Michael's Master Plan

Michael’s Master Plan

            ‘Sometimes,’ I sighed, ‘I think Michael doesn’t know what he’s doing. How can he be sacking the nurses for asking for more money? Isn’t he the very one who promised them more money in their pockets?’

          ‘Of course he knows what he’s doing,’ laughed Kupela. ‘He’s trying to force them all to go and get jobs in Britain, where they’ll be paid four times as much. Then they’ll be able to send money to their relatives here, and we’ll all have more money in our pockets.’

          ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘If all our nurses go to the UK, who’s going to run our hospitals? Our entire health system will collapse! You’ve got to see the bigger picture!’

          ‘Poor Daddy,’ Kupela scoffed, ‘it’s you who can’t see the bigger picture. Nowadays you’ve got to think globally. Have you considered that that a nurse earning $200 dollars in Beijing thinks that $800 dollars in Lusaka is a small fortune? So we can easily attract Chinese nurses to come here!’

          ‘Hah!’ I exclaimed. ‘What a silly argument! In that case the Chinese nurses would also go to London to earn an even larger fortune!’

          ‘Oh no they wouldn’t,’ said Kupela, ‘because London hospitals practice Western medicine and don’t recruit Chinese nurses.’

          ‘Well done!’ I laughed. ‘You’ve just destroyed your own argument because our Zambian hospitals also practice Western medicine.’

          ‘On no they don’t,’ retorted Kupela. ‘They’re not practicing anything at all because they don’t have any medicine or equipment. The wards are just waiting rooms for the mortuary. This country just hasn’t got the money to provide health care or education. Poor old Chikwanda is borrowing a billion dollars a year to run schools that make us dull and hospitals that make us sick. And what’s more, the country will soon be completely bankrupt!’

          ‘So the answer is to sack all the nurses?’

          ‘It’s all part of Michael’s new Master Plan. He’s bringing in 20,000 nurses from China.’

          ‘What? We’ll all be going to Chinese hospitals?’

          ‘Of course not, these hospitals will be for the Chinese.’

          ‘What! There won’t be enough Chinese patients for so many hospitals, unless they’re all planning to be sick!’

          ‘Michael knows what he’s doing. He’s going to bring in another million Chinese to take over the rest of the mines, set up manufacturing plants, turn the forests into plantations, and so on.’

          ‘Half a minute! Hold on! If the Chinese take over all our hospitals, where is the health service for the rest of us?’

          ‘We shall return to traditional medicine, which worked very well in pre-colonial days. In those days people were very healthy and lived to a ripe old age. Did you know that our very high rate of maternal mortality is caused by modern maternity hospitals? Traditional birth attendants are much safer.’

          ‘This is all romantic poppy-cock,’ I spluttered. ‘What are traditional healers going to do about cholera, typhoid, TB and HIV? Huh! Answer me that!’

          ‘These are all urban diseases,’ she replied calmly. ‘We’ll all return to village life. Back to the land! Anyway, we never really mastered city life. Never became properly urbanized. Lusaka is not a city, it is just a collection of villagers in a huge village. That’s why it is so chaotic and full of urban diseases!’

          ‘So our cities will be abandoned? Left standing empty?’

          ‘Of course not! The Chinese will come in to run the factories, smelt the iron, sort out the traffic lights, and that sort of thing.’

          ‘So what shall we be doing in the village?’

          ‘We shall be on display for the Chinese tourists. Cultural tourism is becoming very popular and we can rake in a lot of money. That’s why Michael is building all these roads everywhere, so that the Chinese can visit the villages. The Chinese are very interested to see what Africa looked like before the missionaries came and ruined everything.’

          ‘So what sort of government shall we have?’

          ‘Exactly, that’s the question. Why d’you think Michael grabbed the draft constitution from the Technical Committee? He intends to write one which fits into his Master Plan!’

          ‘So how will it be different?’

          ‘Difficult to say,’ said Kupela. ‘Much of central government will undoubtedly have to be abolished, since government will have to be localized under the chiefs. We wouldn’t need a judiciary, the chief would preside over each local court. Maybe there would still be a DC.’

          ‘A District Commissioner?’

          ‘No, a District Chinese, to make sure that the villagers treat the Chinese tourists with proper respect.’

          ‘So would we still have a parliament?’

          ‘Obviously not,’ said Kupela. ‘We would just follow tradition and customary law.’

          ‘But who would govern the Chinese?’

          ‘They’re already well organized and never take any notice of us. They would probably want to co-ordinate their activities with other Chinese operating in neighbouring countries. It is rumoured that they might set up a Chinese Federal Government based in Harare.’

          ‘So would we still have a president and ministers?’

          ‘Of course,’ said Kupela.

          ‘But what would they be doing?’

          ‘Obviously they would have to collect taxes so that they can continue to live in ministerial houses, travel to international conferences and that sort of thing.’

          ‘It looks to me as if we wouldn’t need a government at all!’

          ‘Oh yes we would!’

          ‘Why?’ I persisted.

          ‘Because,’ said Kupela, ‘We’re an independent country!’

Ukwa in Mufumbwe

Ukwa in Mufumbwe

            Monday evening, and Sara and I had settled down in front of the TV. ‘We now take you over to Mufumbwe,’ said Master Chambala. ‘Sensitive viewers should turn off their TVs.’

          ‘Ooh, I do love the Freak Show News,’ I declared. ‘They bring us such horrible stories.’

          ‘My God!’gasped Sara, as the TV picture showed the main street of a small threadbare town in the middle of nowhere. ‘That place can’t have changed since colonial times!’

          ‘It’s changed a lot,’ I laughed. ‘Fifty years ago it had bright shiny steel roofs, but now they’ve all gone rusty.’

          As we were talking the camera was focusing on a rising cloud of dust in the distance. Suddenly, out of this dust appeared a speeding convoy of Landcruisers with sirens wailing and green flags flying, finally coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the empty street. On the top of a gold-plated Landcruiser was the Royal Pabwata of King Ukwa, and sitting in the boat was the King himself, resplendent in his official ceremonial gold silk Chinese suit.

          The King rose slowly and regally to address the crowd. There wasn’t one. Quickly his coterie of sycophants and goons leapt out of their vehicles and began waving brown envelopes and green chitenges, and a few people began to cautiously venture out from behind their closed doors. In the meantime, the King’s chauffeur connected the battery of the Golden Royal Lancruiser to a microphone, which he then handed to the King.

          ‘This must be the first time they’ve seen electricity,’ said Sara.

          ‘It’ll soon be gone again,’ I sighed.

          King Ukwa was now standing in his Royal Pabwato scowling angrily at a motley crowd of about fifty people, mostly old people and small children, all very thin and wearing rags.

          ‘I have brought you your candidate!’ he shouted. Then, turning to one of his goons in black suit and dark glasses, he shouted ‘What have you done with my candidate?’

          As he spoke, two goons rushed forward dragging a small thin fellow with vacant uncoordinated rolling eyes and a loose mouth which dripped saliva. ‘What’s your name?’ shouted the King.

          ‘Musumbi, O King,’ whined the little fellow.

          ‘Mushula!’ shouted the King. ‘Kneel before your constituents.’

          ‘This is your new member of parliament,’ the King shouted at the sullen gathering. ‘Vote for him and you’ll all be rich! Vote for the other party and you’ll die in poverty! Any questions?’

          ‘Yes,’ shouted an old woman. ‘We’re all dying of thirst! There’s no water in the river!’

          ‘You don’t have to tell me that there’s no water in the river,’ shouted the King angrily. ‘Can’t you see that I had to bring my Royal Pabwato all the way by road because there is no water in the river? I have been inconvenienced far more than you!’

          ‘Why is there no water in the river?’ persisted the old woman.

          ‘Because you voted for the wrong party last time!’ shouted the King angrily. ‘That’s why you’ve got no development here! That’s why I’m giving you a second chance by bringing you this Mushula!’

          ‘Musumbi,’ said the goon.

          ‘His name is Pabwato,’ shouted the King, ‘that’s what matters.’

          ‘He looks a bit simple,’ said a voice from the back.

          ‘That’s why he’s representing you,’ shouted the king angrily. ‘You’re all a bit simple, that’s why you keep voting for the wrong party! That’s why you voted for the Movement for Mental Deficiency instead of Pabwato Fiasco!’

          ‘But why is there no water in the river?’ repeated the old woman.

          ‘You all know very well why you’ve got no water!’ replied the King angrily. ‘You’ve got no water because you live downstream from Chuminga, which had the sense to vote for me in the last election. So I have brought them development. I have built a dam for the Ching Chang rice plantation which will export rice to China. I have built a dam for the Fing Fang Fong Fish Farm and another dam for the Die Soon Crocodile Farm.’

          ‘Is there no water left over?’

          ‘Yes, plenty,’ smirked the King. ‘The excess water has been diverted to the leach plant at Kansanshi Mine, to make copper so that one day I shall be able to bring you electricity.’

          ‘When?’ said the old woman suspiciously.

          ‘After you have voted for Mushula,’ said the King.

          ‘Musumbi,’ groaned the goon.

          ‘Let me explain the situation in simple terms,’ growled the King. ‘Supposing you had only one cup of water left in your house, would you give that water to your own child or to a stranger?’

          ‘We all need water!’ shouted the old woman.

          ‘Development is about choices,’ sneered the King. ‘And the choice is yours. Vote Pabwato and I shall bring you water!’

          ‘Wrong way round!’ retorted the old woman. ‘Bring us water and we shall vote Pabwato!’ But as she was shouting six goons jumped on her and used their batons to beat her to the ground, and the remainder of the motley crowd ran away screaming.

          ‘My God!’ I said to Sara. ‘What’s happening?’

          ‘She’s committed a serious offence under the Public Order Act,’ Sara explained. ‘She’s protesting without a permit.’

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          Friday evening TV News, and at last the announcement of the results: ‘In the Mufumbwe by-election the MMD candidate, Mr Stalwart Mulunshi, has won by a stunning margin of 8,549 votes, with the Pabwato candidate, Mr Simple Musumbi, scoring a perfect zero.’

          ‘That means,’ I said, ‘that he didn’t even vote for himself.’

          ‘Perhaps he was so intellectually challenged,’ laughed Sara, ‘that he forgot to register to vote.’