Buried Treasure

Buried Treasure

‘Grandpa,’ said Thoko, ‘My teacher is always talking about Judgment Day. She says on Judgment Day we shall all have to answer for our sins. But when is Judgment Day? Is it coming soon?’

‘Judgment Day,’ I explained, ‘comes every five years. In a Christian Nation, it’s the name we give to Election Day. That’s the day when we all make a judgment on the sins of government, and decide whether to throw them out.’

‘My teacher didn’t say anything about elections,’ objected Thoko. ‘She says that it’s the day when all the graves have to be opened.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘I was coming to that. You see, bad governments bury all their sins and mistakes in the ground. So the first job of the new government is to find all these graves and open them up, so that the sins of the previous government can be revealed and investigated.’

‘Huh,’ laughed Thoko. ‘You’re just making up one of your stories. When I was a little girl I used to believe all your stories!’

‘You don’t believe your own Granpa!’ I exclaimed, as I picked up a copy ofThe Boast. ‘Look at the front page! Two billion in fifty pin notes, dug up on a farm of former minister Mr Awful Litako!’

‘Good gracious,’ said Thoko, as she picked up the paper. ‘The money was even found in a coffin, down in a grave, with concrete poured on top! What on Earth was he doing? Why bury money? Had he stolen it? Is he a witch?’

‘Nobody knows,’ I replied. ‘Some people say that he believes that money grows on trees, so he planted all this money to grow an orchard of money trees. It was seed money for his development programme!’

‘Silly man,’ laughed Thoko. ‘Seeds can’t germinate inside a coffin!’

‘But he doesn’t know that!’ I laughed. ‘He’s not an educated person like you. He never completed his Grade Seven.’

‘So what else has been dug up?’

‘Graves are being found over the country. Huge graves full of bicycles and motorbikes!’

‘But why bury bicycles?’

‘Some people say that the sinners planned to flee to Malawi before their sins were discovered.

‘Have any other sins been dug up?’

‘Lots of them. The entire Task Force, which is supposed to look for suspicious graves, was found dead and buried.’

‘Wasn’t that against the Constitution?’

‘The Constitution?’ I laughed. ‘The New Constitution was also murdered and buried. The coffin was lowered into a very deep grave and covered with twenty metres of concrete. On top was built a heavy marble mausoleum, which was so large and magnificent that it took eight years to build and cost over seven hundred billion. On it was carved the words Freedom and Justice For All.’

‘And did the former president know about all this?’

‘According to what they have dug up, he never was the president!’

‘What? Has he been dug up? When did he die? Did they find somebody else in the grave?’

‘He’s still alive, so instead they dug up his parents from their grave. And the parents admitted that they were foreigners!’

‘Now I really don’t believe you,’ laughed Thoko. ‘How could dead people have talked?’

‘The police have their methods,’ I replied grimly.

‘But how were all these dirty secrets buried for years without anybody knowing?’

‘The government bought a hundred black hearses from the Chinese government,’ I explained. ‘They would move around at the dead of night, supervised by the deadly Red-Lipped Snake.’

‘So now all of these graves have to be dug up?’

‘Exactly. There are probably thousands of them, and it’s the job of the new PF government to dig up all of them. PF means Pathology and Forensics. All government departments are now fully occupied with digging up the buried treasure, exposing the dirty secrets, re-discovering the judiciary, and investigating and prosecuting the culprits.’

‘But is the entire government supposed to be occupied with all this digging?’ wondered Thoko.

‘Of course. That’s what we elected them to do. That’s what Judgment Day is all about. The whole nation is waiting for the court cases. In the absence of any proper TV station, it’s our only form of public entertainment.’

‘But they can’t be doing this for five years!’ exclaimed Thoko. ‘What about all their election promises?’

‘Once all the exhumations have finished, they have to begin the burials.’

‘Don’t you mean re-burials?’ Thoko wondered.

‘Quite a few re-burials,’ I admitted. ‘Having exhumed the New Constitution, it will have to be re-buried. In fact the Constitution Re-Burial Committee has already been appointed, complete with three bishops to arrange the funeral. Similarly the Barotseland Agreement, having been dug up, and caused a great stink, now has to be quickly re-buried.’

‘But also some new burials?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We already need burials for Windfall Tax, Minimum Wage, Gender Equality and Free Schooling. Even as we speak, the Government Printer is busy producing the funeral notices.’

‘What about More Money in our Pockets?’

‘That has already been buried at somebody’s farm. The next government will have to find out where.’

‘And while the government is busy with all this digging and burying,’ said Thoko sadly, ‘the Chinese continue to dig up our copper free of charge, and bury it in China.’

‘We shall get it all back one day,’ I said.

‘When?’ she asked.

‘On the Final Judgment Day,’ I replied.

…Eating the Money…

Sexual Politics

Sexual Politics

As we turned on the TV, there was Mampi belting out our favourite number, Swilili. ‘ZNBC is improving,’ laughed Sara, ‘usually they give us only Tujilijili.’

But our enthusiasm was short lived, as the MC came onto the stage dressed in a hideous blue chitenge shirt, grabbed the microphone and shouted ‘Here at last is the woman you’ve all be waiting for, Dollar Tujilijili!’

The crowd jeered and booed as out onto the stage staggered a bulbous hippopotamus of a woman, wrapped in a huge blue chitenge which was knotted above her huge swinging breasts. The crowd groaned as she menacingly pointed one finger at them and shouted Your hour has come!’ They shook their fists at her, shouting Donchi kubeba!

‘Why don’t they leave, instead of waiting to be insulted?’ I wondered.

‘They’re hoping Mampi will come back,’ laughed Sara.

‘You starving illiterate peasants!’ screamed Dollar, still pointing her finger at the crowd, ‘You will never get any development here until you join RB, the Royal Bedroom!’

‘Give us our chitenge,’ they shouted back, ‘we’re ready to go home!’

In reply she did a little dance, swinging round to show them her vast rump, decorated with a huge RB, around which was written Royal Bottom.

‘That looks like a rumbustious rump!’ I declared.

‘You Nsenga men,’ taunted Dollar, ‘Come and fondle my lovely bums! Let’s see what you are capable of!’

But the men fell backwards, as if repelled by this moving mountain of pulsating flesh. ‘Ha ha, you useless men, you can’t do anything!’ she cackled.

‘I thought these Nsenga men appreciated a dancing derriere,’ I laughed.

‘A fully mature female Nsenga bum is reckoned to have 134 muscles, and is capable of dancing to 24 different tunes simultaneously,’ Sara explained. ‘But Dollar has an uneducated Ngoni bum which is over-matured, over-weight and over-used. It has become flaccid and droopy, and quite out of control.’

‘Doesn’t Dollar know this?’

‘Of course not,’ laughed Sara.

‘Why not?’ I wondered.

‘She’s drunk,’ said Sara.

‘The only way to become prosperous is to touch the Royal Bottom!’ declared Dollar. ‘Only by voting for the Movement for Moral Decay can you enter the Royal Bedroom, and join the ruling class in the endless pleasure of feasting, merrymaking and fornication.’

‘Sounds like a good deal,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ll vote for them.’

‘Shut up and listen,’ said Sara. ‘This is something new. It sounds like the MMD has at last developed vision and strategy.’

‘The only way Eastern Province can take over the whole country is by strategic fornication,’ Dollar declared, as she caressed her own bums lovingly, having failed to find anybody to assist her in this fairly innocent sexual pleasure. ‘We women must go out there and seduce men from other provinces. As their families have to adopt our muchigololo, so we easterners shall infiltrate their families, and the Royal Bottom of Nsengaland will begin to waggle throughout the Land of Zed.’

‘And you men must go out and impregnate the wives and daughters of foreign tribes, so that we infiltrate their families with our Royal Bottoms, and unity in the east will become the unity of the nation. But you dried up men are too lazy and impotent to join the Men for Massive Deflowering. Even my own miserable husband, when he looked at my vast beauty, the poor man would just collapse and shrivel to nothing!’

‘He was scared of suffocating between her huge breasts,’ laughed Sara.

‘Or having his bits bitten by her barbaric bottom,’ I suggested.

‘That is why our beloved Father of the Nation is working every day at his duty of fathering the nation, because you dried-up men do not have the courage to rise to the occasion. If you do not give him some assistance, he may have to send out the Red-Lipped Snake to sneak under blankets and deliver the royal donation!’

At this the women screamed and began to flee, but Tujilijili went on regardless. ‘Let me now see if you men are ready to join the Royal Bedroom, and deliver the royal donation. Let me see if you can be aroused!’

So saying she undid the knot on her chitenge wrapper and cast it aside, revealing all. But instead of rushing forward to fondle her many dangling extremities and attributes, the men all screamed and ran off into the bush.

She stood there naked, shouting ‘Am I not beautiful? Are you all homosexual?’

But there was nobody left to answer. Even the camera crew must have fled, because at this point the screen went blank.

‘Their election strategy is hopelessly and laughably counterproductive,’ I cackled. ‘All the voters are completely repelled, and have fled into the arms of Cycle Mata.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Sara, ‘Dollar has a very shrewd strategy which will prove most effective.’

‘How do you work that one out?’ I sneered.

‘It’s quite simple,’ said Sara calmly. ‘By the end of September, all of these jokers will have been arrested and charged with corruption and abuse of office!’

‘So?’

‘Dollar will plead not guilty by reason of insanity!’

‘Marvellous!’ I laughed. ‘An unarguable defence! She has already proved her case! Another nolle prosequi!’

The Blue Chitenge

The Blue Chitenge

‘Where in this land are the people who really love their Great King Nyamasoya?’ the king roared to his indunas, as he pointed to a large map of Zed hanging on the palace wall.

Then a wizened little induna, the Minister for Corruption and Coercion, stepped forward with a pot of paint and a brush, and daubed one or two blue spots on the vast canvas of the Land of Zed. ‘Here Oh Mighty King!’ he declared, ‘we have full control of the markets and bus stations!’

‘Did they have buses in those days?’ asked Thoko suspiciously.

‘Our word bus comes from the old Aramaic word borse, meaning a horse,’ I declared. ‘Just try not to interrupt the story…’

‘Am I the King of Markets and Bus Stations?’ roared the king, ‘Or am I the king of All Zed?’

‘You are King of All Zed, Oh Mighty Excellency,’ chanted his faithful indunas, as they groveled before the king, competing with each other to lick his filthy fat festering feet.

‘Then I demand that all of Zed must love me and obey me!’ declared the king. ‘The entire Land of Zed must be painted blue!’

‘Why blue?’ wondered Kondwa. ‘Why not red or green?’

‘Kings have blue blood,’ I explained. ‘Ordinary mortals have red blood, warm and sweet. But kings and queens have blue blood, cold and acidic.’

And God looked down at these kings and queens, and saw the wickedness that was upon the Earth, and he was sorely troubled. So the Lord now looked down upon one who had found favour in his eyes, his faithful servant Cycle Mata. And the Lord spoke unto Cycle Mata, saying unto him that there will be a great flood upon this Earth for forty days and forty nights. And the Lord commanded him to make a great pabwato out of mukwa, that could rise above the flood, and rescue his people.

Then, as was quite usual in those biblical days, the Lord’s prophecy began to come true the very next day. The king made a great declaration, saying ‘I shall cover this land with a great flood of blue chitenge, with my own face upon it. And all my people will lie beneath the blue chitenge, and my army and police march on top! Then my people will look up at my face and love their king! But anybody who protests will feel my weight!’

And so it came to pass that the king took all the tax money that he had collected from his long suffering people, and bought enough blue chitenge to cover the entire land. Then he ordered all the people to lie under this great national blanket of blue chitenge.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Thoko, ‘Cycle Mata was already building his Great Pabwato.’

‘Shush,’ whispered Kondwa, ‘Don’t kubeba!’

Then one day an old fat induna came running to the king, saying ‘The people say they want medicines and food, and are complaining to the judges that all this expenditure on blue chitenge is corruption.’

Then the king rose in a fury, saying ‘Anybody who complains must have his mouth stuffed with blue chitenge! And the judges must lower the national flag over the Supreme Court, and instead raise the blue chitenge!’ Then turning to the old fat induna he shouted ‘And you were employed to take the king’s voice to the people, not to take the people’s voice to the king! So you’re fired!’

But the king never worried about affairs of state for very long, and the next day found him and his foul fat friends consuming a huge feast of T-bone steak, washing it all down with many buckets of beer. Suddenly another frightened little induna came running into the palace crying ‘Oh Your Great Beer Swilling Excellency, your loyal subjects are respectfully complaining that they don’t like the boots of the Royal Thugs marching all over them, and they are threatening to kick back!’

Now of course the king was mighty annoyed that the sanctity of a royal feast had been so rudely interrupted, and he roared angrily ‘Ours is a peaceful nation and I have always been against violence. But if these malcontents are threatening violence then I have no option except to crush them!’

But as the police guns advanced on the people, to loyally protect the nation from the malcontents who did not love the king, the word went round that Cycle Mata had finally completed his Great Pabwato. So now, with one great cheer, the people all ran out from under the oppressive blue chitenge which had rained down on them for forty days and forty nights, and a great flood of people now lifted the Pabwato up and away, up to the top of Mount Munali.

‘So what happened to all the blue chitenge?’ wondered Thoko.

The flood of blue chitenge just ran away, down the hills and into the valleys, to form the rivers and lakes of the Land of Zed. Even to this day, when you look at the map of the Land of Zed, you will see that all the land is painted green, but all the rivers and lakes are painted blue.

‘So Cycle Mata became king,’ said Kondwa. ‘Did democracy now come to the Land of Zed?’

‘Good gracious no,’ I laughed. ‘That didn’t happen until hundreds of years later.’

Election Victory

Election Victory

It was a lovely warm Wednesday evening in September, and Cycle Mata was due to be sworn in the following morning. So I decided to join in the celebrations at my favourite watering hole in Chainda, the Just One More.

‘Hi Kalaki!’ said a few voices as I stepped inside. ‘How did you vote?’

‘I voted for Donchi Kubeba,’ I laughed, ‘at three different polling stations.’

‘Ha ha!’ they all hooted, raising their glasses. ‘Come and join us!’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for somebody.’ I had already spotted my young friend Oxford Sishuwa sitting at the end of the bar. ‘Sishuwa Sishuwa Sishuwa!’ I exclaimed, as I gave him a high five, ‘You were right after all! How did he do it? What’s the opinion from Oxford?’

‘A double Lavelle for Kalaki,’ Sishuwa called to the barman, ‘and a dry sherry for me!’

‘Hah!’ I cackled, ‘you never find dry sherry here!’

‘He keeps a bottle for me under the counter,’ explained Oxford, as the barman poured the drinks.

‘A little bit of Oxford right in the middle of Chainda!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s right,’ he chuckled. ‘Now that Nyamasoya is gone, the good times are back! Away with chibuku and tujilijili! We shall all be drinking Mosi Gold with whisky chasers!’

‘You never answered my question,’ I said. ‘How did he do it?’

‘Try to be more precise, Kalaki. How did who do what?’

‘How did Cycle Mata win?’

‘That’s the wrong question?’

‘What? He won, didn’t he?’

‘No,’ said Sishuwa calmly. ‘It was Nyamasoya who lost. Cycle Mata was just the accidental recipient. Cycle Mata didn’t do anything except go round the country making strange hiccupping noises into the microphone. Nobody understood what he was trying to say, so he didn’t annoy anybody.’

‘But when they cheered, he cheered!’

‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘And when they snarled, he snarled. He was very reflective of the mood of the people. People saw themselves in him. If he had said anything definite, he could easily have annoyed them.’

‘And Nyamasoya managed to annoy them?’

‘Shot himself in the foot,’ declared Sishuwa, as he took a delicate sip of his sherry.

‘By insulting Cycle Mata?’ I suggested

‘He gives as good as he gets,’ laughed Sishuwa.

‘By destroying the new constitution?’

‘A constitution can’t collect votes!’

‘He annoyed them by trying to bribe them to vote for him! All that sugar and mealie-meal, corrupting the youth with tujilijili, chitenges for everybody!’

‘What a puritan you are, Kalaki,’ laughed Sishuwa. ‘You can’t annoy people with bribes! They love them! Chitenge everywhere! In the end everybody had chitenge dresses, chitenge shirts and chitenge suits, chitenge curtains and chitenge bedding. Cycle Mata told them to enjoy it all, and even dressed his own dog in blue chitenge!’

‘So what was the problem? Why did Nyamasoya lose?’

Sishuwa pointed to a very thin old man, sitting by himself in a dark corner, sipping a glass of water. ‘Go and ask him. He knows. He’ll tell you.’

We both walked over to this fellow. ‘Tinkaleko pansi, mdala?’ I said.

‘Feel free,’ he replied graciously, raising his bony hand in the direction of two chairs.

‘We were just wondering, mdala,’ I began, as we sat down, ‘why, would you say, that Nyamasoya lost?’

‘He lost because of all the lies,’ he replied. ‘Twenty years of lies. We ask for higher wages, there was no money. We wanted medicines in hospital, there was no money. School books, no money. We were reduced to complete starvation, but still there was no money.’

I looked at the old man, wearing an old tattered trilby hat and threadbare suit. Terribly thin, just skin and bone. His eyes were sunken.

‘How they lied,’ his dry voice rattled. ‘They had the money all the time, the Movement for Multi Deception, fat and rich. When they want our vote, suddenly there is money everywhere. Billions of it! Trillions of it!’

‘What about you, mdala, how did you survive?’

‘Survive? Survive? How could I survive? Thirty years I paid in for a pension, but when I asked for it, there was nothing. My wife, she died in childbirth. My daughter, gone to prostitution. My son, went mad and long since gone. Grandchildren, dead from malnutrition. Me, I was once an Assistant Secretary in the Ministry of Agriculture. Now I’m a dead man walking.’

‘You voted against them?’

‘We all rose up against them! We are the ghost voters! Two million of us! We kept our voters cards. We all came back to vote.’ I looked into his eyes, there was nothing there. As he rose to go, I saw the green mildew on his ragged suit. I saw the white bone of his ankle as he walked out through the door, out into the night, in the direction of Leopards Hill.

‘Christ Almighty!’ I said, as a shiver went down my spine. ‘I need another brandy!’

‘I was more right than I realized,’ said Sishuwa, as we reached the bar. ‘We were saved by our ancestors!’

‘I thought we’re supposed to be a Christian country!’

‘We are,’ he said, as the glass shook in his hand, ‘and yesterday was Judgment Day.’

In the Dark

In the Dark

Yesterday afternoon I was at the Downtown Shopping Mall with Kupela, who was looking for a car at Japan.Salaula.Com. ‘I’ll find you back here,’ I said, ‘I need a drink.’

Going down the corridor, I came to a row of windows all painted over in gothic letters saying In the Dark. I pushed on an elaborate chromium handle, and in I went. Sure enough, I was completely in the dark.

I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust, I finally made out the shape of a chair, and sat down. I could just see that I was sitting at a black table in a large black room. A row of white teeth suddenly appeared in front of me.

He put out his hand to shake mine, and then spoke authoritatively into the darkness, ‘Bring a double brandy for Spectator Kalaki!’

‘You know my name?’ I asked, more than a little surprised.

‘You may be in the dark,’ he laughed gruffly. ‘But I’m not.’

Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a few pencil beams of green laser light, just enough to reveal a thin bony man with black suit and black shirt and black tie. He had a thin face, shaped like a hatchet.

‘I seem to recognize the face,’ I said.

‘Whiplash Bandit,’ he replied, ‘I’m the Protector General.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said hopefully. ‘What do you protect?’

‘I thought you knew these things, Kalaki. I protect the rich from the poor, the powerful from the weak, and leaders from the led.’

‘Ah ha,’ I said, ‘Now I recognize you. You work for the MMD!’

‘Not the Movement for Marketing Dictatorship,’ he replied. ‘The Militia for Modifying Dissidents.’

Just then the drinks arrived, as if from nowhere, and an invisible voice announced ‘A lemon juice for Mr Bandit and a double brandy for Mr Kalaki.’ Then a swinging laser beams briefly illuminated the owner of the voice, an angel carved out of pure black ebony with black hair and wearing a black apron. ‘Thanks,’ I said, then watched transfixed as her beautiful blackness swayed rhythmically away into the blackness.

‘As far as I can make out,’ I said, as I gulped down the entire brandy, ‘she’s not wearing anything except that little black velvet apron.’

‘She’s one of the Nude Nubile Nubians from Nubia,’ he smiled, revealing a gold tooth. ‘They fetch a good price down in Hillbrow. Here in Lusaka, we’re on the main trade route.’

‘What about human rights?’

‘Exactly,’ he snarled. ‘We don’t want human rights interfering with good business. That’s why we must vote for the MMD.’

‘Half a minute,’ I said, ‘I thought you said your MMD is not anything to do with the MMD?’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘The Militia for Modifying Dissidents is a business organization, set up by the Godfather of the Nation, to protect big business from any unnecessary change in the political system.’

‘So you are working for the Movement for Marketing Dictatorship!’

‘Big business is non-political,’ explained Bandit. ‘We’re not interested in one party or the other. We work at modifying dissidents because we want stability. We’re naturally conservative. Big business just doesn’t like change.’

‘Why not?’

‘Take the present system of corruption. If the government changes, how shall a businessman know which one to bribe? How much to pay? He could easily get arrested for bribing the wrong person! His business could collapse!’

‘Better not to bribe!’

‘Bribery is only part of it. We have a system for avoiding tax. Half the copper on the black market. All the emeralds under the radar. Pay ten percent and you can do anything. That’s why the economy is developing, because we business people are accumulating capital rapidly!’

‘And it could all change?’

‘Exactly. We could get some nutter voted in by promising to collect all the surplus money as taxes and using it to pay the poor and starving! Or putting up wages so we can’t employ anybody! Or wasting money on the dying! The whole nation could be destitute within ninety days!’

‘You have to save the nation!’

‘Exactly. These dissidents are obviously trying to use this election to undermine the government! Treason! They even admit that they oppose the legitimate government of the day! We must stop them!’

‘Kill them?’

‘Oh no, we’re opposed to violence. We just buy their voters cards, give them sugar and mealie-meal. Bicycles and chitenges. Beer and roast beef! We’re a benevolent organization, just like the Rotary Club.’

‘No violence at all?’

‘Never. Not unless they insult our Godfather, then we shall come down on them heavily. If they talk too much, we shall cut out their tongues. And of course if they raise their fists in the air, we shall have no option but to shoot!’

‘Protect the government from being overthrown!’

‘Exactly! Protect the nation! Instill discipline! Maintain the rule of law! The police will help us! They’re on our side!’

‘Thanks for the chat,’ I said, as I made for the door. ‘I’ve got enough for this week’s article!’

‘Feel free,’ he sneered. ‘Nobody believes a word you say!’

I walked out from the dark, into the bright light of day, to find Kupela laughing with her friend Lorraine. ‘Everything may seem happy and marvelous to you!’ I exclaimed, ‘but I just found something very dark and dangerous!’

‘Poor old bally,’ laughed Kupela. ‘It’s all in your mind!’

An Honorary Doctorate

An Honorary Doctorate

It was Saturday night, and Sara and I were watching the new play at the Lusaka Playhouse, The Honorary Doctorate by Dickson Mwansa.

The curtain opened on the scene of a graduation ceremony on a university lawn. Onto the rostrum stepped the Vice-Chancellor, all dressed up in garish gown and mortar board. He was trying to look serious and intellectual, despite his ridiculous attire. Behind him were rows of similarly expensive gowns, all sitting on cheap plastic chairs. In the middle sat the King, sprawled on an enormous velvet sofa.

‘And now,’ began the Vice-Chancellor, ‘it is the honour and privilege of this Sorcery Development Academy to award an Honorary Doctorate in Political Sorcery to our Beloved Leader, His Excellency King Bwaume Nyamasoya, whom I humbly thank for gracing us with his distinguished presence this afternoon.’

‘It is now my pleasant duty,’ continued the Vice-Chancellor, ‘to call upon the Public Orator, Dr Buloshi Bupulumushi, Professor of Witchcraft and Juju, to deliver the Oration in praise of our Great Leader.’

‘Unusual name,’ I sniggered.

‘He was fired from Makerere,’ whispered Sara, ‘for exchanging grades for sexual favours.’

‘It wasn’t like that in my day,’ I sighed, ‘otherwise I could have had a distinction.’

As we were whispering, the play was progressing…

The shriveled little figure of Bupulumushi now crept up to the microphone. ‘It is our pleasure,’ began Bupulumushi, ‘to welcome here today this Great Son of Africa, who has done so much to improve this country. When our Beloved Nyamasoya ascended to the throne, this country was sorely divided. He found a country where parliament was independent of the King, and even refusing to approve funds for royal banquets. But with a little bit of juju our new King soon reduced the Speaker to a kadoli, and put him in his back pocket.

‘Even the Chief Justice had developed the arrogance of deciding who to punish, pretending not to realize that this was the prerogative of the king. But our wise new King cleverly re-arranged a few bones in the graveyard, cast a devastating spell, and now the Chief Justice is just another kadoli in the back pocket of the King. At last this country was being unified by a King who was able to marshall the authority of our ancestral spirits.’

‘One Zambia!’ Sara hissed.

‘One Nation!’ I replied automatically.

‘With some special muti in his supu, the Minister of Finance was soon turned into the house servant of the King, and the National Treasury was returned to its traditional place in the King’s wallet. By putting the hair of a dog under his mattress, the Chief of Police was turned into the King’s personal guard dog, with special duties to seek out the enemies of the King.

‘So this is why we honour our Great King today, for turning Political Science into Political Sorcery. This Great Son of Africa recognized that our entire Constitution was just a colonial legacy. That was why our new King devised public incantations to call upon the ancestors to uncage the Red-Lipped Snake, so that this odious reptile could be sent to poison the Colonial Constitution, and thereby return all moral oversight to our hitherto forgotten ancestors, now at last restored to their rightful place.

‘That is why all the foreign universities have refused to honour our Heroic King with any doctorate, because these foreigners were the very ones who usurped our ancestors and traduced our sacred traditions, which our own Great Leader has now restored.

‘And so today we take it upon ourselves to honour our own King, and also to humbly thank him for the grant of five hundred billion to build the Nyamasoya Memorial Hall to commemorate the momentous event that we are witnessing here today. So saying, I call upon the Vice-Chancellor to confer upon our King the Honorary Doctorate of Political Sorcery.’

‘Hurray!’ we all cheered and laughed.

‘Don’t laugh!’ Sara hissed. ‘This could actually happen!’

Now both the Vice-Chancellor and the King came forward to the rostrum, as the Vice-Chancellor unwrapped a huge gown made of many mealie-meal sacks and placed it around the King’s shoulders. Then he took another sack and tied it on the King’s head with a lovely tassel. Then he took a bucket of mealie-meal and emptied it over the King’s head.

‘Ul-lu-lu-lu-lu-lu!’ came the ululations from all around the theatre.

‘Is this serious or are we supposed to laugh?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘With these rituals,’ said Sara, ‘it’s difficult to know. Just watch the others.’

‘And now,’ said the Vice Chancellor, ‘I call upon our new Honorary Doctor to say a few words.’

The hideous flour bag now approached the microphone. ‘The last obstacle to national unity is the coming election. In order to achieve a peaceful election, I call upon the spirits to help us in our campaign to eliminate the opposition!’

As he spoke there was a chant of ‘Left Right Left Right’ from the wings, then onto the stage came a platoon of ragged bakaponya, each with a machete in one hand and a carton of chibuku in the other. As the King’s Task Force marched out into the night, a huge fat cow walked rather unsteadily onto the stage.’

‘What huge udders!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s Dora Tujilijili!’ said Sara, ‘She’s leading the election campaign!’

‘Let the campaign begin!’ shouted the Honorary Doctor. ‘Let the ancestors lead us to victory!’ As he spoke he mounted the great fat cow, which then lumbered across the stage, and disappeared into the wings.

The Vice-Chancellor opened his mouth to say something, but his words were drowned out by the sound of a huge crash, followed by a long sad ‘Mooooooo’.

How we all clapped and cheered! ‘Hurray! More! Praise the ancestors! Encore!’

‘I don’t think he’s going to go very far!’ laughed Sara.

‘Of course not!’ I shouted. ‘But it’s going to be fun to watch!’

__________________________

[Written with a bit of help from Kupela Clarke]

Juju

Juju

‘Once upon a time, a long time ago,’ I began, ‘there was a beautiful young woman called Zambia. She was so beautiful that Chief Nyama Soya wanted Zambia all for himself…’

‘But did she love him?’ asked Nawiti.

‘That was the problem,’ I said. ‘Zambia was in love with a mere villager called Cycle Mata.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘So the Chief wasn’t pleased!’

‘Not at all. He kept saying I am the Chief and you must respect the government of the day and give me Zambia!’

‘But did Nyama Soya really love Zambia?’

‘Oh yes. But the problem was that Zambia didn’t love him.’

‘But why did she love Cycle Mata, was he young and handsome?’

‘That was the funny thing. He was old, with rather a battered face. But he had a marvelous sense of humour and could tell the most amusing stories.

‘Better than yours, Grandpa?’

‘Even better than mine,’ I replied.

‘No wonder she loved him,’ said Nawiti, giving me a little hug. ‘But even so, she must have liked the idea of being the wife of the Chief. Couldn’t Nyama Soya win her love?’

‘That was the problem,’ I explained. ‘He went about it the wrong way. He would send her presents which, instead of pleasing her, caused offence.’

‘Such as what?’

‘He sent her a big blue chitenge with his face printed all over it, so that Zambia was heard squealing He thinks he can put his big fat face on my bottom. This caused the entire village to burst out laughing. Next he sent her a huge brown envelope full of money, causing Zambia to protest Does he think I can be bought like a hule? Then he sent her a beautiful emerald necklace, which caused the entire village to shout with annoyance How is the chief so rich when we are living in poverty? He bought these things with our money!

‘So Zambia asked Cycle Mata if she should send back these gifts. But he replied Just keep them. But don’t kubeba. When the time comes to choose a husband, choose the one who will look after you forever, not the one who tries to buy you.’

‘So what did Nyama Soya try next?’

‘Nyamasoya said that he would build a road all the way from his palace to the village of the beautiful Zambia, so that he could travel all the way down the road to propose marriage. But the people sneered, saying All these years he has never built a road, but now he wants to win Zambia for himself, suddenly he can build a road!

‘Again his plans backfired!’ said Nawiti.

‘Very much so,’ I said.

‘So what did he try next?’

‘Next was even more foolish. He started a rumour that Cycle Mata had never kissed a woman and that he only kissed other men.

‘So Zambia was annoyed?’

‘Since Zambia was in love with Cycle Mata, she was the very one who knew that this was a lie. And some people were even saying that this Chief is misbehaving, and maybe we should instead put Cycle Mata as our Chief.’

‘So after that,’ said Nawiti, ‘Nyama Soya had no hope of winning the hand of Zambia!’

‘Of course not,’ I laughed. ‘But he didn’t realize that, because he wasn’t very bright.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti. ‘What did he do next?’

‘He was now getting desperate, so he turned to juju. He went to the ng’anga and asked for special muti which would make Zambia love him.’

‘And did the ng’anga give him the special muti?’

‘Not exactly. But he told him where to find it. The ng’anga told him to go into the forest and find a lion. Then he should pull a hair from its tail and bring the hair to the ng’anga.’

‘And did he manage, or did the lion kill him?’

‘Nyama Soya may not have been very bright, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He came back to the ng’anga with a hair from the tail of a hairy dog, claiming that he pulled it from a lion. And the ng’anga laid out the hair on a piece of paper and added some dried lizard powder, followed by a generous portion of chamba, and finally rolled the mixture into a long cigarette. After that he waved some old bones over it, and muttered some strange incantations in frightening gibberish. Then he turned to Nyama Soya and said Smoke this on the night of the next full moon and you will become young and handsome again, and your breath will smell so intoxicating that the beautiful Zambia will just fall into your arms.’

‘And did he become handsome?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ I said sadly. ‘Instead the rolls of fat on the back of his neck began to spread, until they completely covered his face, so that his appearance caused small children to run screaming to their mothers.’

‘And did his sweet breath attract the beautiful Zambia?’

‘His breath was so foul that the people had to chase him out of the chiefdom in order to get a breath of fresh air!’

‘And did Zambia marry her beloved Cycle Mata?’

‘Of course. The Chief Justice joined them together the very next day.’

‘And was Cycle Mata made Chief?’

‘No. Zambia became Chief, and Cycle Mata was made her Faithful Servant.’

‘And did they live happily ever after?’

‘That,’ I replied, ‘is another story.’

The Memorial Service

The Memorial Service

It was Friday August 25^th 2012, and Sara and I were attending the Memorial Service for Nyamasoyaurus, the last of the Mad Mighty Dinosaurs, who had dropped dead the day after the election, exactly one year earlier.

‘We are gathered here today,’ intoned the priest, ‘to honour the memory and life of Nyamasoyaurus, the Great Dinosaur who managed to get rid of the dreaded MMD that had been ravaging this country for the previous twenty years.’

I looked round the church, which was packed, with people even standing in the aisles. The front three rows were filled with Nyamasoyaurus’s many widows and former mistresses, all dressed in somber black, except of course for the Swazi girls, who sat there completely naked, according to their tradition.

‘As I look around this Cathedral of the Very Cross today,’ the priest continued, ‘I see a great multitude of people. Any yet, when I officiated at Nyamasoyaurus’s funeral only a year ago, this great cathedral stood empty, except for the six men from the undertakers who were employed to carry the coffin.

‘I remember looking around the empty church and asking the empty pews whether such a man, so despised and abandoned, could ever reach the Kingdom of Heaven. Seeking the answer to this question, I read from the Gospel according to John, Chapter 14 Verses 1-2, where Jesus advises Simon Peter on the difficulty of getting into heaven…

‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you so. I go to prepare a place for you.

‘Of course, we all thought at that time that Nyamasoyaurus was a sinner who would go to hell. But we now know that the Lord found a mansion for Nyamasoyaurus. Because the Lord knew, as we did not know, that Nyamasoyaurus sinned not for himself, but he sinned for us, that we might enter the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth.’

The huge congregation murmured in approval.

‘The Lord in his wisdom realized that Nyamasoyaurus’s chosen life work was to enable us to rid ourselves of the dreaded MMD. But he also knew the weakness of the people of the Land of Zed, who had been brought up to respect authority and to believe that their leaders were working for the people.

‘And the people were easily deceived, because the Dubious Kafupi and Monstrous Muwelewele always talked very fair about good governance, and did their sinning in secret.

‘And so Nyamasoyaurus conceived a great plan to save the people from their tormentors. Upon the untimely death of the Monstrous Muwelewele, Nyamasoyaurus stepped forward and declared that he was the only one to continue the legacy of the Great Departed, because he was the most ancient of the dinosaurs, and therefore the only one to lead the Mighty Mad Dinosaurs, the dreaded MMD.

‘And the new Great Leader Nyamasoyaurus continued to speak continually of good governance. But he dropped the policy of sinning in secret. Instead he openly instructed the judges to find the guilty innocent and the innocent guilty. He set up the palace as the contract centre for all public works, and took ten percent. He boasted that he was taxing the people to raise money to subsidise rich business men. He increased unemployment and reduced wages until people were destitute, while all the time boasting that their predicament would attract investors.

‘But very few people complained, and most continued as usual, saying the government must know what it is doing. So now he went further, borrowing vast amounts of money for huge hospitals which were left empty because there were no doctors or nurses, and building huge schools where there were no teachers, because he adamantly refused to pay them.

‘But his plans to destroy the reputation of the MMD did not work. People just said He means well, he’s just a bit stupid. Only a few people protested. So next he sent the police to shoot these few protesters. Now there was more discontent, but the results were still very disappointing.

‘Then, at last, the Church took an interest, and castigated the MMD for leaving the poor to starve to death. Now Nyamasoyaurus saw his big chance. He cursed the entire Church for plotting against the state, denouncing cardinals and bishops as Satanists, witches, homosexuals and perverts. He waged unrelenting war on Mother Church, swearing to kill her.

‘Now the people were really annoyed, for the Church had always protected them from parasitic leaders. They finally realized that the MMD was nothing more than a gang of criminals who had captured the state. So they threw them out at the next election, and elected St Michael as their next Great Leader.

‘Nyamasoyaurus died immediately afterwards. His great work was now complete. He died alone and unappreciated, for the people hadn’t realized that he died for them.

‘And now, to conclue this Memorial Service, we shall sing Hymn No.338, sung to the tune of The Church’s One Foundation.’

The congregation rose to their feet, and lifted the roof with this rousing hymn…

The Church’s one destruction

Was Nyamasoya Lord;

She must support election

By fire and by sword;

From hell he came and sought her

For his unholy bride,

With her own blood he killed her,

And for his life she died.

Mid strife of the election,

And tumult more like war,

She arose by resurrection

And faith for evermore;

With election victory glorious

St Michael proved the best,

And now the Church victorious

Is free like all the rest!

The Big Man Problem

The Big Man Problem

‘Grandpa,’ asked Thoko, ‘What’s the Big Man Problem? My Civics teacher says that we have the Big Man Problem.’

‘My mother,’ said Lindiwe, ‘says that all men are a problem. So I suppose the bigger the man the bigger the problem.’

As we were talking the waiter came to take the order. ‘We girls will have two fanta and two large slices of chocolate gateau,’ said Thoko, ‘and Grandpa will have a double brandy with ice.’

Then turning to me she said ‘Lindiwe and I will go and have a swim for half an hour, and that will give you time to think about the Big Man Problem, and to give the waiter time get the drinks.’

‘He won’t need half an hour,’ I protested.

‘Oh yes he will,’ laughed Thoko. ‘This is the Cresta Hotel and you are an old Grandpa. You’ll both need half an hour.’

Sure enough, when they came back from their swim the drinks and cake had just arrived. ‘OK Grandpa,’ said Thoko sternly, ‘you’ve had plenty of time to think about it, so what’s the answer?’

‘Once upon a time, a long time ago in the Land of Zed,’ I began, ‘the people chose a man called Munshumfwa to be their president.’

‘So what was his job as president?’ asked Lindiwe.

‘Have you forgotten your Civics,’ spluttered Thoko, as some fanta went up her nose. ‘A president has to look after his people, according to their demands, as expressed in the Councils and especially in Parliament.’

‘That’s where the problem began,’ I explained. ‘Before long Munshumfwa started to tell the Councils and Parliament what was best for the people.’

‘He got too big for his boots,’ said Lindiwe.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He began to think he was more important than everybody else. If he found them standing, he would say Only the President stands up, you all sit down and listen. But if he found them all sitting down, he would say How can you sit down, stand up for your President!’

‘In the end he was in charge of everything,’ suggested Thoko.

‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘Instead of him looking after the people, it was the people’s job to look after him. He became known as the Big Man, because he was the boss of everything. He appointed people to all the top positions, and if they didn’t obey his every word then he sacked them. Instead of parliament making the law, his word was law. He was supposed to serve the people, but they had to kneel before him. He was the Big Man.’

‘So they voted him out?’ suggested Thoko.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘They picked a tiny little bus conductor called Kafupi, who they thought was harmless and could never grow into a Big Man. But soon he began to wear very high heels, and after ten years he had become more dictatorial than Munshumfwa.’

‘So who did they choose next?’

‘To avoid a Big Man, they chose a Big Elephant called Muwelewele. This turned out worse, because an elephant has a terrible temper. When he got into a rage even his lackeys couldn’t understand what he was spluttering about, and sometimes he accidentally trod on them.’

‘So what next?’

‘To avoid a Big Man they chose a little pig.’

‘And did that work?’

‘Worse. He stole the people’s food and became very big indeed, and despite his huge belly he learnt to walk on two legs.’

‘He became a Big Man!’

‘And giving orders to everybody! With this one, even his lackeys couldn’t follow his orders because what came out of his mouth were fine words, but what came out of his rear end was foul gas. If the mouth said I shall abolish corruption, his rear said by banning the word. When the mouth said Freedom of speech, the rear end said provided you don’t criticize me. If the mouth said Freedom of assembly the rear end said with my permission. When the mouth said Free and fair elections the rear end said I shall count the votes myself.

‘Where are you going with all this?’ said Thoko irritably. ‘You’re supposed to be explaining the problem, but it seems to be getting more complicated.’

‘But what do you think?’ I asked. ‘Is there some simple underlying cause?’

‘The problem,’ said Thoko, ‘is that presidents keep turning into Big Men.’

‘No,’ said Lindiwe. ‘The problem is that the lackeys do as they are told instead of refusing. Instead of advising the Big Man that his instructions are illegal, they say The Big Man has spoken. So they turn him into a Big Man who thinks he can do anything, and becomes a monster.’

‘So it’s us, the people, who have created these terrible monsters,’ said Thoko.

‘So there’s your Civics lesson for today.’ I said, as I leaned forward towards her gateau. ‘Do you mind if I finish this bit?’

‘Keep your greedy fingers out of my cake!’ she squealed. ‘As a Grandpa, your job is to provide us with cake, not to take it for yourself. We don’t want you turning into a Big Man.

’

Election Petition

Election Petition

The old decrepit judge shuffled into the courtroom, assisted by two
clerks of the court. His black gown was in tatters and yellow
horsehair hung around his creased and wizened face. As the bowed
figure stood before us, we also stood and bowed, and then sat down.
But the judge remained standing in a bowed position. 'What's wrong
with him?' I hissed to Sara. 'He seems to be stuck.'
'That's Justice Nchekeleko,' said Sara, 'he's permanently bent.'
As we were whispering the two clerks of the court gently lifted the
bent judge into his high chair, which perfectly accommodated his bent
spine.
'Has he always been bent like that?' I wondered.
'Oh no,' said Sara. 'As a young man he was straight and upright, but
as he got older he became more and more bent.'
The judge was now shuffling some papers with his grotesquely crooked fingers.
'Today,' croaked Justice Nchekeleko, 'has been set aside for delivery
of the judgement in the by-election petition lodged on 25 July
2010 by the late Mr Mulombe Musungulushi…
'2010?' I hissed in Sara's ear. 'That's more than twenty years ago!'
'Justice is a slow business,' Sara whispered. 'In court, people are
not allowed to speak faster than the speed at which the judge can
write.'
'With his arthritis,' I whispered, 'I doubt if he could write ten
words in an hour.'
'… the petitioner based his petition on four grounds,' the judge was
now saying. 'Firstly that violence disturbed the election and
prevented some people from voting. Secondly that the opposition party
used underhand tactics. Thirdly that the opposition stole their
election materials. Fourthly that the media were biased against Mr
Musungulushi's party, the Movement for Murdering Democracy.'
'Was that by-election really twenty years ago?' I wondered.
'Oh yes,' she said. 'That was before statutory regulation abolished
TV, and we started attending court cases for our entertainment. You're
getting old my dear, you used to have such a good memory.'
'On the first ground,' said the judge, 'I find as a fact that the
opposition party openly and brazenly used violence in preventing MMD
thugs from cutting off the fingers of opposition voters. Since the
opposition won this by-election by only a hundred votes, this
constitutes clear evidence that MMD would have won if only a few more
fingers had been cut off.
On other hand, it has also to be recorded that the opposition
complained to this court that the police never arrested any MMD thugs.
However, this issue is now moot, having been superseded by the
provisions of the National Unity Constitution of 2025, at Article 102,
which identifies all opposition parties as enemies of the state.
'On the second ground, of underhand tactics, the petitioner has
explained that the MMD gave every voter a bag of sugar on the clear
contractual understanding that they should vote for Mr. Musungulushi.
I find it proven beyond reasonable doubt that opposition leaders urged
voters to ignore these contractual obligations, in clear contravention
of the Law of Contract. However, I will stop short of recommending
legal action to seek damages from the opposition party, since their
leaders are all in indefinite detention on unspecified charges.
'On the third count, of stealing election materials, I find it proven
that opposition cadres invaded the MMD camp and stole a considerable
amount of valuable election material, namely several hundred pangas.
So again, I find in favour of the petitioner.
'Lastly, Mr Musungulushi provided evidence that the Zambia National
Bootlicking Corporation was biased. I find this evidence compelling.
It is clear that ZNBC showed only MMD politicians and thugs, thereby
creating the erroneous impression that MMD was the only party that was
spilling blood. We should here recall that it was this notorious
interference with the political process which caused the subsequent
banning of all TV transmissions, in 2011, under the provisions for
Statutory Regulation.
'In the face of such overwhelming evidence I have no choice but to
declare that this petition succeeds, and I declare that the late Mr
Elected Katundu was never elected as MP for Mufumbushi on 29 June
2010. I further declare, on this day 27 May 2031, that Mr Mulombe
Musungulushi shall retroactively and posthumously serve as member of
parliament for Mufumbushi, for the period 29 June 2010 to 1 January
2012, the latter being the date of the royal decree which abolished
parliament.'
'Wow,' I whispered to Sara. 'How could a judge become so bent?'
'Old age,' she sniggered.
'We're also very old, but we're not bent.'
'You don't understand,' she said. 'He's thirty years beyond normal
retiring age. Every two years he needs another renewal of contract.
Fifteen times he's had to bend down, grovel and lick boots. The
humiliation has gradually deformed him physically and morally, as he
bends the law to match the ugly demands of political expediency.'
'So what's his next case?'
'After all these twenty years of the election petition, he can now
finally turn his attention to the registration of the London judgement
against Wabufi Kafupi.'
'Kafupi! Is he still alive, after all these years? What's he doing nowadays?'
'Haven't you heard? He's the new Chief Justice!'