Let Them Yap!

        Let Them Yap!

Last Saturday night Sara and I were at the Playhouse to see the Lusaka Musical Society’s latest masterpiece – ‘Let Them Yap’.  As the curtain rose, there in the middle of the stage, on his gold throne, sat the magnificent Emperor of Zed. He was wearing his shimmering golden Chinese suit, a glittering crown on his head, as he looked down imperiously upon his domain.

As the orchestra in the pit struck up with a jolly tune, the Emperor rose to his feet and burst into song:

I am the Emperor of the Promised Land,

My promises are very grand.

I am an autocratic democrat,

I sit and order this and that.

And if they say I can’t do that,

I don’t care! Let them yap!

As he was singing, a motley crowd of people dressed in rags had gathered at the foot of the golden steps leading to the golden throne. And they answered the Emperor with their own song:

          You are the Emperor of the Promised Land,

          Your promises slip away like sand.

          You promised a constitution new

Not a constitutional stew.

          You cannot give us that,

          This is crap! This is crap!

But the Emperor answered them, singing:

          To ‘fifty percent plus one’ I can agree

          But only if that one is me!

          I much prefer ‘first past the post’,

          If it’s me that gets the most!

          I promised freedom of expression

          Except for those in opposition.

          And freedom to assemble anywhere

          Except in any public square.

          So be careful where you yap

          Lest you walk right in my trap

But the good people of Zed were not impressed:

          You promised you’d save the kwacha,

          But the kwacha came a cropper.

You promised all prosperity,

          But all we have is poverty.

          You are the Emperor of Zed,

          But all your promises are dead.

Now the Emperor looked a bit sad, and tried to explain himself…

          I promised more hospitals, but the curse is,

          I have no medicines, doctors or nurses.

          As all my promises slip away,

          I have other things to fill my day.

          As my ambition grows and grows

          I just build more roads and roads.

          Roads to here and roads to there,

          I build roads everywhere.

But as he was singing, a gang of thugs in fake military uniforms and red berets came shouting into the palace, and the protesters ran screaming for their lives. The audience clapped and cheered, shouting ‘More! More!’

So now the Golden Emperor walked to the front of the stage, danced a little jig, and then sang a confidential little song for our additional entertainment:

          I promise employment for the youth,

          Especially those long in the tooth.

          I’ll put an end to all corruption,

          But for my friends I’ll make exception.

          The rule of law I will preserve,

          Except for laws which don’t deserve.

          I grant to women the freedom to be bold,

          So long as they do as they’re told.

          The number of my ministers will be fewer,

          Except for those coming from the sewer.

          Once a year I’ll meet the press,

          Once a year, more or less.

          I shall maintain law and order,

          Except for panga mayhem and murder.

          And I grant to all the right to yap!

          Let them yap! Let them yap! Let them yap!

He danced a little jig as the curtain came down, and we all stood up and clapped and cheered.

‘It’s all so easy in the theatre’ said Sara. ‘But in real life, it’s a big problem to bring down the curtain.’

PUBLIC ALERT: PEOPLE'S CONSTITUTION

Office of the Public Protector

PUBLIC ALERT

Theft of the People’s Constitution

INFORMATION TO THE PUBLIC:  This notice serves to put the nation on public alert that the People’s Constitution has been stolen. This theft was perpetrated by persons as yet unknown, but known to be purposely acting against the will of the people with a view to usurping legitimate government.

CALL TO ACTION: This information is therefore a call to action to prevent the completion of a coup d’etat, where a small group of criminals are attempting to capture state power in order to distribute state resources entirely amongst themselves.

DUTY TO SEARCH: In order to avert this constitutional crisis, all citizens are called upon to conduct a national search to find the missing People’s Constitution.

NEED TO EXCLUDE INVESTIGATORY AGENCIES: Unfortunately the existing state investigatory agencies cannot be called upon to participate in this search, since there is a strong possibility that the coup d’etat process is already in the process of taking place, so that these agencies must be presumed to be already taking orders from the perpetrators of the theft.

PLACES TO SEARCH:  Given the nature of the crime, the first places to search are the grounds, homes and offices of rogue government officials, who are the prime suspects in this crime. Since the intention of the thieves is to bury the People’s Constitution, the first search priority should be large government lawns, especially those along Independence Avenue, which should be systematically dug up.     

ORGANISATION OF THE SEARCH: The search is being organized by the Church, where plans are communicated by whispering during Sunday morning prayers. Under no circumstances should you use cell-phones or e-mail to discuss search organization, since it must be assumed that all electronic means of communication are controlled by the gang of thieves.

ACTION IF FOUND:  In the event that you find the People’s Constitution, you should under no account take it to your local police station, where you would be arrested for theft. You should instead take the Constitution to your nearest Catholic Church, or otherwise give it to the Bishop of your diocese.

APPREHENSION OF SUSPECTS:  In the event that you identify suspects on whose property the People’s Constitution was found, do not attempt to apprehend the suspects or to take them to the police station or to bring them before a court of law. Due to the current undermining of legitimate authority by rogue elements within government, these institutions are not employed to protect people from criminals, but instead are employed to protect criminals from the people. A document setting out the people’s rights is therefore a direct challenge to their authority.

ROADMAP FOR RETURN TO LEGITIMATE GOVERNMENT:  Since the Church is now the only remaining venue for the voice of the people to be heard, the People’s Constitution will be put to a referendum by public acclamation at church meetings to be held on the Sunday after the People’s Constitution has been restored to the people.  

PENALTIES FOR THE THEFT: Once the People’s Constitution has been approved, and legitimate government restored, all the people suspected of the earlier theft of the People’s Constitution will be charged with treason in the newly established Court of the People.

Signed: 

Archbishop Spectator Kalaki

Public Protector.

Constitution! Constitution! Constoootion!

Constitution! Constitution! Constoootion!

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

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

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

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

          ‘Kakokotwa?’

          ‘Yes, him.  Is he still unemployed?’

          ‘Yes. For the past three years.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          ‘Will I have to hold press conferences?’

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

         

           

An Animal-Driven Constitution

An Animal-Driven Constitution

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

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

          ‘Grandpa, what’s a constootion?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         

                 Rules of the Constitution

1.                    All animals are equal

2.                    No animal shall be above the law

3.                   All animals must obey the law

4.                   All animals have freedom of expression

5.                   All animals have right of assembly

6.                  All animals shall have freedom of movement

7.                  Elephants shall protect animals from the King 

8.                  No humans shall be allowed into the Kingdom

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

10.            No King may rule for more than 5 years

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

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

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

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

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

           Rules of the Constitution

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

2.              The King shall be above the law

3.              All animals shall obey the King

4.             Only the King shall have freedom of expression

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

6.             All Chimbwi shall have freedom of movement

7.             Elephants shall protect the King from other animals

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

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

10.        No King may rule for more than 50 years

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

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

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

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

     ‘And lived in another palace?’

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

     ‘Why was that?’ Nawiti wondered.

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

[Adapted from a story by Eric Blair]

The School Bus

The School Bus

            I was sitting on the veranda, solemnly contemplating the first brandy of the day, when round the corner came Khondwa in a dusty disheveled school uniform, and plonked himself dejectedly onto a wobbly cane chair. ‘Hullo Grandpa,’ he grunted. ‘What are you doing here?’

          ‘I was about to ask you the same question!’ I exclaimed. ‘As far as I know you’re supposed to be in Ndola! You know it’s costing your parents a small fortune to send you to that Prestige Faculty Secondary School! So now what have you done? What are you doing back here?’

          ‘I thought I’d get more sympathy from you, Grandpa. Everybody says you’re a bit of a delinquent.’

          ‘Don’t try to soft-soap me,’ I snarled. ‘That’s why your mother was so keen to send you to this PF Secondary School, so you don’t end up like me. What has happened? Have you been expelled?’

          ‘It all started with the school bus.’

‘School bus? School bus? What are you talking about? Did you try to steal the school bus?’

          ‘We don’t have a school bus.’

          I was so irritated I poured myself another glass of brandy. ‘So how did you get into trouble over a non-existent school bus?’

          ‘It all started last term,’ he replied calmly, ‘when we prefects all had a meeting and decided that the school needed a school bus. So we all went to see the headmaster, Mr Chumbu Mushololwa, and told him we had decided that the school should buy a bus.’

          ‘And you were the ringleader?’

          ‘I was elected as the spokesman, if that’s what you mean.’

          ‘So I suppose the headmaster just told you that there was no money, and a school bus was out of the question.’

          ‘Not at all. He said that the PF was a democratic institution, and it was good that we were coming up with our own ideas for improving the school. But the only problem was that there was no money. But he said he would appreciate our help in solving the problem. So he appointed us as the school’s Transport Committee, with the task of finding out the level of enthusiasm for a school bus, and if necessary to raise the money to buy one.’

          ‘But why were you so keen to get a bus? Or was it just a political gambit to show that the prefects had more ideas and ability than the headmaster?’

          ‘What an old cynic you are, Grandpa! Without a bus we had all sorts of problems. The local day-scholars had transport problems and most of them needed a school bus. But worst of all we had no bus for school trips. Our Debating Society couldn’t visit other schools for debating contests. We couldn’t go on educative trips to visit factories or mines or council chambers, let alone development projects. All our lessons were out of the textbooks, but we could never see anything in practice. With our own bus we would be able to take better control over our own curriculum, and find out how the world really works!’

          ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘And did you persuade the other students and their parents that the school needed a bus? Did you manage to collect the money?’

          ‘Oh yes. We launched an enormously successful Christmas campaign. We found that all the parents were very supportive. By the time we came back to school a couple of weeks ago we had collected rather more than K300,000, enough to buy a new 26 seater.’

          ‘So have you bought the bus?’

          ‘That’s where the problem came in,’ replied Khondwa sadly. ‘Immediately we got back to school Mr Mushololwa called the TC into his office and told us to hand over the money to him, since only he could legally buy a vehicle on behalf of the school.’

          ‘I suppose that was true enough.’

          ‘But then he said that buying a bus was merely a recommendation to him, and he would have to put this recommendation to the school’s board of governors, bearing in mind that the school also had other transport problems.’

          ‘So what did you say to that?’

          ‘We said that all of the boys and their parents would be very annoyed if they heard that their demand for a bus was not to be respected, and if all the money we had collected was used for something else. But he told us that according to the terms of reference of the TC, the demand for a bus was a only recommendation to him personally, and if members of the TC leaked their recommendation to other students then this would be a breach of their loyalty to the headmaster, warranting instant expulsion.’

          ‘So did anyone on the TC blab?’

          ‘We were all too scared,’ admitted Khondwa.

          ‘How pathetic,’ I sneered.

          ‘Everything was quiet for about a week,’ continued Khondwa. ‘Then the rumour went round that the headmaster had been given the money, but was refusing to buy the bus.’

          ‘Then there was a riot?’

          ‘Still everything remained quiet. Then two days later, the headmaster drove into the school in his new Mercedes E250. That same night a group of boys gently rolled the car onto its side, and put a match to the fuel line. It lit up the sky something marvelous!’

          ‘So you’ve been expelled!’

          ‘The entire school has been expelled! Now we all have to apply for re-admission.’

          ‘Very good,’ I laughed. ‘Now I see you were right, the school bus has improved your understanding of how the world really works! I always knew that the PF would give you a good education!’

Postmortem

Postmortem

            ‘I am sitting here this morning,’ announced the magistrate, ‘as the coroner assigned to assist the police in their investigations. The task of this court is to establish the cause of the death of Ms Democracy. The relatives of Democracy, commonly known as Citizens, have claimed that she died as the result of a vicious attack on Democracy by Dictatorship. On the other hand the representatives of Dictatorship, commonly known as cadres, have firmly maintained that they always supported and loved Democracy and would never do anything to harm her, and that she died of natural causes. On the other hand, the Women’s Hobby has suggested that death may have been caused by Gender Based Murder, sometimes known as GBM. Because of these conflicting interests, the court will hear postmortem reports from three different pathologists.’

          The magistrate now turned towards the investigating offer. ‘Inspector, is this GBM the former husband of Democracy?’

          ‘Good gracious no,’ replied the inspector, ‘GBM has never had any relationship with Democracy. GBM and Democracy have always been completely incompatible.’

          ‘Quite so,’ said the magistrate. ‘But in the case of the death of a wife we must always treat the husband as the first suspect. So who is the husband of the late departed?’

          ‘She was happily married to Constitution,’ replied the inspector.

          ‘Constitution!’ exclaimed the magistrate. ‘But surely it is the job of Constitution to protect Democracy! How did he allow his own dear partner to die?’

          ‘He is in jail, M’Lord, awaiting trial.’

          ‘On what charge?’

          ‘On a charge of trying to limit the powers of the Dictator, M’Lord. Constitution is now locked up indefinitely, pending correction in a correctional facility.’

          ‘Did he not seek bail?’

          ‘He did my Lord. He wanted to be freed so that he could protect Democracy. But bail was refused.’

          ‘Refused?’ said the magistrate. ‘On what grounds?’

          ‘On the ground that Democracy was already dead!’

          ‘Quite right,’ declared the magistrate. ‘There’s no need for a Constitution when Democracy is already dead. Do let’s get on with hearing from the first pathologist, Mr Mfwa.’

Mr Mfwa walked to the witness stand and swore never to tell the truth, so help him God. ‘Now give us your report on the cause of death,’ requested the magistrate.

‘The first thing I noticed when I examined the body,’ began Mfwa, ‘was that all the fingers were missing.’

‘Had she died from loss of blood?’ asked the magistrate.

‘Oh no,’ replied Mfwa. ‘Apparently they had been sliced off many years earlier when she tried to hang on to a banner saying We want freedom of the press.’

‘Did she have any other wounds?’ asked the magistrate irritably.

‘Both of her legs were missing?’ declared Mfwa.

‘What had caused that?’

‘Going on a protest march without a police permit.’

‘Was that the cause of death?’

‘Oh no,’ replied Mfwa. ‘But it had caused her to be confined to her house. That’s why we haven’t been seeing much of Democracy in recent years.’

‘Look, Mr Mfwa,’ shouted the magistrate. ‘Did you find out the cause of death?’

‘Yes,’ he replied calmly. ‘I found a very large aspirin stuck in her throat.’

‘So she suffocated!’ said the magistrate.

‘No,’ said Mfwa, ‘she died of a very bad headache. Natural causes.’

‘You’re giving me a very bad headache,’ sneered the magistrate. Then, turning to the Clerk of Court, ‘Bring on the next pathologist.’

‘Mr Yafwa,’ said the magistrate wearily, ‘Do you have any different explanation for the death of Democracy?’

‘She died,’ said Yafwa slowly, ‘because her head had been cut off by one slice from a very sharp instrument, probably a panga. Death was from unnatural causes.’

The magistrate now turned to Mfwa, ‘Well,’ he said sarcastically, ‘I wonder how you noticed missing fingers and legs, but failed to notice a missing head?’

‘It is possible to wonder at a lot of things,’ sneered Mfwa. ‘I wonder why my learned colleague never considered that I had to cut off the head in order to find the aspirin lodged in her throat.’

The magistrate now turned hopefully to the third pathologist. ‘Mr Fwile, to what do you attribute the death of Democracy?’

‘M’Lord, I agree with my learned colleague Mr Yafwa that the cause of death was decapitation caused by a single mighty slice from a very sharp blade.’

‘In order words, unnatural causes?’ asked the magistrate.

‘Oh no,’ said Yafwa. ‘Bearing in mind Newton’s Second Law of Motion, the large mass of the blade, combined with its high rate of deceleration when striking the neck, and the large concentration of pressure caused by the sharpness of the blade, it was absolutely natural and inevitable that the blow would cause decapitation. I have no hesitation in concluding that death was by natural causes.’

‘On the basis of the majority view of the pathologists,’ said the magistrate, ‘I declare that Democracy died of natural causes, and that no criminal investigations are necessary. I declare the case closed, and hope that the soul of Democracy will rest in peace.’ So saying, he rose to his feet and disappeared into his chambers.

As people left the court, they talked amongst themselves:

‘It’s just as well it wasn’t murder.’

‘We don’t want murder here.’

‘We are a peaceful people.’

‘I always thought she was a bit of a trouble maker.’

‘Well out the way if you ask me.’

‘Good thing that Constitution has been locked up. He was the one giving her wrong ideas.’

‘Now she can rest in peace.’

‘This is a peaceful country.’

‘Especially at Leopards Hill.’

King Panga

King Panga

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

          ‘What sort of king do you want? A good one or a bad one?’

          ‘A bad one!’ cackled Nawiti, rubbing her hands in glee.

          ‘I’m glad you’ve asked for a bad one,’ I chuckled, ‘because good kings are hard to find. I think I’ve got just the sort of king you’re looking for. His name was King Panga, and he lived long ago in the Kingdom of Zedia.’

          ‘Why was he a bad king?’

          ‘Who can tell why he was bad. Maybe when he was small, his mother didn’t punish him when he did wrong things.’

          ‘No, I meant why did people say he was bad.’

          ‘Because,’ I explained, ‘King Panga was far too bossy, and wouldn’t listen to anybody. He would tell the police whom to lock up, instead of letting them decide for themselves. And he would lock up his enemies even if they hadn’t done anything wrong.’

          ‘Look, Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘that’s how kings were in those days. It’s no good being a king if you can’t boss everybody around. The job just attracts that type of person.’

          ‘You’ve got a point there,’ I conceded. ‘But King Panga also used to waste the people’s money. He wasted a lot of money building a tall tower, reaching right up into the sky, so that he could walk up to Heaven to consult God.’

          ‘So he went to Heaven?’

          ‘No. The tower got only halfway, then it fell down.’

          ‘Well,’ said Nawiti, ‘that’s the sort of thing you expect from a king. What else did he do?’

          ‘He built himself a huge golden coach pulled by twenty-four elephants…’

          ‘You mean horses.’

          ‘No. In those days there weren’t any horses in Zedia.’

          ‘Look, Grandpa, you have to understand how things were in those days. That’s the sort of thing kings do. You can’t have a king without a golden coach. The other kings would laugh at him.’

          ‘But he was wasting money. There were no nurses or medicines in the hospitals, no books in the schools and no seeds for planting. Meanwhile the king was wasting money on building roads everywhere so that he could drive his coach everywhere.’

          ‘So what did they do?’

          ‘Led by a bishop, they all went to the palace to see the king. And the bishop spoke for all of them, saying You can’t just rule anyhow like this, you must have a constitution.

‘And he king replied A constitution, what’s that?

          ‘Then the bishop told him, saying A constitution is a set of rules which we will give you, setting out the limits of your powers, requiring you to listen to others, and making sure you look after us and not just yourself.

          ‘And the king replied, saying Show me a copy of these rules!

          ‘But the bishop replied, saying We shall show you a copy of these rules in two years time, after we have agreed amongst ourselves.

          ‘And the king sneered, saying Huh, I could do the job myself in ten minutes.’

          ‘And did they come back in two years time?’

          ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘The bishop and his priests went all round the country, holding meetings everywhere with everybody, and finally they drew up a constitution of ten basic rules which, even if followed by a foolish king, could make him appear quite sensible.’

          ‘So they went back to the palace to give the constitution to the king?’

          ‘They did indeed. But they found the king’s soldiers at the gate, armed with machetes. And the sergeant in charge said The king says that it does not need a thousand people to deliver ten rules. He commands that only ten people can enter the palace, each carrying one rule. These ten people will constitute the constitution which shall be given to the king!’

          ‘And did the people agree?’ asked Nawiti.

          ‘They had no choice,’ I explained, ‘because the machetes were very sharp.’

          ‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti, ‘what happened in the palace? Was the constitution presented to the king?’

          ‘Nobody knows what happened inside that palace,’ I said grimly. ‘The people waited all night outside the gates. Early next morning there was a sound of marching, the gates opened, and out came a company of soldiers carrying on their shoulders ten coffins, which were laid on the ground before the weeping crowd.’

          ‘Then the sergeant in charge addressed the crowd, saying The king has declared that he finds these ten rules unnecessary. He also declares that it is not the job of the people to give the king a constitution, it is the duty of the king to give his people a constitution.

          ‘With this announcement, the sergeant threw down his machete, its blade sticking into the lid of one of the coffins, the cold steel quivering in the morning air. There! shouted the sergeant, There is your new constitution.’

          ‘That wasn’t a constitution, it was just a machete!’ said Nawiti, as tears streamed down her face.

          ‘It was a rule of governance,’ I explained. ‘Down the side of the machete blade was inscribed Nobody can question the King. This made it clear that the country was not to be ruled by a constitution, but by the machete.  And that is why, from that day to this, a machete is always known as a panga in the land of Zedia.’

          ‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti, ‘he really was a bad king.’

          ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Let that be a lesson to you. If you ask for a bad king, that’s what you get.’