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]

Buffaloes and Rabbits

Buffaloes and Rabbits

‘Once upon a time,’ I began, ‘a long time ago, the Land of Mfuwe was ruled by an old dinosaur called King Nyamasoya.’

‘An old dinosaur as king,’ laughed Nawiti, ‘what a silly idea!’

‘Not in those days,’ I explained. ‘Those were the days when huge fat animals ruled all the smaller ones.’

‘Why?’ asked Nawiti.

‘This was in the days of the jungle, when might was right, and power went to the high and mighty, and smaller mortals had to do as they were told.’

‘Why?’ Nawiti persisted.

‘In those days, when a naughty little monkey asked her Mummy Why?, her Mummy would reply saying This is the way it has always been, or We have to support the government of the day, or We’re not supposed to ask questions like that!

‘My Mummy says it’s good to ask questions.’

‘But in the Kingdom of Mfuwe,’ I said, ‘asking questions was seen as a threat to the power of Nyamasoya, and he could send his hyena to eat you.’

‘But were these large animals in power because they were large,’ Nawiti wondered, ‘or were they large because they were in power?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ I admitted.

‘You’re a Grandpa!’ Nawiti scoffed. ‘You’re supposed to know these things!’

‘It’s not that simple,’ I tried to explain. ‘The large animals always claimed that they were in power because they were larger and stronger, with bigger brains.’

‘But did the small animals believe that?’

‘Their large powerful leaders had always told them so. Their mummies and daddies had always told them so. Their teachers and priests always told them so. It seemed like the natural order of things. The lords of the jungle were born to lord it over the smaller animals. Big animal superior, small animal inferior. This was the only commandment in the Jungle of Mfuwe.’

‘This story,’ said Nawiti, ‘is crying out for a hero.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘And so it happened that along came a cobra called Cycle Mata.’

‘Who upset everything?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Oh good,’ she laughed, rubbing her little hands with glee.

‘He told the small animals that the dinosaur and the elephants and the hippos were all excessively large and fat because all the monkeys and rabbits and duikers have to pick the masuku fruit and take it to their leaders, who grew too fat because they were overfed.’

‘And all the animals were too small because they were starving?’

‘That too.’

‘So Cycle Mata was really saying that the rich were stealing from the poor!’

‘Exactly. So Nyamasoya was furious, saying that stealing only happened when the poor took from the rich, but when the rich took from the poor it was called taxation.’

‘Then Cycle Mata said that taking all the masuku fruit was corruption. This caused Nyamasoya to get into a rage, saying the leaders were entitled to eat all the masuku, because they were larger and needed the extra energy to power their huge brains, and that there was no such thing as corruption in Mfuwe.’

‘What is corruption?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Corruption,’ I explained, ‘is when everything goes rotten.’

‘And was everything going rotten?’

‘The elephants and hippos had so much extra masuku that they were letting it go rotten, and making it into kachasu. While their subjects were starving, the leaders were over-fed, over-weight and completely drunk.’

‘Drunk with power?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That was what Cycle Mata said. But at first the obedient little animals didn’t believe him, for they had been brought up to respect their leaders, who always did their drinking in private.’

‘But then they saw one drunk?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘One day, when Cycle Mata was holding a meeting, there was a great crashing and trumpeting, and out of the forest stumbled a great she-elephant, the dreaded Dolla Tujilijili. She staggered right into the meeting, insulted everybody, urinated all over the elders, and then fell down flat in a drunken stupor.’

‘That was when they really lost respect for their leaders?’

‘Exactly. That was when Cycle Mata led all his followers into the Land of Zed, and established democracy.’

‘What is democracy?’

‘It means that rich animals assist poor animals, and not the other way round. The large assist the small, the strong assist the weak, and so on. All animals are declared equal.’

‘So did all the small animals follow Cycle Mata to the Land of Zed?’

‘Only the rabbits ran away to join Nyamasoya, after they were offered larger rations of masuku.’

‘And did they get their extra rations?’

‘No. It was the hyenas who got the extra rations when they ate the rabbits.’

‘And did any big animals join Cycle Mata?’

‘Only the buffaloes,’ I said, ‘because they were promised leadership positions.’

‘And were they given?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘They were all given the job of pulling ploughs to till the land.’

‘Was that fair?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘In a democracy, leaders are servants of the people.’

The Mobutu Prize

THE MOBUTU PRIZE

I was just about to turn off the TV news when up came the title of the next film: ‘President Nyamasoya wins prestigious Mobutu Prize at the Annual Awards of Corruption International in Kinshasa.’

‘Ha ha!’ I scoffed. ‘So Dickhead Jelly was right! He did win!’

As we watched, Henry Nglazi appeared on the red carpet outside the Plunderers Palace Hotel in Kinshasa. ‘The royal convoy of King Nyamasoya is arriving now’ announced Nglazi as twenty-four BMW limousines and four buses swept majestically towards the great portico of the Palace Hotel.

‘The poorer the country,’ said Sara, ‘the larger the retinue.’

‘We are expecting,’ said Nglazi, ‘the King to arrive with the Queen, all of his children from various wives, his ministers and advisers, as well as the entire Mama Yenge Dance Troupe.’

As the first car stopped at the red carpet, a uniformed lackey leapt out from the front, scurried round to open the rear door, and then saluted briskly as the huge Nyamasoya made several attempts to roll out of the car. But each time he rolled back in again. Finally he was pulled out by several members of the waiting delegation, and bussled into the hotel.

The next scene opened in the vast ballroom of the Plunderers Palace, where Nglazi informed us that the guests had just finished washing down lobster and ripe pheasant with gallons of French wine.

Now onto the stage climbed the Master of Ceremonies, Kateka Bakalamba, dressed as a large rat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we now begin the presentation of the Mobutu Prize for Grand Corruption, the much coveted prize for which all Third World leaders have been competing for the past year.

‘As usual the Academy of Distinguished Plunderers has drawn up a list of five nominees, which I shall announce in no particular order.’ As he spoke the spotlight swung to the table of a wizened little thief, sitting next to a woman covered in diamonds. ‘The first nominee is the King of Ethiopia, His Excellency King Haille Gleedie, who sold the entire national food reserve to buy his wife those diamonds.’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘What courage! What sacrifice!’

‘He is credited,’ said Sara, ‘with single handedly causing the 2009 Ethiopian famine.’

‘Now we have King Zooma of Azania,’ said Kateka, as the spotlightw fell on two bald skulls stuck together. ‘King Zooma is famous for buying twenty FI fighter jets at five million dollars each, for no known reason.’

'Ha ha!’ shouted the crowd. ‘We know the reason!’

‘Next,’ shouted Kateka, as the spotlight illuminated a man entirely covered in a white sheet, ‘we have Prince Abdullah bin Nabiel el Salim al-Din al Ayyubi bin Saud of Arabia, who has successfully rented out his country to America…

‘Booo!’ booed the crowd.

‘…and with the proceeds built a thousand brothels in Las Vegas!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd.

‘And fourthly,’ announced Kateka, as the spotlight illuminated a grey hairy man in a long green cloak, ‘we have the Prime Minister of Afghanistan, Mr Bribehigh, who used the proceeds from the entire national heroin crop to buy his re-election!’

‘Good investment!’ sang the crowd. ‘What is money for?’

‘And lastly,’ said Kateka, as the small spotlight struggled to illuminate a large rhinoceros, ‘we have the famous King Nyamasoya of Zed, who risked his throne to save the President of this Academy from jail!

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd.

‘Our illustrious President Kafupi Mupupu was charged with theft!’

‘Disgraceful!’ shouted the crowd. ‘No respect!’

‘But King Nyamsoya, our fifth nominee, corrupted the judiciary and got him off!’

‘Judges are cheap!’ chanted the crowd.

Now the spotlight returned to Kateka, as he dramatically and slowly drew a card out of a white envelope. ‘And the winner is … King Nyamasoya of the Republic of Zed!’

‘A worthy winner! A true defender of corruption!’ they chanted, as the Great King Nyamsoya was pushed up onto the stage by the entire Mama Yenge ensemble.

‘Speech! Speech!’ bayed the drunken mob of dignatories.

‘I just want to say,’ said King Nyamasoya, ‘that colonialists have tried to impose their oppressive policies of accountability and the rule of law. But in the Kingdom of Zed we have defended our sovereignty! We have defied them by abolishing the rule of law! And next week I shall pass a new law making corruption legal!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Free at last! Free at last!’

‘And now,’ said Kateka, ‘I call upon our dear President Kafupi Mupupu to present our very precious prize, the Long Gold Finger, to King Nyamasoya!’

Now little Kafupi Mupupu climbed onto the stage. But he was not holding any prize, nor did he approach King Nyamasoya. Instead he walked up to Kateka and whispered in his ear. Then Kateka frowned, turned to the crowd, and announced ‘Unfortunately, it seems that the Long Gold Finger has been stolen!’

‘Boooo!’ shouted the crowd.

But as they were booing, there slid onto the stage a thin ghostly figure wearing a leopard skin jacket and leopard skin hat.

‘It’s Sese Sese!’ Sara hissed.

‘I declare,’ said the Ghost of Mobutu, ‘that President Kafupi Mupupu has already taken the prize! Therefore he must be the winner!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd, as the champagne popped.

‘So it seems,’ I said to Sara, ‘that Nyamsoya didn’t win the prize after all.’

‘Of course not,’ laughed Sara. ‘He can’t compete with Kafupi Mupupu.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I said. ‘I knew Dickhead Jelly must have got it wrong.’

The Dogs' Dinner

The Dogs’ Dinner

‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘Tell me a story, then I’ll go to bed!’

‘Once upon a time, a long time ago,’ I began, ‘the Republic of Mfuwe was ruled by His Excellency the Monstrous King Rhinoceros.’

‘Was he a Good King?’ asked Nawiti.

‘They all start well, and then get worse and worse,’ I said. ‘What started off as a rather jovial little ngulube from Chipata, soon turned into a Monstrous Rhinoceros.’

‘His head got bigger and bigger?’ suggested Nawiti.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Everybody became very alarmed at his enormously big head. Except himself, who thought it was a miracle.’

‘But did he look after the kingdom properly?’ asked Nawiti.

‘That was the problem,’ I said. ‘As the Rhinoceros got fatter and fatter, so his subjects got thinner and thinner. The king and all his court of flatterers, con artists, praise singers and parasites were eating up all the food, leaving nothing for the other animals.’

‘So what did the animals decide to do about it?’

‘They had to find out what tricks the Rhinoceros was up to. The problem was that he had set up his palace deep in the dark forest, where most animals were scared to go because of the owls, snakes, ghosts, evil spirits, and worst of all, the king’s hyenas. So they decided to send a group of watchdogs to find out what was going on.’

‘To watch what the king was up to?’

‘Exactly. To follow the king’s every move and report back to the animals.’

‘How did they report back?’

‘They scratched the news onto a flat stone. Then an elephant pressed the stone onto a banana leaf, to make many copies. Even to this day, newspapers are called the press, and the pages are called leaves.’

‘And did it work?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Oh yes. Every day the eagles airlifted the news from the forest to the animals in the valley, where it soon became known as the Daily News.’

‘And was the news good?’

‘Not to begin with. The Watchdogs soon sniffed out what the king was up to. They found that the king was chopping down the trees of the forest, which was being floated down the river and exported to Ching Chang. All the food from the forest was used to feed the Ching Chang workers, and that was why the animals in the valley were getting nothing.’

‘So the animals were very annoyed?’

‘Very annoyed,’ I admitted. ‘In fact they were just about to march en masse into the forest to depose the king, when the news began to get better. One day the watchdogs wrote Now we have been here longer, we have come to understand better what your beloved king is doing for his animals. We are now interviewing the king to clear up earlier misunderstandings.’

‘And did the animals believe all this?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Some were doubtful, saying things like Is the king still getting fatter? But over the coming months the news got better and better, and they were more persuaded.

‘And what was this better and better news?’ Nawiti asked suspiciously.

‘The Daily News was now reporting that ‘soon the benefits will be trickling down to all the animals. The king is just beginning the ten-year Forest Development Project. Soon the useless Mukwa Forest will be replaced with a Mango Forest, and in only five years we shall begin to reap the benefits. Then all the animals will stop getting thinner, and start getting fatter. Then the king will build schools for all animals, so that they can also learn how to grow into rhinoceroses, or at least hippopotamuses. Then we shall be independent at last.’

‘Then the animals were very pleased, and would have celebrated their independence with a great feast, except that they had no food to eat. But there was one clever young lioness, Mumbi Munkusa, who didn’t believe a word she was reading in the newspapers. So she traveled day and night until she reached the forest. Then she crept through the forest at the dead of night, until she came to the king’s palace. And what did she see?’

‘She saw the watchdogs feasting with the king!’ declared Nawiti.

‘Exactly!’ I said. ‘Believe only what you see! There she found the most disgusting dogs’ dinner you ever did see. There they were, lying about on the ground, bloated with food and tujilijili. The palace servants were roasting more eland and kudu on a huge spit, while some of the dogs were licking the king’s boots. Others were licking his arse, since he was now far too fat to attend to his own toilet arrangements.

‘Traitors!’ roared Mumbi. ‘You have been corrupted! You’re nothing more than puppy dogs and lap dogs! We employed you as watchdogs!’

‘Then the lap dogs rushed at Mumbi and tried to eat her, shouting Don’t call us dogs! We’re press secretaries, public relations managers and image builders!’

‘And did they eat the brave Mumbi?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Of course not!’ I laughed. ‘They’d been eating too much sweet honey from the forest, so they had no teeth!’

‘My teacher,’ said Nawiti sadly, ‘says that we’re all animals.’

‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘But some are more animal than others.’

Order! Order!

Order! Order!

‘In parliament today,’ said the newsreader, ‘the government introduced the First Reading of the new Abolition of Corruption Bill...’

Sara and I had just settled down for the 7 o’clock news, ready to be entertained with more preposterous propaganda. ‘Isn’t it sad,’ I said. ‘Forty years of anti-corruption, and corruption is worse than ever!’

As we were talking, the picture had moved to parliament, where a few overweight gentlemen were asleep. Also asleep, on a high chair in the middle, sat a strange figure with long white hair and a long black skirt. ‘Is that a man or a woman?’ I wondered.

‘It’s the Speaker.’

‘But is it a man or a woman?’

‘Difficult to tell,’ she laughed.

Then something very strange happened. An empty black suit, which had been draped over one of the green benches, suddenly stood up and adjusted the microphone in front of it. Then, out of the collar of the empty suit rose a long thin red-lipped snake. And out of the red lips came a forked tongue. ‘Mr Speaker, sir, I rise to introduce the First Reading of the Abolition of Corruption Bill. This effectively replaces the earlier Anti-Corruption Act of 1980.

‘At last!’ I cried. ‘Corruption to be abolished!’

‘The earlier act now needs revising because corruption was defined as abuse of office for personal gain. That was during the Second Republic when the government was concerned with social rather than private gain. Now, in this Fourth Republic, we are in an era of entrepreneurialism and promotion of private enterprise. Nowadays ministers are encouraged to set up their own businesses and get rich, in order set an example to other citizens.

‘But unfortunately, ministers have been constrained from making good management decisions for enhanced and exemplary private enrichment, for fear of this archaic law which prohibits private enrichment, calls it abuse of office, and then defines this as corruption. But with this new Bill, we can bring the law up to date, by making clear that using government resources for private wealth creation is the desired form of economic development. With this re-definition, therefore, the earlier conception of corruption falls away, and is effectively abolished.’

But as he was talking, a burly figure with a huge bristly white beard walked into the chamber and sat on the back bench. The Deputy Speaker poked the Speaker in the ribs, and he woke up with a start, shouting ‘Order, order!’, thereby waking up the entire house.

‘That’s the dreaded Pong Mpongo!’ said Sara. ‘He’s the opposition!’

‘Is it not corruption,’ shouted Mpongo, ‘for the police to set up roadblocks to enrich themselves?’

‘Certainly not!’hissed the red-lipped snake. ‘We are encouraging privatization and self-reliance in the Police Farce.’

‘Is it in order for service chiefs to set up their own factories to provide uniforms for the troops?’ snarled Mpongo.

Now the Speaker was truly aroused from his slumber. ‘Order! Order! You may only speak when I tell you to speak, that’s why I’m called the Speaker!’ he screamed.

‘This law encourages ministers to steal!’ snorted Mpongo.

‘Be careful what you say,’ hissed the snake menacingly, ‘Ministers act on behalf of our Beloved Head of State!’

‘Thieving ministers must be brought to court!’ shouted Mpongo.

‘His Excellency would never allow it,’ sneered the snake.

‘If he doesn’t allow it, then where is the independence of the judiciary?’ Mpongo crowed in triumph.

‘Now the Ancient Unspeakable Speaker rose trembling to his feet. ‘Order! Order!’

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Mpongo, ‘what do you order?’

‘I order the Parliamentary Disciplinary Committee to consider whether you should be expelled from this House for ignoring the Speaker. I order the Police Farce to arrest you for using the derogatory and dimunitive ‘he’ to refer to His Most Beautiful and Sweet Smelling Excellency the President. And I order the Chief Injustice to bring you before a full bench for questioning the independence of the judiciary.’

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Mpongo, as he walked out of the chamber. ‘You’ve forgotten about the separation of powers. You’re ordering the end of the constitution…’

Suddenly the screen went blank, and then the newsreader re-appeared. ‘We must apologise to the viewers. We seem to have lost the rest of that clip. However, in a later development, Mr Pong Mpongo was arrested by alert security officers in the parliament carpark, for threatening the security of the state by reversing without a reversing licence.

‘In another development in Mongu, St Paul has been arrested for holding a meeting in his church without a police permit, and for being in unauthorized possession of a placard bearing the anti-government slogan Thou shalt not steal.

‘But in a more positive development, the Secretary for Propaganda, Mr Dickhead Jelly, has announced that the president is pleased to promote the Auditor General, Ms Granny Chongololo to the diplomatic service, where she is now the Second Secretary in Northern Siberia.

I turned off the TV and banged the table. ‘Things are going from bad to worse! This country is falling apart!’

‘Order! Order!’ shouted Sara.

‘Order? What do you order?’

‘I order you,’ she laughed, ‘to go to the sideboard and get yourself a double brandy!’

THE GOOD SAUDI

The Good Saudi

The priest walked up to the lectern and opened the bible. ‘The lesson this morning is taken from the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 10, Verse 25 to 37, otherwise known as the Parable of the Good Saudi.

‘A man lay stripped and bleeding at the side of the road to Mecca. An ayatollah happened to be driving down that road, but he accelerated past, pretending not to see. Then came a busload of Palestinian pilgrims, but the driver said We have no time to stop, we shall be late for our prayers in Mecca.

‘Then along came a rich Saudi in his Cadillac. He stopped his car, lifted the poor man onto the back seat, took him back to his palace, bandaged his wounds and gave him antibiotics. And when he was well, he asked the man for his story.

‘I am a Yemeni, he explained, and I have been working as a watchman at an oil well for the past ten years. I had managed to save ten thousand dollars to take back to develop my village, to buy goats and plant olive trees, and to save my starving people. But I have been robbed and beaten, and now I might as well die, for my village will surely die.

‘Now the Saudi prince, who had never previously done a good deed in his life, suddenly saw a good chance to get to Heaven. My dear friend, he said, here is another ten thousand dollars to replace what you have lost, and another five hundred on top as transport money. Go back and develop your village. And if you have any more problems, just let me know.’

‘What is the moral of this story?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘We don’t have to worry about that,’ she replied, ‘the priest is employed to explain everything.’

‘And so it came to pass,’ continued the priest, ‘that a few years later the Good Saudi got an e-mail saying Village now doing better, exporting goats to Djibouti, but need village school for increasing number of children.

‘Now the Saudi saw the chance of an even better house in His Father’s Mansion, so he sent another ten thousand dollars. And so, as time went by, the Saudi had sent money for the borehole, for the clinic, and even a hundred thousand dollars to improve the road to Al Adan.

‘Hadn’t he read Dambisa Moyo’s book?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘All this happened before she was born,’ she replied.

‘And with the fullness of time, the good Saudi grew into an old man, and thought he’d better check on his direct foreign investment in Heaven. So he took a plane from Jiddah to Al Adan, and then a taxi to the village of Nyama El Soya, up in the hills of the Hadramawi.

And there, in the middle of the Empty Quarter, he found a sign saying Paradise on Earth, Funded by Prince El Riyal Bin Difid. He drove up a long palm drive, and came to a huge white marble mansion. A white uniformed servant opened the carved door into the mansion, and ushered him into a lush green garden. There he found his old Yemeni friend, now grossly fat, wearing only a towel, roasting a suckling pig on a huge mbaula. Round the huge swimming pool, fat old men were chasing naked young women.

‘Come in, come in, cried Nyama El Soya. Welcome! Another customer from Mecca! Taking a rest from the Haj! Ha ha! Have a glass of champagne! Sit down and choose your girl! Freshly imported from the Reed Market in Manzini! Only five hundred dollars a day! Ten thousand for take away!

‘Then the Good Saudi roared with indignation. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the one who saved your life, and invested in the development of your village. Where is the road, I found only desert? Where is the school and the clinic? Where are the goats and olive trees! You are a liar and a crook! I demand my money back!

‘Then the Yemeni roared with equal indignation. Don’t you come here poking your nose into my business! Yemen is a sovereign country, and we don’t want colonial foreigners telling us what to do! Pack your bags and go quickly, before I have you thrown out!’

Now the priest finally looked up from the Holy Book. ‘What,’ he asked, ‘do we think is the moral of this parable?’

Suggestions were quick to come from amongst the congregation…

‘Don’t try to help strangers.’

‘Don’t give money to crooks!’

‘Foreigners should be deported.’

‘Don’t try to buy a place in Heaven!’

‘Only rich people can help the poor.’

‘Foreign aid is the cause of corruption!’

‘Foreigners can’t understand the local culture!’

‘We must love our neighbours, especially the Swazi girls!’

‘No,’ said priest. ‘You’re all wrong, as usual. The moral of this story is that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Now, the collection plate is coming round, and I invite you to contribute to the bishop’s new church.’

‘Not me,’ I whispered to Sara. ‘He might be building a swimming pool!’

HAUNTED

Haunted

It was two o’clock in the morning, but the king couldn’t sleep. He was sitting up in his bed, his eyes looking into the gloom of his palatial bedroom. Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he heard an eerie high pitched whine, whoooo … whoooo ....whoooo. Then, as he stared into the darkness, he began to see the shape of a still figure in a long white robe, with large mournful eyes, staring at him…

‘Whooo do you think I am?’ whined the high pitched voice. ‘You know me, Nyamasoya. And I know youuuu …youuuu … youuuu. You said you would follow me! And you did! You followed me to my grave, Nyamasoya. Now I’ve come back to follow youuuu … youuuu …’

‘Aaarrghhh!’ the king screamed so loud that he woke up the queen, who also sat up in fright and turned on the light. ‘What’s happening? ‘Are we safe? Or are you having another of your funny turns?’

‘Over there in the corner!’ whimpered the king, ‘can’t you see him?’

‘There’s nobody over there.’ she scoffed. ‘It’s all in your head.’

‘Can’t you hear his voice, saying youuuu …youuuu … youuu?’

‘It’s just the wind in the trees, my dear. It happens this time of year. Just go back to sleep.’ So saying, she turned off the light. ‘I need my rest. I’ve got an important meeting of First Ladies tomorrow. We’re trying to sort out the awful mess our husbands have been making.’

But the king could not sleep. He sat there staring into the dark, fearing that the ghost would come back. Which it did, the next night…

‘Youuuu … youuuu … youuuuu,’ came the high pitched whine from the ghostly figure in the corner. Youuuu … youuuu chased me from this palace, but I have returned. You promised to follow me, but I am following you. You followed me to my office, and chased me out. Followed me to parliament, and threw me out. Followed me even to the hospital, followed me to my death. So now, O Great King, I am your follower, I shall always follow you…’

‘Aaarrghhh!’ screamed the king, as the queen woke up very annoyed. ‘For Christ’s sake be quiet!’ she shouted, hitting him with her pillow. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow, even if you haven’t.’

‘The ghost has come back,’ he blubbered.

‘I told you not to go round fixing your enemies,’ she replied sternly. ‘You haven’t got the stomach for it. Now they’re coming back to haunt you!’

The next morning the king called his Chief of Staff. ‘Get the royal jet ready, I’m off to see the King of Namibia!’

‘Do we have an invitation?’ asked the poor fellow. ‘Is it an official state visit?’

‘Never mind all that,’ shouted the king. ‘I need a change of air!’

‘But there was no escape. Even in the faraway palace of the Namibian king, there was still no sleep for the hapless Nyamasoya. ‘Youuuu … youuuu … youuuu thought you could escape me,’ came the same whining noise. ‘Just as you followed me, I am following youuuu. Your thugs followed my mourners to the funeral house, and had them beaten. They even followed me to my burial, so that they could beat anybody found weeping. And so I shall follow you to your unhappy end. Sleep no more, O King, for I am following you!’

For all his foreign trips, Nyamasoya could not escape the ghost. And his unfortunate subjects could not understand why their king was flying round the world like a demented soul, too frightened to return to his own palace.

And it got worse. One day, when the king was in Addis, and about to shake hands with the Chairman of the African Union of Dictators, the Chairman suddenly turned into a ghost, saying ‘Youuuu … youuuu … youuuu thought you could run away from me, but I am still following you!’

The poor demented king ran screaming from the conference hall, straight to his aeroplane, and ordered the pilot to fly to Heaven. ‘I’m going to fix this little pipsqueak once and for all!’ he roared.

High in the sky, he stepped out to find St Peter standing in front of the Pearly Gate. ‘I’m looking for a certain Lament Chipotamutima, who I think has been given accommodation here.’

‘Quite right,’ said St Peter. ‘A very sad case. He had been sorely persecuted by some mad king, so he was given instant admission. He’s now known as St Lament.’

‘You think he’s a saint, but he’s been haunting me!’ Nyamasoya shouted angrily. ‘So I’m here to clip his wings! I’m a king, here on a state visit! Let me in to see the Boss! A man in my position can’t stand here wasting time talking to the malonda! Iwe, open the gate, and be quick about it, or I shall get back in my royal aeroplane and return to Earth!’

‘Your aeroplane has already left,’ said St Peter calmly. ‘I have instructions from the Boss that you should go downstairs, where you will be accommodated in the Other Place.’

‘What!’ shouted the king. ‘Downstairs! How far down? What’s down there?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said St Peter. ‘I have asked St Lament to follow you.’

[Story based on an idea from Michelo Simuyandi]

Plunder Awards

Plunder Awards

The ZNBC news had just finished. 'What a load of lies and half baked propaganda!' I snorted. 'We must be the last people in Zambia who are still watching this rubbish!'


'Lets turn to Sky News,' said Sara gently, trying to calm me. 'They might have some news about Zambia. Maybe there's been a coup d'etat, or at least at food riot. Something must be happening.'


But imagine our surprise when we switched to Sky News and actually found a news story from Zambia. There was Frank Mupimpila, microphone in hand, saying 'As Master of Ceremonies for tonight, I am pleased to welcome a world-wide audience to the very first Zambian Plunder Awards!'


The camera panned to an expensive audience of the fat and wealthy, all gathered around tables laden with champagne and lobster, and chatting excitedly amongst themselves, wondering who amongst them would be honoured with a coveted Plunder Award.


'America is famous for its films,' began Frank, 'and therefore hosts the famous Oscars Ceremony. Britain is famous for its writers, and has the Booker Prize. But Zambia is a very different place. In terms of natural resources Zambia is estimated to be the richest country in the world, but has the great majority of its citizens living in abject poverty. This famous and startling contrast is entirely due to the extraordinary talent and relentless hard work of our world famous plunderers, most of whom are with us here tonight at the Mulungushi Hall, right here in Lusaka.' With this high praise, everybody present gave themselves a loud round of applause.


'And without wasting any more time,' declared Frank, 'the first Plunder Award is for massive misappropriation, far beyond the call of duty. In this area of endeavour there was no performance which exceeded the expenditure of a hundred million on the purchase of three thousand coffee tables. These tables were supposedly bought for a state funeral, but none of them were ever seen, and they are therefore presumed to have gone to heaven with the late departed. So this year's winner of the Plunder Award for massive misappropriation is, of course, our beloved Minister for Massive Deception, the infamous Mr Mouth Mulufyanya!'


The crowd roared their approval as Mulufyanya stepped up to the stage to accept his well deserved Plunder Award, in the form of a golden key mounted on a polished mukwa base. 'Each Plunder Award takes the form of this Golden Key,' explained Frank, 'which will open the winner's new safety deposit box at the Credit Swisse Bank in Geneva!


'The next Plunder Award,' announced Frank, 'is for the shabbiest form of plunder. This goes to the former minister who claimed payment for staying ten nights at the Red Light Guest House in Luanshya, although all ten receipts show the same date!'


'Hurray!' laughed the crowd! 'It was a long night! He didn't see the red light!'


'This award goes, of course, to Mr Pong Mpongo,' announced Frank, as the crowd booed.


'And now,' said Frank, 'we come to an award for which there is considerable competition. This is the award for ignoring tender procedures, and I have four nominees, as follows: Firstly, the Police Farce, who failed to arrest themselves; secondly, King Kong, for ordering invisible fuel; thirdly, Dollar Sillier, who was sillier than the attorney general; and lastly, Silver Masapo, who ordered a hundred hearses for her own funeral.


'And the winner is … Miss Dollar Sillier.'


'Sillier and sillier!' cheered the crowd as a huge woman, squeezed into a tight red suit, came to collect her prize. She tottered dangerously on her high heel shoes as she climbed the steps onto the stage. 'Her position is precarious,' sniggered Frank, as the crowd cheered, 'she may fall at any moment!


'Now we come to the two big prizes of the evening,' announced Frank. 'Firstly there is the Life Time Achievement Award, which goes to the incomparable Mr Kafupi Mupupu. He started life as a mere bus conductor stealing bus fares, but rose to the position of National Plunderer-in-Chief, where he invented the modalities for looting the Treasury. He is an example to us all.


'Secondly we have Mr Round Belly Nyamasoya, who is given the Legacy Award for giving the word legacy a new meaning. He has faithfully kept his promise in following the legacy of his predecessor by maintaining and even exceeding the previous levels of plundering.


'Unfortunately, neither of these illustrious award winners is able to be with us, so I invite any member of the judiciary here tonight to come and collect their awards on their behalf.' The crowd cheered long and loud as the nation's most notorious magistrate rose to collect the awards.


Now the camera moved to the reception area, where Henry Ngalati was interviewing the President of Transparency International, Mr Rueful Lifulo. 'Well, Mr Lifulo, how do you see this evening's proceedings? Were the awards fairly allocated, or was there corruption in the selection of winners?'


'We are very pleased with the results,' answered Lifulo. 'As you know, the judging was based on the reports of the Auditor General, and we are very satisfied that she carried out her work with he utmost transparency and accountability.'


'So these awards have given recognition to her good work?'


'Very much so. In the past we have complained that her annual reports were simply ignored. But now at last action has been taken.'