The Red Card

The Red Card

          The bishop walked to the lectern, opened the Good Book, and announced ‘The reading this morning is the Parable of the Turbulent Priest, as recorded in the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 23 Verses 12-36…’

          There was in the Land of Zed at that time a young priest by the name of Francis Bwabwata, who liked to speak out against sin and corruption. He had just been ordained as a priest and was keen to make a name for himself.

          So one day he knelt down and prayed to the Lord, saying ‘Oh Father in Heaven, where can I find some sin and corruption to expose? When people are in church they are always on their best behaviour, and I have failed to find a single case of theft or even fornication within the holy precinct of the church.’

          ‘Fear not,’ answered the Lord, ‘for the world is full of the sins of greed, covetousness and gluttony which lead to corruption. You must follow your congregation to find out where they go after church.’

          And so, the very next Sabbath, young Father Francis followed his flock out of the church and into the nearby Soccer Coliseum, where the local team, the Neanderthal Warriors, was playing the Chibuku Chola Boys.

          And what the innocent Francis saw was too awful to behold, so much so that he had to scurry back to his church, fall to his knees and pray to the Lord, saying ‘O Lord I have seen terrible things. The referee is paid to see the sins of one side rather than the other, while the local team has dug special muti under the goalposts, and the crowd participates by hurling beer bottles in a most partisan fashion. O Lord, I have come back here to pray for peace and goodwill to prevail on Earth.’

          Whereupon the Good Lord, who can get really annoyed sometimes, roared ‘It’s no good coming here to pray, you are supposed to go out there and do something about it! Show them all a red card!’

          And so, fortified with this backing from such a famous celestial mentor, the good priest Francis went forth courageously to the next match armed with a red card. And when the referee failed to award an obvious penalty, Francis raised his red card and shouted ‘In the name of the Lord, send him off’. Whereupon, a crowd of Neanderthal supporters ran onto the pitch, picked up the referee, and carried him off.

          After this initial success, Father Francis immediately formed a supporters club, which he called the No Nonsense Neanderthals, and kitted them out with red cards, red whistles and red shirts. And before long Father Francis became a national hero for his Christian Crusade against corruption in football, extending the his campaign off-field to the rigged election of club directors, backhanders in stadium building contracts, illegal selling of players, and so on.

          Even better for Francis’s reputation, he was soon arrested by the Police Farce on charges of having a red card without a licence, inciting a football crowd to shout at a referee, and wearing a red shirt without permission from Manchester United. As soon as the various laughable charges had been duly laughed out of court, he was carried shoulder high to the clubroom of the Neanderthal Warriors and made Chairman of the Club alongside a new board of directors.

          That evening Father Francis again knelt in prayer. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said, ‘I humbly thank you for this opportunity to lead football towards the Kingdom of Heaven, and to do my small part in your work to rid this Earth of sin and corruption.’

          And the Lord spoke unto him, saying ‘Just watch yourself, and make sure you don’t get pompous.’

          Father Francis was soon so busy reforming football that had no time for either church or prayer. But one evening he was so pleased with his own good work that he thought of asking the Lord whether he didn’t deserve promotion to an even higher calling. ‘O Lord,’ he prayed, ‘I trust you have been appreciating my good work, and I’m humbly asking whether you would back me for the presidency of the Land of Zed at the next election, so that I may extend your fight against sin and corruption.’

          ‘My son,’ replied the Lord solemnly, ‘I have seen that you have fired two directors who disagreed with you.’

          ‘I’m pleased you appreciate that,’ purred Father Francis. ‘Maintaining unity in the club is always my top priority.’

          ‘My son,’ intoned the Lord, ‘I see that you have never been available to hear complaints from the Supporters Club.’

          ‘It’s difficult to attend to everything,’ explained Father Francis, ‘I have had to spend so much time attending high-level FIFA meetings in Switzerland.’

          ‘My son,’ continued the Lord, ‘What are you doing about the continuing complaints of corruption in the Neanderthal Warriors Football Club?’

          ‘Unfortunately, O Lord, my disciplinary committee was sent on forced leave.’

          ‘My son, I have no choice except to give you a red card. You must take leave from your present job and devote yourself to forty years of prayer and fasting.’

          ‘But after that, O Lord, shall I ascend to the presidency?’

          ‘No my son,’ intoned the Lord solemnly. ‘You will ascend to Heaven.’

          ‘Thank you, O Lord,’ replied Father Francis. ‘And shall I sit at the right hand of God?’

          ‘No, my son,’ said the Lord firmly, ‘you shall sit at the left hand of Judas.’

How Dotty is Scotty?

How Dotty is Scotty?

          I was on the veranda snoozing over my third brandy when I was rudely woken up by Kupela coming swinging round the corner and screeching ‘Brandy before lunch? What’s the doctor going to say about this?’

          ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’ I asked.

          ‘I’ve given myself a couple of days off. I’ve just come back from Kalabo.’

          ‘What have you been doing there?’

          ‘A thousand things in only seven days!’ she laughed.

          ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘You must go and show Michael. He can’t do a single thing in ninety days.’

          ‘So what’s been happening here?’ she asked.

          ‘Much the same as usual. Dotty Scotty lying to parliament on a daily basis.’

          ‘What’s he said now?’

          ‘He said the tribunal to investigate the three judges is still on.’

          ‘Is that a lie?’ laughed Koops. ‘Maybe it’s the truth. I mean, he should know.’

          ‘You asked me what’s been going on,’ I sighed, ‘and I’m just trying to tell you. If you already know what’s going on better than I do, why are you asking me? Every time I open my mouth you contradict me!’

          ‘Oh poor Daddy,’ she said, giving me a little kiss. ‘We all love contradicting you because you’re so contradictory. And you do so believe in the truth! It’s all so delightfully nineteenth century!’

          ‘Look,’ I said, as I reached for the brandy glass, ‘Dotty Scotty said that the tribunal is on, when in fact the Supreme Court has suspended it! So what he said was a damn lie! Contempt of court! Contempt of parliament!’

          ‘Calm down Daddy,’ she laughed. ‘Did you take your pills this morning? Don’t you know that in politics there’s no such thing as truth, only different ways of looking at things!’

          ‘Don’t try to excuse the inexcusable old rogue. He lied. I know it and you know it.’

          ‘Knowledge is subjective,’ she persisted. ‘From his point of view, he may have been telling the truth. After all, maybe the government has just bought another couple of judges, and now has a majority in the Supreme Court. So he may know more about it than you do!’

          ‘He was lying,’ I said.

          ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Koops. ‘Because, if he’s telling the truth, then the situation is worse than you think.’

          ‘He’s always lying,’ I insisted. ‘He told the house that the Action Aid Report is nonsense, and the Zambia Sugar Company is not evading tax.’

          ‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ laughed Koops, ‘and the government has made an agreement with the company that they don’t pay tax.’

          ‘That would be worse!’ I shouted.

          ‘Perhaps so,’ Koops agreed. ‘But you forget that the point at issue is whether or not Dotty Scotty is telling the truth.’

          ‘I don’t believe him!’ I growled. ‘He’s completely dotty. He lives in a fictitious world constructed entirely by himself. He wouldn’t know the truth if it stared him in the face!’

          ‘Maybe he’s not as dotty as you imagine,’ suggested Koops. ‘Whenever he stands up to answer questions in parliament the opposition expect him to lie, just like they do. So when they ask a question they are ready with all the facts and figures that will expose his lie. They have all the quotations from his manifesto to show that the government has broken its promises. Then he answers the question by simply speaking the truth as he knows it. They are flabbergasted! They sit there with their jaws dropping! He has taken the wind out of their sails! They have nothing to say! The last thing they expected was the truth! He has completely out-maneuvered them!’

          ‘Sounds very clever. But do you have an actual example?’

          ‘There are lots of them. When asked about putting party cadres into civil service jobs, he didn’t deny it, he just said Yes, we didn’t like your cadres which you left behind. When asked when the government will clear the vendors from the street he calmly replies Since we have failed in our promise to help them, they will just have to stay where they are. When asked about bribing voters he merely says If they don’t vote for us they’ll get no development.

          ‘Such answers may be true,’ I said, ‘but they’re also very inadequate. The man is clearly dotty.’

          ‘Maybe not as dotty as you think,’ said Koops. ‘There may be method in his madness.’

          ‘Such as what?’ I sneered.

          ‘He is educating us to understand the arrogance of power. And he’s preparing us for the day when he will just stand there and tell the house that another thirty members of the opposition have been appointed deputy ministers, so the ruling party now has a two-thirds majority, and the new one-party constitution will be pushed through next week.’

          ‘That would be terrible!’ I gasped.

          ‘But the question,’ said Koops, ‘is whether it would be the truth.’

          ‘So you think Dotty Scotty is not dotty after all?’

          ‘Not at all,’ said Koops. ‘Unlike his wife Lotty Scotty, she’s gone completely dotty.’

          ‘Oh dear, what’s she done?’

          ‘She’s just been railing against the male sexist culture of uttering vicious and derogatory remarks against women, which she says is disgusting.’

          ‘What’s dotty about that?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it the truth?’

          ‘It’s very true,’ said Koops. ‘And very dotty. She’s putting herself in a very dangerous position.’

          ‘How’s that?’ I wondered.

          ‘She spoke without the protection of parliamentary privilege. To speak the truth in public can be very dangerous.’

Stripped Naked

Stripped Naked

     ‘Come in,’ said Cycle Mata wearily as the vast wobbly obese figure of Chipembele Kambilimbili waddled insolently into the room. ‘Take a seat,’ said Cycle Mata, as he sat with his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. ‘How on earth did this happen?’

     ‘How did what happen?’

     ‘Let’s start with the bus station. I came back to Lusaka expecting everybody to be talking about my having lunch with the Queen, and all I hear is that one of my minister’s has been assaulted at the Inter-City Bus Station.’

     ‘Just one of those little incidents Your Excellency,’ sniggered Chipembele. ‘You know our cadres can be a bit boisterous when they meet their Honourable Minister of  Football.’

     ‘I’m told you were stripped naked!’ said Cycle Mata sternly.

     ‘Even me,’ admitted Chipembele, ‘I was a bit surprised, I thought they only did this to women. I think we should raise the matter in parliament, this is taking gender equality a bit too far! Now they are beginning to discriminate against us men!’

     ‘How were you dressed?’

     ‘Well, as you know, I can never find clothes big enough. Suddenly I was accosted by some nasty thugs…’

     ‘You mean our loyal party cadres to whom we have entrusted the management of our bus stations?’

     ‘Exactly, our young party stalwarts. Suddenly they started shouting things like His boobs are hanging out! He’s not wearing a bra! His trousers are too tight! Maybe he’s a fruitcake! Let’s see what he’s got inside those trousers!’

     ‘I’m told that you were stripped naked!’

     ‘They were shouting  Mufumyeni ibolo! Tuteye bola! Find his balls and we’ll play football!’

     ‘And did they find them?’

     ‘Luckily my essentials are well protected by my ample belly. Even me, I can’t find them. Haven’t seen them for years.’

     ‘But then you were rescued by the boma?’

     ‘A police car happened to come by, a bystander wrapped me in a chitenge, and I was whisked off to the police station.’

     ‘And did boma arrest anybody?’

     ‘No. But they said that if I did it again they’d arrest me for indecent exposure and inciting the callboys to commit rape. Then they slapped me around a bit and let me go. It was a terrible experience. I’m even beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t take more interest in human rights.’

     ‘This has nothing to do with human rights, you silly man!’ shouted Cycle Mata angrily. ‘Don't you realize that you brought this upon yourself!’

     ‘Did I?’ said Chipembele, genuinely baffled. ‘Where did I go wrong?’

     ‘You’re the one responsible for losing the football match in Sudan! That’s why they’re after your blood. You sent the team to a wrong country for training and then put them on a wrong aeroplane! Now everybody is blaming the government!’

     ‘I’m not in charge of the government,’ laughed Chipembele. ‘It’s you!’

     ‘And I’m in charge of you,’ growled Cycle Mata. ‘I know walisavuka ne miponto sana mwaiche, but I thought at least you’d be able to organize a game of football!’

     ‘So that's it!’ sneered Chipembele, ‘you thought that was all I was good for!’

     ‘On the contrary,’ replied Cycle Mata grimly, ‘Niiwe nachetekela mwaiche. All the other ministries were failing, and the people were getting angry. No new jobs. No money in their pockets. No windfall tax. No Barotseland agreement. No new constitution. Kwacha on the skids. Everything was going down the drain. But I knew that if we could just keep Chipolopolo winning then this would maintain public morale, and people would overlook all the other disappointments. But then you also let me down!’

     ‘Don’t panic,’ sneered Chipembele. ‘No vundu bakamba twalaka sova!’

     ‘You don’t seem to understand that iyi naizanda mwaiche,’ shouted Cycle Mata.   ‘Everything else had failed, and the only thing to hide our shame was success at football. Now the final veil had fallen, and we are left naked. When you were stripped naked at the bus station, it was the entire government that was being stripped naked! We have been shamed! Humiliated! Nothing is working! What can we do?’

     So saying, poor old baffled Cycle Mata put his head in his hands and groaned. Don’t despair,’ laughed Chipembele. ‘Umenifye ilya ine muma! Appoint a twenty person commission of inquiry to find out who leaked the information about going to the wrong country for training, and the botched travel arrangement. It was a conspiracy by the opposition to embarrass the government. Such leaks obviously contravene the Official Secrets Act and endanger the security of the nation. We must take stern action. As for me, I’m currently being troubled by unemployed relatives, so I can also help you by recommending several names for the new commission of inquiry.

     ‘Thank you very much for your advice,’ sneered Cycle Mata. ‘But the time has come for yet another reshuffle. I have decided to appoint King Kalulu as the new Minister of Sport, to be in charge of strategy and logistics. Monsieur Boom Boom will be the Deputy Minister in charge of training and tactics. And I’m appointing you as Chola Boy in charge of organizing the katundu.’

     ‘Chola Boy!’ exploded Chipembele. ‘How can a man of my reputation, vast experience and considerable weight be demoted to a mere Chola Boy?’

     ‘I’m giving you one last chance to succeed at something,’ declared Cycle Mata. ‘If you can prove yourself as a Chola Boy, then I shall consider appointing you as my next Vice-President.’

[Kalaki is pleased to acknowledge some assistance from Moses Chipepo]  

The Truth about Michael

The Truth about Michael

‘So from your point of view,’ I said, ‘All this talk about Michael’s health was just the idle chatter of the unemployed?’

     ‘Politics,’ explained Christine, ‘is for politicians. We have a parliament for idle chatter, where politicians chatter on behalf of everybody else, so that the remainder of the country can get on with their work and shut up.’

     ‘Or at least not talk about Michael!’

     ‘Exactly.’

     ‘But tell me, why did Michael go to India? Was it for medical treatment?’

     ‘Of course not. He went there to look for investors, to give work to the unemployed, in order to stop them chattering, so that he can have some peace.’

     ‘Even so,’ I said. ‘If he was looking for investors, why did he spend so much time at Gujarat Central Hospital?’

     ‘Look, Kalaki, what do you know about finding investors?  If you were looking for investors, where would you go?’

     ‘An investment bank in New Delhi?’

     ‘There you are!’ she laughed, as she poured me another cup of tea. ‘See how little you know! Investors don’t sit in offices! Nowadays they are so rich and decadent that they spend most of their time in hospital, recovering from the diseases of affluence such as obesity, high blood pressure, or the more exotic forms of sexually transmitted diseases. They are using their vast wealth to linger on, far beyond their allotted lifespan, because they know that when they die they will surely to go to Hell.’

     ‘But why Gujarat Central Hospital?’

     ‘Because it specializes in the diseases of dying and stinking capitalism. It is reckoned that Gujarat Central Hospital has the world’s highest concentration of capitalists per square metre.’

     ‘But Dotty Scotty told parliament that Michael had gone to India on a private visit, for a holiday.’

     ‘Of course there was that too,’ agreed Christine. ‘Perhaps you don’t realize, Kalaki, that a hospital is a grand place for a holiday. The air is clean and free of germs, and you can jog up and down the corridors which run for miles. And Gujuarat Central Hospital has a swimming pool, gymnasium, massage parlour, several restaurants and cinemas, and so on.’

     ‘So Michael had plenty of time to relax?’

     ‘Well, you know Michael, he can’t relax. He soon found that there were many heads of state living in Gujarat Central. Before long he was fixing up international trade deals, to import water from Bangladesh, export slave labour to the Siberian salt mines, and so on.’

     ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘What were these heads of state doing there?’

     ‘Many of them were recovering from bullet wounds, or taking refuge from the International Criminal Court, or merely taking a holiday from the suffocating love of their grateful citizens. Others were having secret treatment because they didn’t want to admit that they were sick.’

     ‘Good gracious,’ I said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. So with all these eminent people to meet, Michael must have had a marvelous time.’

     ‘Ever busy, my Michael,’ replied Christine, proudly. ‘When he saw how many Zambian doctors were working at the Gujarat Central, he gathered them all into the medical lecture theatre and gave them a little pep talk, telling them what they could expect if they ever came back home to Zambia.’

     ‘What did he tell them?’

     ‘He told that he had been forced to travel all the way to Gujarat to seek medical attention because they had run away from their own country. They had deserted sick Zambians at home in order to attend to the health of foreigners, which was treachery, and that if they ever came home they would be charged with treason.’

     ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘Our friend Michael is such an honest person. Whatever comes into his head, he will say it, just like that!’

     ‘And he has such a marvelous imagination,’ she said proudly. ‘He has been thinking about the problem of bringing back these doctors to Zambia, and he’s going to make an announcement this afternoon. He’s decided to reshuffle Gujarat Province to Zambia, in exchange for Western Province, which will go to India. This will solve our doctor shortage and the Barotse problem at a stroke.’

     ‘Brilliant,’ I agreed. ‘The Zambian doctors can come home, and the Barotse can break away, so everybody will be happy!’

     ‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘Michael’s such an agreeable fellow, very easy to get along with.’

     Just then Michael put his head round the door. ‘I’m off to reshuffle a few provinces, see you later!’ Then he noticed me. ‘Hullo Kalaki,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dead.’

     ‘How did the operation go?’ I asked.

     ‘Complete success,’ he replied, as he disappeared from sight.

     ‘The operation to find new investors,’ Christine explained, ‘was a great success.’

     ‘I must be off,’ I said, as I stood up and put my notebook in my pocket. We shook hands, and I gave her a little kiss on each cheek. ‘What’s it like, being the First Lady?’

     ‘It’s just a title,’ she laughed, ‘there’s no job!’

     ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I've enjoyed having a bit of idle chatter with one of the unemployed.’  

When the King is Sick...

When the King is Sick…

‘Grandpa,’ said Thoko, ‘Why don’t all countries have kings? Wouldn’t it make everything simpler? The king takes all the big decisions, and the rest of us can just get on with our work!’

     ‘It’s not that simple,’ I said. ‘For instance, supposing the king gets sick, what happens then?’

     ‘He goes to the hospital, just like anybody else,’ retorted Thoko. ‘What’s the problem?’

     ‘Have you never heard the story,’ I asked ‘of what happened in Ancient Egypt when the Pharaoh Mighty Mouth fell sick?’

     ‘What story is that? I know you Grandpa, you just make up stories as you go along.’

     ‘So you may think,’ I said. ‘But I am referring to the Parable of the Sick Pharaoh which is found in the Gospel According to St Kalaki at Chapter 23.’

     ‘What happened to the Pharaoh?’

     ‘He fell sick.’

     ‘Obviously,’ said Thoko irritably. ‘But why was that a problem? We all fall sick!’

     ‘It was a problem because the Pharaoh was in control of everything. Everybody had to obey his orders, even if those orders were the opposite of what he had said the day before.’

     ‘Mighty Mouth,’ laughed Thoko, ‘what a strange name!’

     ‘In those days people were named according to what they were. People had names like Messenger, or Runner, or Brains and so on. The Pharaoh was Mighty Mouth because his word was law.’

     ‘And then he got sick?’

     ‘Mighty Mouth got so sick that he suddenly stopped talking.’

     ‘And that was the problem?’

     ‘It was a big problem! How would his obedient people know what to do if he suddenly stopped issuing instructions? Without Mighty Mouth they wouldn’t know whether to jump up or sit down.’

     ‘They should have just have sat down and had a rest,’ laughed Thoko, ‘and waited for the Mighty Mouth to get well enough to issue more instructions. But surely the Pharaoh must have had ministers to run the country, and to continue giving instructions?’

     ‘That was another big problem,’ I explained. ‘You see, in those days a Pharaoh was always in great fear of being toppled by one of his ministers. So a Pharaoh was always careful to appoint as ministers only those whom he considered to be incapable of threatening his position.’

     ‘You mean he had to choose ministers who were not very clever?’

     ‘Not so clever, you might say, to put the matter politely. So Mighty Mouth had appointed ministers called Dotty, Dummy, Puppet, Shambles and Sleepy.’

     ‘Sleepy?’

     ‘He was the Minister of Money, and whenever he was in a meeting he fell asleep.’

     ‘Then how did he manage to talk to the others?’

     ‘He would wake up to talk, but then all the others would fall asleep.’

     ‘So when Mighty Mouth fell sick, did the dummies make a mess of running the country?’

     ‘The first silly thing they did was to say that Mighty Mouth wasn’t sick, he had just gone away on holiday to Samaria.’

     ‘Why did they lie?’

     ‘Partly because they were all compulsive liars, and couldn’t even recognize the truth if they saw it. But mainly because the people thought that the Pharaoh was a God, and couldn’t get sick, so they didn’t want to admit that he was actually human.’

     ‘But weren’t the people entitled to know that the Pharaoh was sick? Wasn't he their leader? Hadn’t he gone to Samaria using their money?’

     ‘In those days the people had no rights, and the ruling class just took the people’s money and did what they liked with it.’

     ‘But did the people believe their lies about the Pharaoh's holiday?’

     ‘Only for a day. Then news came from Samaria that Mighty Mouth was being treated by a Medicine Man.’

     ‘And did Mighty Mouth get better?’

     ‘No, unfortunately he died the next day.’

     ‘And did the dummies now tell the people the truth?’

     ‘Of course not. They said that their beloved Pharaoh was getting better, and ordered all the people to get down on their knees and pray for the complete recovery of their great leader.’

     ‘But why couldn’t they just tell the truth?’

     ‘Obviously they now needed time to prepare for his death.'
     'Which had already happened?'
     'Exactly. But they needed time to agree amongst themselves which of the dummies would take over as the new Pharaoh, and much money changed hands between them before they finally agreed.’

     ‘Who did they choose?’

     ‘They chose Sleepy, so that they would all be able to steal as much as they wanted while he was sleeping. Also he was very old and senile, so they knew he wouldn’t last too long.’

     ‘But while they were fixing things, wasn’t the body of the previous Pharaoh getting a bit, er, you know…?’

     ‘They had him mummified while the people continued to pray for his recovery. The Egyptians were very clever at that. Then after a month they announced that he had died suddenly and unexpectedly, and brought him home for a grand funeral.’

     ‘So was that the first time that such a thing had ever happened?’ asked Thoko.

     ‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘That’s what always happens when a king dies. That’s why a kingdom is always ruled by one dummy after another, and the long-suffering people never see good government.’

     ‘Grandpa,’ said Thoko with a frown, ‘do you think such things could ever happen here?’

     ‘Of course not,’ I replied, as I put my arm reassuringly around her shoulder. ‘We live in a democracy!’   

An Inspiring Tale of Youth Empowerment

An Inspiring Tale

of Youth Empowerment

‘I shall always remember one particular Youth Day when I was at Decay Secondary School,’ said Kupela. ‘The headmaster announced that the Ministry wanted a girl from our school to read a speech to the president. He called for a debate amongst all the girls, and said that we could choose the best speaker. I really thought I could win!’

‘But you didn't,’ said Sara.

‘I lost out to a girl called Wandimi Shibili. She got the loudest applause.’

‘Was she really a good speaker?’

‘She had a very crafty strategy,’ said Kupela. ‘The day before the debate she went around the school asking everybody what they thought our problems were. The next day she told everybody what they had told her, and loudly demanded action from the government.’

‘Yes,’ said Sara impatiently, ‘but what did she actually say?’

‘Difficult to remember after all these years,’ laughed Kupela. ‘But it was quite simple really. She said that we youths were fed up with being blamed for being undisciplined and playful, which was the opposite of the truth. It was the government that had destroyed the schools, which had no books, and the teachers were either absent or drunk, or both. There were no jobs for us because the government has destroyed the economy with incompetence and theft. They had destroyed our manufacturing industry by removing import duty. There was no employment policy, and instead jobs were being given to foreigners.’

‘I suppose that went down well,’ I said.

‘How we all cheered! You go and tell them! We shouted. Wandimi for president!’

‘And did you join the march?’

‘The whole school joined the march!’ laughed Kupela. ‘We all wanted to hear Wandimi tell the president what we thought of him and his rotten government!’

‘And was the president shocked? Did they try to stop her? What happened?’

‘What happened,’ said Kupela sadly, ‘was that she walked to the microphone and said the opposite of what she had said to us. She said that we youth were too playful, but now we promised to work hard and follow the fine example of our dear president. We were so grateful to him for building more schools, and for the youth training schemes, and we would work hard to benefit from his generosity. We would now stop asking the government for help, but only ask how we could help our government.’

‘So she said the exact opposite!’ I exclaimed.

‘She had changed her strategy,’ Sara suggested.

‘Of course she hadn’t changed her strategy! She had used exactly the same strategy, which was to tell her listeners what they wanted to hear. So the day before her speech she visited the permanent secretary at the Ministry of Youth and Sport, and asked him what the government wanted her to say. So he wrote down the main points on a piece of paper, and that was her speech.’

‘Half a minute,’ I said. ‘Most of her listeners were the youths, not the permanent secretary!’

‘She stopped caring about us,’ laughed Kupela, ‘as soon as we had done our job of voting her as our spokesperson.’

‘So what benefit did she get from her betrayal?’

‘She was given a bursary to go to Yunza. Nobody else in her class got into Yunza because their parents were too poor.’

‘Quite a smart cookie,’ I admitted. ‘And did she do well at Yunza?’

‘Extremely well,’ said Kupela. ‘She soon found a sugar daddy who installed her in a nice little flat in Kabulonga. So she had enough money to buy the exam papers in advance.’

‘She was cheating!’ exclaimed Sara.

‘The teaching in these places is so bad,’ Kupela explained, ‘that the only effective way to prepare for an exam is to get the paper in advance. So she got a good degree in medicine, specializing in geriatrics.’

‘So now at last she was in a position to do something for her country?’

‘Good gracious no,’ laughed Kupela, ‘she went off to California, and got a job there.’

‘I’m sure she’ll come back one day,’ said Sara, ‘and make an invaluable contribution to our health service.’

‘I don’t think so,’ laughed Kupela. ‘She hadn’t been in California six months before she married an 80 year-old multi-millionare who had made his money running brothels in Las Vegas.’

‘Why did he want to marry Wandimi? Was she very beautiful?’

‘No, face like the back of a bus. But she told him what he wanted to hear. She told him that she was a geriatric medical specialist, and that she could restore his health and vitality. She promised him that within 90 days he would be a young man again.’

‘And did it work?’

‘It did for her. Within 90 days he was dead, and she was a multi-millionaire.’

‘So what’s she doing now?’

‘Two years ago she bought herself a senate seat, and this year she’s contesting the Republican primaries and hoping to run against Obama in the coming presidential election.’

‘Still the same campaign strategy?’ wondered Sara.

‘Oh yes. The previous night she asks them what they want, and the next morning she tells them that she’s knows their problems, and she’ll solve everything.’

‘So by next year,’ I said, ‘she may be the first female Zambian president!’

‘But never in Zambia,’ sighed Sara.

Strange Bedfellows

Strange Bedfellows

‘Why is the trial being held here?’ I whispered. ‘I’ve never heard of The Post conference room being used as a courtroom.’

‘The judiciary has all gone rotten,’ explained Sara. ‘So now The Post is the only place in the country that has the courage, independence and wisdom to dispense justice.’

‘Huh,’ I sniggered, ‘how do you know that?’

‘I read The Post editorials,’ she chuckled. ‘The editor tells us so every day!’

‘Silence in court!’ said the ancient judge, banging his gavel on the bench. He looked across at the miserable little hyena standing in the dock. ‘Chimbushimbushi III,’ he said severely, ‘you are accused of spreading grievous and mischievous information throughout the land, thereby causing alarm and despondency amongst law abiding citizens.’

‘Who’s the judge?’ I whispered, ‘and why’s he wearing his wig upside down?’

‘That’s Feckless Shamika, the Minister of Misinfomation,’ Sara replied. ‘That’s not his wig, it’s his beard. Old goats always have scraggy white beards.’

‘Maybe he’s an upside-down judge,’ I sniggered.

‘More specifically,’ continued Justice Feckless Shamika, ‘you are charged that you did misinform the nation that King Cobra intended to make the waters of the Zambezi to flow upstream, to move Kariba Dam to Lusaka, and to force everybody to become homosexual. What do you say?’

The hapless Chimbwi Chimbushimbushi III now began to whimper and squeal, and pointed his front leg at the monstrous rhinoceros who stood in the corner chained to twenty-four policeman.

‘Who’s that?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘That’s the Honorable Notorious Reverend General Rotten Shikashiwa, former Minister of  Misinformation,’ she replied.

‘That Rotten Rhinoceros!’ squealed the hyena, ‘He is the one who forced me to say all those silly things! It was all his doing! He wrote all that rubbish on a long roll of toilet paper, then he took me to the Zany Nonsense Broadcasting Corporation and forced me to read all his lying drivel and propaganda to the nation.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Justice Shamika suspiciously, ‘how did he force you to read such nonsense?’

‘He locked me in his bedroom and said he would force himself upon me if I did not do as he said. I was stuck between a rhinoceros and a hard place.’

‘Hmmm,’ murmured the judge, ‘I thought it was only humans who did this sort of thing. But now these animals are starting it! Bring the rhinoceros to the dock! Let’s hear his side of the story!’

And so the huge rhinoceros Rotten Shikashiwa waddled to dock, but was far too big to get into it, so he just sat on top of it, causing it to collapse.

‘Shikashiwa,’ said the judge, ‘did you use your vast ministerial weight to force this nasty little hyena Chimbushimbushi III to tell endless and silly lies to the entire nation.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Shikashiwa, ‘I have never seen this smelly little chimbwi in my life before. What did you say his name is?’

‘Don’t you try to deceive this court, Shikashiwa,’ said Justice Feckless Shamika. ‘We have witnesses right here who saw you push Chimbushimbushi into your bedroom to show him your equipment, and then they heard him screaming.’

‘Very strange bedfellows,’ Sara murmured.

‘Most unnatural,’ I agreed.

‘My Lord,’ scoffed Shikashiwa, ‘There was nothing like that. He screamed with joy when he saw my tin trunk full of dollars.’

‘I thought you said you’d never seen him before.’

‘It was a dark night, My Lord.’

‘Shikashiwa,’ said the judge slowly, ‘If you had another male in your bedroom, is that not homosexuality?’

‘Certainly not, My Lord. I am a rhinoceros and he is a hyena. Two animals of different species, that’s called heterosexuality.’

‘And what about two animals of the same species?’ asked the judge.

‘Same species!’ Shikashiwa shouted angrily. ‘Why, for sure, that is called homosexuality! That’s forbidden!’ He waved his black book in the air. ‘That is the original sin of Adam and Eve! It is called fornication and is forbidden in the scriptures. This is what caused the fall of man, and has also caused over-population!’

‘Has he read the bible?’ I wondered. ‘Perhaps he’s illiterate.’

‘Even those who have read it,’ explained Sara, ‘they all have different opinions on what it says.’

‘This fornication causes pregnancy, which is an abomination!’ the Mad Rhinoceros continued shouting. ‘That’s why I ordered the arrest and conviction for pornography of the depraved people who took photographs of such sinful activities!’

‘Ha ha,’ cackled Judge Shamika, ‘Now I’ve caught you! You ordered their arrest! As a minister, you exceeded your authority! You have condemned yourself out of your own mouth! I sentence you to ten years in jail, and also order that you repay all the expenses of the photographer!’

No sooner had the judge spoken than the twenty-four policeman immediately grabbed the monstrous Shikashiwa and pulled him away to the cells.

But then, soon after Shikashiwa had gone, one policemen came back, picked up the little goat Shamika, and also took him kicking and screaming to the cells.

‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s happening now?’

‘He’s made the same mistake as Shikashiwa,’ laughed Sara. ‘As Minister of Misinformation, he similarly doesn’t have the power to find anybody guilty. He has also condemned himself out of his own mouth! They’ll find themselves in the same jail!’

‘They’ll make strange bedfellows,’ I laughed.

‘Not strange at all,’ said Sara. ‘In jail, it’s completely legal.’