to be ready?’

          ‘Very soon. In fact I’ve just appointed Judge Suckmore Chipoko to head the new Constitutional Commission.’

          ‘Quentin Querulous from the Quebec Query. Is it not true that you have all your political opponents locked up, that this is a police state and a colony of China, and that you personally own half of Scotland?

          ‘Idiot! Shut up! Shut up! Sit down! Arrest him! Arrest him for defamation! And for sedition! Deport him!’

          As Quentin Querulous was wrestled to the ground by six party thugs, two men in white coats appeared and took hold of Cycle Mata’s wheelchair, turned it round, and began wheeling him back to the palace. At the same time the Chinese Attaché stepped forward, saying ‘Thisee endee pressee confectionee. Pleasee standee to Nation Antemee.’

          Then all the Chinese dignatories, resplendent in their military uniforms, stood up to sing the sad remains of the Zambia National Anthem…

           

Stand and sing of Zambia, work for free

Land of work and sweat in colony

Labour in the dark for your copper

All gone, for a dollar

All gone, cheap and free

Praise be to China

Praise be, praise be,

Bless your great patience

Zambia, Zambia

Slave men you stand

Under the flag of your land

Zambia, praise to thee

All one colony.

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.'

          

Unnatural Behaviour

Unnatural Behaviour

‘Grandpa,’ said Khoza, ‘Every day I am reading about unnatural behaviour on facebook. What are they talking about?’

‘What seems natural to one person may seem quite unnatural to another.’ I laughed. ‘So some people are naturally becoming quite unnaturally excited about it.’

‘All this confusion between natural and unnatural, when did it start?’

‘It didn’t start on facebook,’ I said, ‘It all started about two hundred years ago, when the first white man arrived in the ancient kingdom of Zambeziland, having crossed the Zambezi in a steamboat. The local people fled when they saw his white skin, thinking he must be a ghost.’

‘They thought he was unnatural?’

‘Of course. To them he was very unnatural.’

‘What was his name?’

‘The people called him Living Stone, meaning part living but part stone. On the one hand he could walk and talk. But on the other hand he couldn’t sing or dance, and he refused to take a wife, even when the paramount chief offered him a beautiful girl who was almost a virgin. This behaviour was unnatural, and also very rude. Even more peculiar and unnatural, his body was almost entirely covered with layers of black cloth.’

‘Was he just passing through?’ Khoza asked, ‘Or had he come to stay?’

‘That was the problem,’ I said grimly. ‘He decided to stay.’

‘Why?’

‘His reason was very strange.’

‘Unnatural?’

‘You could say so,’ I admitted. ‘You see, whereas the people of Zambeziland regarded Stone as unnatural, he equally regarded them as unnatural. Where he came from, in faraway Northland, it was unnatural to walk around naked.’

‘I should have thought,’ laughed Khoza, ‘that being naked is more natural.’

‘The Stone,’ I explained, ‘was a man of limited experience. He thought that everything found in his country was natural, and everything different was unnatural. So he decided that he would make all the people dress properly and change their unnatural behaviour.’

‘Unnatural behaviour?’

‘Yes. Poor old Stone couldn’t stand all their suggestive dancing and joyful copulation. Whereas the people of  Zambeziland were following their own customs, according to the wisdom of the elders and the guidance of the ancestors, poor old Stone couldn’t understand any of that. In his native Northland people only took off their clothes on special occasions, in the dark, and after having been given permission by a priest. Living Stone was so inexperienced that he blushed if he ever accidently saw his own genitals.’

‘And yet he considered himself wiser than all the elders in Zambeziland?’

‘His conceit was rather peculiar, because he himself didn’t actually know anything. All this knowledge was in his big black bible book. Every time he was asked a question he would look in his black book for the answer.’

‘And did he always find the answer?’

‘The answer always began with the same three words, Thou Shalt Not!’

‘So did they chase away this man who was trying to make their lives a misery?’

‘On the contrary, they were very impressed with the very unnatural technology of his steamboat and his murderous gun, and that they wanted to learn from him.’

‘I suppose that was only natural.’

‘Soon Stone had brought thousands of his fellow priests from Northland to show the people of  Zambeziland how to behave like Stones. Within fifty years Zambeziland had become a province of Northland, and had all the people had become Stones. They covered themselves with heavy suits and dresses, despite being very uncomfortable in the hot weather. They painted their faced white and only had sex with the permission of a priest. All previous forms of sex, especially the most enjoyable, were declared illegal.’

‘How terrible,’ said Khoza.

‘Many years passed, and they had mostly forgotten their earlier customs, or otherwise regarded their own grandparents as savages.’

‘How unnatural,’ said Khoza.

‘They had become more like Northlanders than the Northlanders themselves. Then finally the day came when the Paramount Chief of Northland made an official announcement, saying Now that you people of the far province of Northland have painted your faces white and learnt from the black book, and covered your bottoms decently, I hereby, with this royal command, declare you to be the independent Republic of Zambeziland.’

‘But it was too late to recover the joyful culture of Zambeziland?’ suggested Khoza.

‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ I said sadly. ‘The people had all turned to Stone. They had even put up a stone statue of  Living Stone, and worshipped it with dead prayers and dead songs, thinking him to be their new God.’

‘So is that the end of the story?’ asked Khoza.

‘The end is even more terrible,’ I replied. ‘Another fifty years passed, during which time the strange white people of Northland had dropped their belief in the black book, took off their clothes, and had begun to enjoy themselves. They changed from Living Stones to Living People. Then one day the new Paramount Chief of Northland arrived in Zambeziland for an official visit. His name was Bum Ki-Moon.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Naked Bottom. Because he never wore any trousers. And when the people saw his nakedness they chased him back into his aeroplane shouting  at him You can’t come here dressed like that! It is against our tradition! It is abominable! It is unnatural!’

‘Northland had become Zambeziland,’ said Khoza, ‘but Zambeziland had become Northland!’

‘Exactly!’ I said. ‘No such thing had ever happened before in the entire history of the world!’

‘It was unnatural!’ exclaimed Khoza.

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘Each side learnt from the other. Perhaps it was only natural.’  

Reshuffled

Reshuffled

‘Turn on the news,’ said Sara, ‘I can’t wait to hear the latest on Constable Chilufya’s reshuffles!’

As I turned on the TV, there he sat, in yet another new suit, unsmiling behind the huge arrangements of flowers.’

‘Following my reshuffles of last night,’ began the Constable, ‘I have had complaints from Southern Province that I should not have put Chirundu as part of Lusaka Province, nor moved Itezhi Tezhi to Central Province. Since this is a listening government, I have now moved Chirundu District from Lusaka to Eastern Province, and I have picked up Itezhi Tezhi from Central Province and dropped it into Western Province.

‘In line with the Provincial Fiasco policy of decentralization, and in conformity with my usual practice of wide consultation, I have asked each of my provincial ministers to suggest which of the Southern Province districts they would like to be moved to their province.’

‘In my opinion,’ said Sara, ‘a tourist attraction like Mosi-o-Tunya should be moved to Lusaka.’

‘And what’s more,’ I said, ‘It could solve the water shortage in Ng’ombe.’

‘This decentralization policy,’ declared the Constable gravely, ‘is also affecting local government. As part of this new policy of devolving power to the people I have instructed the Minister of Local Government to instruct the Mayor of Lusaka to instruct his councilors that, with immediate effect, I have moved Kabulonga to Kaunda Square, Kaunda Square to Rhodes Park, and Rhodes Park to Kabulonga.’

‘The Constable has just moved to a bigger house,’ said Sara.

‘With immediate effect,’ I laughed.

‘And now,’ said the Constable, ‘I come to some of the wider consequences of my decentralization policy which also touch on our policy of abolishing school fees.’

‘Ah ha!’ said Sara. ‘Now this is something! I never thought he’d do it!’

‘Since we have a large surplus of educated young people,’ declared the Great Leader, ‘we are not only abolishing school fees, but also abolishing schools. With immediate effect.’

‘How is this decentralization?’ I wondered.

‘Just wait for it,’ laughed Sara.

‘Education will no longer be centralized in schools. Instead young people will be given an opportunity to decentralize their education by individually seeking entrepreneurial and other life-changing experiences. All school buildings will be turned into prisons for members of the previous government.’

‘Instead of providing boring punishment for children,’ said Sara, ‘schools can now do the same job for adults.’

‘In order to keep the former Minister of Education employed,’ continued the Constable, ‘I have instead given him the portfolios of Netball, Artwork, Gender and Other Entertainments.’

‘I wonder if he consulted the women about that,’ said Sara.

‘And now,’ declared the Constable, ‘I come to the more central aspects of my decentralization policy. I have decided that we cannot have our centre of government in a central capital city which is centralized at the centre, because this contradicts our policy of decentralization. Therefore, with immediate effect, I am moving the capital to Mpika. Plans have already been laid for building this new capital, which will be completed in only two months, starting in March and finishing in December.’

‘March to December!’ squealed Sara, clapping her hands. ‘That’s nine months!

‘I think you missed the news on Monday,’ I laughed, ‘when he reshuffled the months.’

‘This building of a new capital,’ continued the Constable remorselessly, ‘is also in conformity with our election promise to increase employment in the country. A tender has already been awarded to Fling Up Company Ltd of Shanghai, which has already been awarded an extra 500,000 visas and work permits.’

‘What!’ shouted Sara. ‘What about jobs for Zambians?’

‘Of course,’ declared the Constable, ‘this building of a new capital city will not only boost our economy, but will put new strains on the labour market. Therefore I have decided to reshuffle the Labour portfolio…’

‘Again!’ shouted Sara. ‘It was reshuffled only last week!’

‘I have been very disappointed with the work of Feckless Shamika. Within the past ten days I have twice appointed him to the Labour portfolio, but each time he has failed to reach his office…’

‘He has been reshuffled to so many portfolios in the past two weeks,’ said Sara, ‘and the poor fellow can’t walk very fast because he’s very old and confused. No sooner had he shuffled off in the direction of one office than somebody told him that he had been reshuffled, and he would then have to shuffle off in the direction of another office. He never managed to reach any of them.’

‘… Therefore,' said the Constable, 'I am now appointing the former Chinese Ambassador, Comrade Wok Fo Less, as the new Minister of Labour.  I have the greatest respect for the work of Comrade Wok, who served as my very able advisor during the very public nervous breakdown of a former Minister of Labour,  Mr Chipembele Kamwilimwili.

‘While I am away working at the New State House in Mpika, Comrade Wok Fo Less will be working at the Old State House to supervise the immigration of all the Chinese bricklayers and labourers and their relatives who …’

‘Comrade Wok Fo Less is in charge at State House!’ shouted Sara angrily. ‘What sort of decentralization  is this?’

‘Chinese decentralization,’ I replied. ‘A very successful policy. We have just been made a province of China.’

____________________________________________________

[Kalaki's thanks go to his friends who contributed to the Facebook discussion on reshuffles, and especially to those whose ideas he pinched]