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.’

Kalakiland

Kalakiland

            It was mid-afternoon, and I was sitting on the veranda of my little house in Chainda, sipping a glass of kachasu, when I heard a voice behind me, ‘Excuse me sir, my apologies for interrupting your royal contemplations, but am I right in thinking that you are Paramount Chief Kalaki?’

          ‘My dear fellow,’ I said, shaking his hand, ‘You have indeed found the Palace of the Paramount Chief. Sit down, have a glass of kachasu, make yourself comfortable, and introduce yourself.’

          Instead of sitting down he started to grovel on the floor. ‘No no, my dear fellow,’ I said, lifting him by his arm, ‘we don’t do that sort of thing here, we’re all very democratic. Just sit down and introduce yourself.’

          ‘I am the Africa Correspondent for the BBC,’ he replied. ‘My name is Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa.’

          ‘Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa,’ I said. ‘I’m very very very pleased to meet you. My name is Kalaki. You only have to say it once.’

          ‘I am used to interviewing other African presidents,’ he said. ‘I humbly seek your advice on the form of address which you prefer. Should I say Your Excellency the Paramount Chief and Father of the Nation, Professor Spectator Kalaki, Loved and Revered President of the Peoples Peaceful Republic of Kalakiland? That’s what I was told by the Africa Desk in London.’

          ‘When people call me that,’ I laughed, ‘they are just making fun of the pompous fellow in the neighbouring Republic of Zed, who insists on being addressed in such a ridiculous fashion. But when people are not making fun of the other fellow, then they just call me Komrade Kalaki, or just Kalaki. So now, Mr Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa, what can I do for you?’

          ‘Even me,’ said Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa rather shyly , ‘you can just call me Sishuwa. I’d be most grateful if you could answer a few questions for our Focus on Africa programme. First of all, how did you become president of Kalakiland?’

          ‘I sort of appointed myself. You see the job has no salary and no allowances and no state house. Just look at my humble little house, which my wife and I bought from our savings over the years. Somebody had to volunteer to do the job of calling meetings, and deciding how to deal with the troublesome neighbouring republic of Zed. So I do the job just as a public service.’

          ‘Public service!’ gasped Sishuwa. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing before. But tell me, how did the Republic of Kalakiland begin?’

          ‘Well, actually, it started from my little yard here, which used to be part of the Republic of Zed. People seeking refuge from the fearful government of Zed used to come and hide in my yard. The secret police never suspected that a retired schoolteacher could be harbouring refugees. And my dear wife Sara has such a sharp tongue that no blundering shushushu would think of knocking on our gate without good reason.’

          ‘Then how did Kalakiland grow to the size of Swaziland?’

          ‘It was rather surprising. But as Zed became more dictatorial, and with more refugees fleeing the increasingly vicious police state, we began hiding the refugees in more and more yards, until we had a large area outside the jurisdiction of Zed. Then people began to call it Kalakiland.’

          ‘But don’t the police invade Kalakiland to recapture their victims who escaped from Zed?’

          ‘My dear Sishuwa, it’s not that simple. Even the police chief in Zed knows that when he is fired, he will need somewhere to run to. Even the ministers know that when they annoy the Great Dictator, they need a neighbouring republic to which they can quickly run and where they will be safe. And they bring all their stolen money with them, which they have to share with us, because Kalakiland is a democratic country.’

          ‘But how is Kalakiland governed? Do you have a parliament, judiciary, police force and that sort of thing?’

          ‘We have avoided setting up all the institutions that destroyed Zed: we have no ministers to steal from the poor; no parliament to pass bad laws and increase their own salaries; no judiciary to be bent like a cucumber; no police force employed to fix the perceived enemies of any mad dictator.’

          ‘So without the police, how do you deal with crime?’

          ‘Most of the criminals were in the police force, which we abolished.’

          ‘What about education? Do you have schools to pass on knowledge from one generation to the next?’

          ‘We saw how schools were used to destroy the children’s imagination, and to turn them into unthinking robots to follow instructions irrespective of how stupid. We saw how schools cut off children from their traditional culture. So in order to restore education we have abolished schools.’

          ‘So you don’t have any national institutions?’

          ‘Only one,’ I laughed, raising my glass. ‘The Kalakiland National Distillery which produces the internationally famous Kalakiland Kachasu, the only truly African traditional spirit. It keeps our people happy, sells all over the world, and makes us the richest country in all Africa!’

          ‘One distillery makes you the richest country? How?’

          ‘Because we don’t have a government to steal all our money! Cheers!’

          ‘Cheers!’ he said, as he emptied his glass and rose to leave. ‘Thanks for the marvelous drink and fascinating interview. Tune into Focus on Africa next Thursday, and you’ll be able to hear it all!’

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_____________________

         

‘Wake up! Wake up!’ Sara was shouting and shaking my shoulders. ‘You’re completely drunk!’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I’m just tired after a marvelous visit to Kalakiland.’   

         

           

         

         

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.’

Speech day in Muchinga

Speech Day in Muchinga

            Sara and I had come to Speech Day at Muchinga Secondary School, to witness our grandson Kondwa being awarded the prize for mathematics. All the teachers were sitting at the back of the stage as the Headmaster walked to the front.

          ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I am the Headmaster, Mr Noplan Chimbwi, and I am pleased to welcome you to the celebration of our greatest achievements during the past year. Behind me you see the rest of the staff who work closely with me in bringing your children to a bright and prosperous future. Ours is a closely knit team, working in close agreement and harmony to achieve the great ideals of this long established and distinguished academy, always remembering our resounding motto One Muchinga, One School, One Headmaster.

          ‘I hope the old fart gets a move on,’ Sara whispered in my ear.

          ‘To give you some examples of the latest developments in our school,’ continued Chimbwi, ‘I ask our Deputy Headmaster, Mr Scotty Cholaboy, to join me here at the podium. As he spoke a bent figure in a faded salaula suit shuffled to the front, and groveled and slobbered before the headmaster. ‘Tell me, Cholaboy,’ rasped Chimbwi, ‘What have you been working on recently?’

          ‘I’ve been buying second-hand books for the library, Headmaster.’

          ‘You’ve been doing WHAT?’ screeched Chimbwi. ‘Why have you been doing that?’

          ‘I know it’s a long time ago since the school was able to buy books, Headmaster. But these second-hand books are very cheap.’

          Chimbwi now looked round at the other teachers. ‘Can someone tell this old fool why we can’t buy books?’

          A hand shot up. ‘Because, Headmaster, the book allocation is being spent on your fuel allowance.’

          ‘Nonsense! Shut up! Leave the room! Don’t come back!’

          ‘Where is all the unity and harmony?’ Sara whispered.

          Now an ancient old man hobbled to the front, with the help of a stick. ‘Ah, at last, our History Teacher, Mr PaModzi Munshumfwa. I’m sure he can help us.’

          ‘During colonial times,’ explained Munshumfwa, ‘this library was full of many books. Subversive books. Scurrilous books. Seditious books. Revolutionary books. The students read these books, and rebelled, and took over the school. We must never make the same mistake as the colonial authorities!’

          ‘Exactly,’ said Chimbwi, as Old Munshumfwa hobbled back to his seat. ‘And you, Dotty Cholaboy, try to stay awake in staff meetings in future. Now tell us, what is our policy on books in the library?’

          ‘No second-hand books,’ muttered Scotty.

          ‘No!’ screeched Chimbwi, ‘No books at all!’

          ‘Very sorry for my awful mistake,’ groveled Scotty, as he shuffled back to his seat.

          ‘They shouldn’t have let in the parents,’ said Sara, ‘just to see them quarreling amongst themselves.’

          ‘The only books allowed in the library,’ shouted Chimbwi, ‘are the Bible and the School Rules. Now let us hope we get a better report from our Communications Teacher. What have you been doing, Mr Manuel Mwalwe Mwalwe?’

          ‘I have put up new notice boards for students to express their opinions, analyse current affairs, and to ask questions of others.’

          ‘What!’ squealed Chimbwi. ‘As Headmaster, I am the one in charge of information dissemination. All information must first be approved by me and then put on the Headmaster’s Notice Board.’

          ‘No,’ said Manuel calmly. ‘We have the Independent Board Authority which authorises other groups to have their own noticeboards.’

          ‘All Independence rests in me as the Headmaster,’ growled Chimbwi, ‘So your Independent Board Authority is cancelled immediately, and so is your job. Shut up. Go away. Never come back. Shooo!’

          ‘It looks to me,’ said Sara, ‘as if this Headmaster has completely lost control of his staff and has no idea of what’s going on.’

          ‘Good gracious,’ growled the Headmaster, as he turned back to his audience, now restless and muttering amongst themselves. ‘Let’s hope there is better news from the Maths Department. I call upon Mr Redhot Piri Piri to explain the latest developments in maths teaching.’

          ‘In this modern world,’ began Piri Piri, ‘we’re teaching modern mathematics, such as set theory…’

          ‘Sex theory!’ shrieked Chimbwi, ‘I don’t want any homosexuals here!’

          ‘I said set theory,’ said Piri Piri. ‘It’s about how we analyze the mathematical relationship between members of different overlapping groups.’

          ‘Different groups!’ shouted Chimbwi. ‘What are you talking about! This is subversive talk! This is seditious! The motto of this school is One Muchinga, One School, One Headmaster. We’re not supposed to have different groups!’

Now his arms began to wave wildly, his face went purple, and he began to march up and down the stage howling ‘So now I see it! You are the one behind all this! You have foolishly revealed yourself! You are the divisive influence! You’ve been dividing this school into groups and cliques, plotting against me, trying to bring me down! Well let me tell you that before this day is out I’ll…’

          But as he was ranting on, two men in white coats came onto the stage. Each took him gently by an arm and guided him, still ranting, down the steps and out of the hall.

Then onto the stage waddled the ample figure of the School Matron, Ms Christine Award Winner. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘I do apologize for that. Our dear Headmaster is not feeling very well, so he has asked me to distribute the School Prizes on his behalf…’

          But by now the school hall was more than half empty, as parents scurried out with their children, quite frightened by their strange experience.

          ‘If we all run away,’ I said, ‘that’ll be the end of his career as a Headmaster.’

          ‘From what I’ve seen,’ laughed Sara, ‘It’ll be no great loss.’  

[Story line suggested to Kalaki by Facebooker Victor Kabwe]

           

            

The Legacy of King Cobra

The Legacy of King Cobra

            It was the cool of the evening in Mfuwe, and all the animals were gathered around the watering hole for their usual discussion of the affairs of state. ‘I wonder,’ said the Wise Elephant, ‘why we have never appointed a king?’

          ‘You only wonder that,’ growled Mighty Lion, ‘because you would like to be king yourself.’

          The Elegant Giraffe looked down serenely upon this little discussion. ‘We already have the Brutal Buffaloes for war, Educated Elephants as our judges and the Honorable Hippopotamuses to make our laws. So what would we do with a king?’

          ‘We have nobody to represent us,’ said the Wise Elephant. ‘When important visitors arrive from abroad there is nobody to greet them and introduce them to our hiccupping hippos and lovable lions, or to show them the biggest baobab tree in the world. Other countries have kings, why can’t we?’

          ‘The problem with having a king,’ said Lion, ‘is that he’ll soon become pompous. Instead of just showing visitors around, and taking the lead in singing the Song of Mfuwe, he’ll think he’s in charge of everything and start bossing us around.’

          ‘Quite right,’ said the Bold Baboon. ‘Look at Wise Elephant here, he’s already stronger than everybody else, and thinks he knows everything. Just think what a nuisance he might become if we made him king!’

          After that remark, everybody sat quiet, not wanting to annoy Wise Elephant. Finally Klever Kalulu perked up. ‘What we need,’ he said ‘is a democratic king. Not some big fellow with his own ideas. Just an ordinary little fellow with no ideas. Then we can fill his head with our ideas. Not proud of himself but proud of Mfuwe. An empty little vessel into which we can put the constitution, so that he can understand the job of being a king. Starting from nothing, he can then fill himself with wisdom and grow to be a good king.’

          ‘Are you proposing yourself?’ sneered Mighty Lion.

          ‘Certainly not,’ kackled Klever Kalulu. ‘I was thinking of Common Cobra. He’s a real commoner, an inhabitant of the grass roots who knows all the animals of the forest. No education or ideas. He should be our ideal candidate. Our sole candidate!’

          And so it was that the Common Cobra became King Cobra.

          But things did not go well. The very things that Mighty Lion had warned against soon came to pass. The king recruited all the hyenas as his Police Force, now known as the Dreaded PF, which began to terrorise all the other animals. Any animal that had once laughed at King Cobra when he was just a Common Cobra were now declared his enemies, arrested by the Dreaded PF and brought to court. The king fired Wise Elephant as the Chief Judge, and replaced him with the ancient Cranky Crocodile, who did whatever she was told, provided she was allowed to eat the enemies of the king.

          And the animals soon found that it was impossible for the animals to instruct King Cobra on the constitution. He built himself a new palace called Snake House and never came out, never listened to advice and never talked to the other animals - except to give instructions to the Dreaded PF hyenas.

          He made the baboons construct a huge tower in the grounds of Snake House, and each morning he would climb to the top, declaring that he was getting instructions from God and that he was governing the country according to the Ten Commandments. And the animals whispered one to another that he was supposed to be listening to the people and following the constitution. But nobody dared to speak out for fear of the PF hyenas and the ancient Cranky Crocodile that lurked around the courtroom.

          Things got even worse when he ordered the animals to collect all the fruit from the forest for export to Ching-Chang. The animals also had to construct the roads needed to export the fruit to Ching-Chang. The animals were now exhausted and near starvation. The king was selling the fruit to build a gold statue of himself, ten metres tall, where the animals could all be ordered to march up and down and salute the Great King Cobra. ‘These great roads, and this great statue,’ declared the king, ‘will be the enduring legacy of the Great King Cobra!’

          By now the animals were in a state of silent and sullen rebellion. But they could no longer meet around the watering hole to discuss the constitutional crisis. The king had declared that any meeting first needed permission from the Dreaded PF hyenas, which was much the same thing as asking for a cuddle with the Cranky Crocodile.

          Then one little elephant called Mumbo Jumbo did a very brave thing for such a small fellow. He called a secret meeting in the Dark Corner of the forest. And there it was that these treacherous and treasonable animals came up with a plan to overthrow their king. They agreed that on the Great Day of the Unveiling of the Statue of the Golden King, the baboons would run up and tie a rope around the statue’s neck, and then all the elephants would pull the statue down.

          Which they did. And the strange thing was that the statue came down very easily, and the hyenas all ran away. And another strange thing was that the statue was hollow. Even the head was completely empty. There was nothing inside the statue except some smoldering ashes at the bottom. The Wise Elephant put his head inside the statue to have a look. ‘These ashes,’ he said solemnly, ‘are all that remain of our constitution.’

          And from that day to this, in the land of Mfuwe, everybody is afraid of snakes.             That is the legacy of King Cobra.

Drunk with Power

Drunk with Power

           

            ‘All was not well in the Kingdom of Mfuwe. The Great Elephant King Cycle Mata had become too powerful, and his elephant ministers were trampling on the other animals...’

          ‘Grandpa’ Nawiti interrupted, ‘Why was he called Cycle Mata?’

          ‘Nobody’s quite sure,’ I said. ‘But some people say it was because he was always running round and round in circles and never getting anywhere. In those days elephants often ran round in circles after eating too much marula, the favourite fruit of the elephant. It was marula that gave elephants their great size and power.’

          ‘Mummy says that money is power.’

          ‘But in those days in Mfuwe, marula was power. You see, the elephants had enormous bellies and could eat huge quantities of marula. This was what enabled the elephants to become so big and strong, and to rule over all the other animals.’

          ‘So what was the problem?’

          ‘The problem was that the elephants became greedy for more power, and began to eat too much marula, and became drunk with power. You see, if an elephant eats too much marula, the juice ferments in its belly and turns into alcohol, and the elephant becomes drunk. Of course nobody knew about alcohol in those days, they just thought that the elephant had eaten too much and was suffering from indigestion.’

          ‘So the elephants couldn’t run the country properly?’

          ‘They were always blundering around, not knowing what they were doing, trampling on other animals and knocking over trees. And then things got worse.’

          ‘What happened?

          ‘The Great King Elephant Cycle Mata fell over sideways and couldn’t get up. He was very sick.’

          ‘What was wrong with him? Too much marula?’

          ‘Everybody thought it must be his allergy. He had always been very allergic to corruption.’

          ‘What is corruption, Grandpa?’

          ‘Corruption is when the ruling elephants, who are supposed to ensure that all animals get their fair share of marula, instead eat it all themselves and leave the other animals to starve.’

          ‘So who was in charge while the king was sick?’

          ‘That was the problem. His ministers had always taken instructions from the king, none of them has any brains of their own. That was why he had chosen them. In addition, of course, they were drunk all the time, and the country was falling into ruin and the other animals were starving.’

          ‘Couldn’t they do anything at all? Like stop stealing the marula?’

          ‘All they could do was quarrel amongst themselves about who should take over from the king. The Minister for the Indefensible, The Great Belly of Marula, or GBM as was he was known, declared that the king would live forever, meaning of course that he himself would take over. But the little elephant Splinter Kapimbe, who had a small belly but a big head swollen with marula, declared that GBM had raised the matter too soon and he would be disciplined. This meant of course that Spinter was the one in charge and he would soon take over. Then GBM rented a pack of hyena to change the minds of Splinter and his supporters.

          ‘The country was going to the dogs,’ said Nawiti sadly.

          ‘Not only that,’ I said. ‘An angry rhinoceros called HaHa started to laugh and sneer, shouting that These elephants have stolen all your fruit, they are corrupt. You think they are building you roads, but these roads are just to take all the marula from the trees to the palace and leave you with none. The previous king used to give you a subsidy of dried marula during the dry season to keep you alive, but they have removed the subsidy and left you to starve. Why does the king have a hundred ministers, all chewing our marula? Appoint me as king and I shall manage the entire kingdom properly, just as I manage my beautiful impala farm in the Zambezi Valley.’

          ‘So what happened next?’

          ‘The king’s wife, the Great She-Elephant, came back from India with a doctor, who took one look at the king and declared that the king’s belly was full of overly fermented marula. The alcohol had turned to acid which was beginning to eat the king. So he made a hole in the king’s belly, let out the acid, and the king leapt back to life and started castigating everybody:

          ‘You fools!’ he shouted at his ministers. ‘You can’t even answer HaHa! While I was sick you couldn’t even say Booo!’

          ‘He had forgotten,’ said Nawiti, ‘that he had been too sick to give them instructions.’

          ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He had forgotten that he had deliberately chosen ministers who were incapable of arguing with the king, and therefore equally incapable of arguing with anybody else. And he’d also forgotten that they were so drunk with power that they were too arrogant to even answer simple questions.’

          ‘And what did he do with the two elephants who had been fighting over his crown?’

          ‘He declared that anyone challenging him should not hide their intentions, but should nominate themselves as candidates.’

          ‘And did they?’

          ‘Unfortunately, while paddling their canoes to the nomination centre, they were both eaten by crocodiles.’

          ‘Wow,’ said Nawiti, ‘it must have taken a lot of crocodiles.’

          ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The crocodiles were very well organized.’

          ‘So did HaHa become the new king?’

          ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All the animals went to him and pleaded with him to take over. He said he was a good businessman, and would soon sort everything out.’

          ‘And did he?’

          ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He abolished the monarchy and introduced free enterprise.’

          ‘Meaning what?’ asked Nawiti doubtfully.

          ‘He sold the whole country to the Americans, as a game park.’

Blinker Kapimbe

Blinker Kapimbe

            ‘Come in, come in, Kalaki,’ said the Honorable Blinker Kapimbe, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. ‘Just tell me what’s worrying you, I can explain everything.’

          ‘To start with,’ I said, ‘I see that the notice on your door says Minister of Injustice rather than Minister of Justice.’

          ‘That a legacy from the previous MMD minister,’ he explained. ‘Terrible fellow! Mad as a hatter! I’ve been so busy bringing justice to the entire country that I quite forgot about my own door. But if you’re just doing a national door inspection, perhaps you’d like to move on to the next door and leave me to do my work.’

          ‘There’s just one question I wanted to ask,’ I said. ‘I’ve been wondering about your strategy of increasing your parliamentary majority by giving ministerial jobs to opposition MPs, and causing by-elections.’

          ‘Then you can stop wondering,’ said Blinker. ‘We are building an all inclusive government for national development.’

          ‘Half a minute,’ I said. ‘You invited the notorious Violence Kaponya to be a minister, and now he’s standing for your Paya Farmer party in the Katali by-election. Do you really want Violence in your party?’

          ‘He sat back in his chair, leaning his head towards the rows of law books on the shelves behind him. They looked all very new, as if they’d never been touched. ‘What’s your point?’ he sneered. ‘We got him from the Multi-Murder Disaster party. They’re all violent!’

          ‘My point is,’ I said, ‘the Paya Farmer party is supposed to be opposed to Violence, but now you’ve invited him in.’

          ‘How little you understand politics, Kalaki,’ he laughed. ‘When we were in opposition we were accused of being violent, just as you now accuse the Honorable Kaponya of being violent. This is the nature of politics. Just as politics is partisan, so political violence is also partisan. Violence Kaponya was only violent because he was in the opposition. You’re entirely correct that we are against Violence in the opposition, and that is precisely why we invited him to join the government in order to make Violence legitimate.’

          ‘Violence is legitimate in government?’

          ‘Don’t you understand anything, Kalaki? The police and army use violence to maintain law and order. It is legitimate violence. It is the firm smack of authority. Therefore, once you’re in government, violence becomes legitimate force.’

          ‘I’m so pleased,’ I said, ‘that you have this marvelous project of turning the notorious Violence Kaponya into a useful citizen. But can he really win on the PF ticket? You see, since the voters previously elected him as their MMD candidate, now they see him as a traitor who has deserted them because of being bribed. So how can they be expected to vote for him? They won’t! They despise him!’

          ‘We shall make clear to them that if they don’t vote for him then they will get no development, no farmers’ inputs, no relief food. They will starve to death!’

          ‘But doesn’t the government have a responsibility to look after its people?’

          ‘Of course, but only if the people also show responsibility by voting for the government of the day. Otherwise we shall have no option except to treat them as enemies of the state.’

          ‘But then people might vote for the opposition in the hope of better treatment!’

          ‘Ha ha,’ cackled Kapimbe, ‘That won’t work! Any time any of them wins, we shall appeal and the result will be annulled because of corruption!’

          ‘But even PF candidates can have also their seats annulled because of corruption!’

          ‘Oh no they can’t!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got that one worked out! We’re the ruling party! If the opposition gives gifts it’s automatically corruption! But the government doesn’t give gifts, it gives legitimate benefits such as food relief, new schools and roads. We provide government services! That’s not corrupton! It’s the benefit of incumbency! It’s legal!’

          ‘Is that what the law says?’

          ‘That’s why we need to control the judiciary! What do you think my job is? I just write the judgment and give it to the judge! The judge gives it to the Electoral Commission! The Commission gives it to the opposition candidates! All suspended! Ah haaah!’ he screamed suddenly like a madman. ‘We must have sanity!’

          ‘Will the judges agree?’

          ‘We’ve given them most agreeable contracts! And they’re all old and senile and know they’d be unemployable anywhere else! They understand that violence comes from the opposition, and that we in government use legitimate force. They understand that corruption comes from the opposition, and we distribute legitimate benefits.’

          ‘But aren’t you the very one who accused the previous government of corruption?’

          ‘Yes, but we shall soon be eliminating any chance of any such charges against us!’

          ‘How will you do that?’ I wondered.

          ‘Ha ha!’ he squealed like a demented rat. ‘We shall be changing the constitution to eliminate the possibility!’

          ‘But how will you do that?’

          ‘Kalaki, can’t you understand anything? We are buying, er, I mean looking for opposition MPs to work with us to unify the nation, so that we can change the constitution.’ He stood to attention and saluted the little flag sitting on his bookshelf. ‘After that there will be only one party! One nation! One fatherland! One people! One blood! One destiny! One leader! Ha ha!’ he squealed, ‘We have worked it all out!’

          ‘We?’ I wondered. ‘Who is we?’

          ‘Me!’ he screamed. ‘I am the new leader!’

          Whereupon he started marching up and down his office, saluting the flag, with feet kicking high in an energetic goose-step. He was now in a mindless nationalistic frenzy.

          I crept out of the office, closing the door quietly behind me. ‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ I muttered to myself, ‘I’d rather have GBM.’