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]  

A New Husband for MMD

A New Husband for MMD

     ‘The hour has come,’ declared the Chairman, as the crowd cheered and gave the one finger salute. ‘We are here at the Rock of Authority to choose a new husband for our dear Mother Mary of Democracy, fondly known to all of us as MMD.’

     ‘Hurray,’ shouted the crowd, ‘bring on the suitors!’

     ‘Let me first advise everybody on the sort of husband we are looking for,’ said the Chairman. ‘Mary of Democracy is the Mother of our Great Family who has always guided us. Unfortunately, because of our tradition, she could not be the Father of the Nation, so we have always had to elect a man as to take care or our Mother.’

     ‘And they always treated her badly!’ shouted a woman from the back.

     ‘Abash gender violence,’ shouted another.

     ‘Unfortunately,’ admitted the Chairman, ‘Our Mother has not been fortunate with her husbands. We gave her Kafupi, but she left him after he became the Master of Multi Deceit. She fell in love with the Mighty Muwelewele Democrat, but he was so good he was taken by the Lord. Then came the dreadful Monster of Muddled Depravity, who drove our poor Mother to her grave.’

     ‘So if she’s dead,’ somebody shouted, ‘why does she need a husband?’

     ‘Is there no way to escape a husband?’ cried one woman.

     ‘She is our soul and our spirit,’ explained the Chairman, ‘which lives on. Ours is a matrilineal clan, and all authority is derived from the Founder of the Clan. Any new leader must undergo ritual and symbolic marriage to our Mother who, according to our sacred tradition, founded the Clan in 1991 at the Garden Hotel in Lusaka, where she gave birth to a room full of instant leaders.’

     ‘Where are they now?’ somebody asked.

     ‘In jail,’ answered another.

     ‘Get on with it!’ shouted somebody else. ‘Where are the suitors?’

     ‘I now call upon the first suitor,’ said the Chairman, ‘to come to the microphone and tell us why he thinks he should be the new husband for our beloved MMD. I give you the first candidate, Mr Fidgit Mutanti.’

     Onto the stage climbed a stiff robot of a man, who began to speak in a continuous monotone, while jerking his arms in a strange mechanical manner, and speaking without moving his lips. ‘I am the right man for MMD because I understand economics and supply and demand and fiscal discipline and foreign investment and I have memorized all the IMF guidelines all the way from the contents page to the bibliography and …

     ‘Get him off!’ shouted the crowd, as they hurled rotten tomatoes, and the robot climbed stiffly down from the stage, never to be seen again.

     ‘I now call upon Mr Shitulene Musokelela,’ declared the Chairman, as a shifty old bald fellow slid slyly up to the microphone, his eyes looking left and right and up and down. Then he began to mumble into the microphone, saying ‘I have over a thousand bicycles at my farm which will be your reward when you vote for me…’

     ‘Rotten egg!’ shouted the crowd, as a rotten egg hit Musokelela full in the face.       ‘Bring on Mumbo Jumbo!’

      A fat greasy little fellow immediately jumped energetically onto the stage and shouted at the crowd. ‘Do you believe in God?’

     ‘Yes!’ shouted the crowd enthusiastically, ‘Hallelujah!’

     ‘Do you believe in the resurrection?’

     ‘Yes!’ they all shouted.

     ‘And life everlasting?’

     ‘For ever and ever, Amen,’ chanted the crowd.

     ‘Then why should you choose one of these dead suitors to marry a dead woman, when you have a live pastor who can resurrect our dear MMD, so we can live together as Father and Mother of the Nation!’

     ‘Hurray!’ they shouted. ‘Eternal life with Pastor Mumbo Jumbo!’

     ‘Can he really do resurrections?’ some people asked

     ‘Oh yes,’ somebody else answered. ‘He has resurrected himself six times already!’

     ‘Then let him resurrect MMD!’ everybody shouted.

     ‘By popular acclamation,’ declared the Chairman, ‘Mumbo Jumbo is the winner!’

     ‘Now I am your leader!’ shouted Mumbo Jumbo. ‘Follow me to the graveyard!’

     It was an hour later when Mumbo Jumbo stood by the broken gravestone, pointed to the letters MHSRIP and said ‘Tell me, what do these letters mean?’

     ‘May Her Soul Rest in Peace,’ chanted the crowd.

     ‘No!’ shouted Mumbo Jumbo, as he raise his arms to Heaven. ‘You must have faith! These letters mean May Her Self Resurrect in Person! And I call upon the Lord to bring her back to us right now!’

     And, sure enough, as he spoke there was a crack of thunder, and the earth in front of the gravestone began to move, and rise up. Then out of the ground rose a thin and ghostly figure, wearing a white shroud on which was written CC in large letters.’

     ‘CC!’ people asked one another. ‘What can it mean?’

     ‘Perhaps it means Christ Crucified!’ somebody suggested.

     ‘Or Christian Country,’ said another.

     ‘Perhaps it’s our new party slogan,’ shouted another. ‘Corruption Cancelled!’

     But another shouted ‘It means that the Christian Coalition has been resurrected!’

     And even as he said it, ghostly figures were beginning to rise up from all the graves, as the crowd began to panic, running helter-skelter, over the unkept mounds and broken gravestones, some shouting ‘Judgement Day!’ Others shouting ‘Witchcraft!’

     Pastor Mumbo Jumbo was left standing in the gathering gloom, surrounded only by his ghosts. ‘Yes,’ he announced with satisfaction, ‘A marriage in a graveyard. My beloved Christian Coalition is back!’

    

A Fake Certificate

A Fake Certificate

‘Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘you are faced with a charge of obtaining employment with a fake certificate. What do you have to say for yourself?’

     ‘My Lord,’ I pleaded, ‘how was I to know it was fake? It was handed to me by the Yunza Chancellor himself at a public Graduation Ceremony in front of thousands of graduates and their relatives.’

     ‘But you Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘you obviously knew very well that you had miserably failed your exams in Physical Statistics.’

     ‘Of course I knew that, My Lord. But my degree certificate said that I had obtained a degree in Political Satire.’

     ‘Surely it much have occurred you, Kalaki, that you were the unfortunate victim of a typographical error, and that you should have owned up?’

     ‘On the contrary,’ I explained, ‘my respect for our highest institution of learning was such that it never occurred to me that an entire senate of learned academics could make such an elementary blunder.’

     ‘But did you not notice that your certificate said Political Satire instead of Physical Statistics?’

     ‘Indeed I did, My Lord. And I was much pleased and flattered that Yunza had finally recognized my imaginative sense of humour in the subversive messages I had written on every available wall during my five years of secret nocturnal campus roaming.’

     ‘You imagined,’ scoffed the judge, ‘that you had been conferred with a degree for writing filthy graffiti on lavatory walls?’

     ‘My Lord,’ I protested, ‘you have given a most unsympathetic description of my hard work at Yunza, ever busy fomenting an exciting counter-culture. And how could I doubt my success when I received a degree in Political Satire from none other than the Chancellor, who personally congratulated me.’

     The judge looked genuinely puzzled. ‘So you were now really persuaded that you could write Political Satire?’

     ‘At that time I had the highest respect for Yunza,’ I replied firmly, ‘and they had declared me qualified in Political Satire with First Class Honors!’

     ‘Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘I have seen the offending certificate, and I suggest to you that the words to which you refer actually read First Class Horrors!’

     ‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘I fear you must have slightly misread the rather difficult gothic script.’

     The judge now put his head in his hands and sighed. ‘So you now went out into world with your new certificate, looking for a job.’

     ‘That’s right My Lord. But this was during the One Party State, when the profession of Political Satire was entirely banned, along with Terrorism, Bomb Making and Having an Opinion. For twenty years I was entirely unemployed.’

     ‘And did you write satire during this period?’

     ‘Certainly not. As a university graduate I now needed a large salary before doing any work.’

     ‘But finally you went to the new Boast Newspaper and showed them your certificate?’

     ‘Yes. And they employed me immediately as a political satirist because they have great respect for university certificates.’

     ‘But then,’ said the judge, ‘came the fateful day, twenty years later, when a letter came from Yunza saying that your certificate was erroneous.’

     ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I replied, wiping a tear from my face. ‘The letter explained that the clerical officer who wrote my certificate was illiterate, and that he had obtained his job with a fake certificate. He had confessed the whole thing on his deathbed, forty years later.’

     ‘So you were fired,’ said the judge.

     ‘Yes. The editor was furious, saying that the fake certificate had deceived him into thinking I was writing satire, when I had actually been writing rubbish.’

     ‘Kalaki, you’re just a fake, and you know it!’

     I leant towards him from the dock and looked at him sternly. ‘Because of this fake clerical officer, half the graduates in this country are fake. That’s why the country is in such a mess!’

     ‘It’s you that’s before this court,’ retorted the judge, ‘so don’t concern yourself with the others. Normally, in a case like this, I would send you back to Yunza to do your degree properly.’

     ‘But in my case?’

     ‘In your case, investigations show that you got into Yunza on a fake Form 5 certificate, in the name of Kalaliki instead of Kalaki. So I should send you back to Luanshya Secondary School to repeat your Form V.’

     ‘But in my case?’

     ‘In your case, records show a discrepancy between your actual Grade VII results and the marks on your secondary school entry form. In the normal course of events, I should send you back to Grade I at Mpatumatu Primary School.’

     ‘But in my case?’ I asked hopefully.

     ‘In your case, Kalaki,’ said the judge in a kindly voice, ‘since you have just been appointed the New Minister for Certification, I find you not guilty!’

     Now the whole courtroom burst into applause and cheers, prompting more cheers from the theatre audience. As the actors all lined up to bow to the audience, our director Stewart Crehan came on stage and bowed, to more applause.

     A young woman now walked out from the wings and stood centre stage. Stewart put his arm affectionately round her shoulder and looked towards the audience, saying ‘Kulenga Mapwepwe would have liked to have written this play, but unfortunately she wasn’t qualified because she didn’t have a certificate!’

     How we all laughed and cheered!

The Cobra Spits

The Cobra Spits

‘Grandpa,’ said Nawiti, ‘can you tell me one of your Mfuwe stories?’

‘All my grandchildren seem to like my Mfuwe stories,’ I laughed. ‘And so, for you tonight, I shall tell you a completely new story, called The Cobra Spits.’

‘How does the story begin?’ asked Nawiti.

‘It begins,’ I said, ‘with all the animals of Mfuwe being very unhappy, because the Old Dinosaur, King Nyamasoya, had given permission to the Eager Beavers from China to come into the beautiful land of Mfuwe. These Eager Beavers were cutting down the all the mukwa trees and floating them down the Luangwa River for export to China.’

‘So the animals were getting rich, selling all those trees.’

‘No, the Eager Beavers were stealing the trees. And the monkeys were paid only a few peanuts to strip the branches, and the elephants were paid only a few bananas to drag the trunks all the way to the river. Every year the animals were more hungry and the forest was disappearing.’

‘But why didn’t the animals go to the Palace and complain to the king?’

‘King Nyamasoya listened to nobody, and if anybody complained he would set his hyenas on them. He was only afraid of the Spitting Cobra, who could frighten the hyenas. Several times the Cobra had climbed up the thick scales of the aged Dinosaur and spat in his face.

‘Now there was so much dissatisfaction with the old Dinosaur that the Spitting Cobra saw his chance. He went to the elephants and said Make me King and I’ll get rid of Old Nyamasoya and all his Eager Beavers.

‘But the Wise Old Elephant said What else are you doing to do for us? You must give the forest to us Elephants so that all the fruit is ours! So Spitting Cobra agreed. Then he went to the Monkeys and asked them what they wanted. We want all of the forest, so we can eat all the fruit! they demanded. And again the Cobra agreed.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti, ‘how could he promise the forest to both the Elephants and the Monkeys?’

‘He was a politician,’ I explained, ‘and he wanted their support. He promised the Zebra that he would banish the Lions, but he promised the Lions that he would put a fence round the Zebra so that they would be easy to catch. He promised the Rhinoceroses that all of his ministers would be appointed from amongst their number, and then went off to the Hippopotamuses and promised exactly the same thing.’

‘And so he became King?’

‘Of course,’ I laughed. ‘All the animals surrounded the Palace and shouted Shushushu! and Nyamasoya's hyenas ran away. Then the Cobra went in and climbed up the shivering Dinosaur and spat in his eyes, blinding him completely. The Dinosaur ran away to Jurassic Park and was never seen again. And so the Cobra became King, and all the animals celebrated.’

‘And did he kick out the Eager Beavers?’

‘No. He held a great feast in their honour, and said that more Eager Beavers should come and they could chop down as many trees as they like!’

‘He did the opposite!’ squealed Nawiti. ‘Why was that?’

‘He needed the money from the export of mukwa!’

‘Of course!’ laughed Nawiti. ‘I never thought of that! They don’t teach us economics in Grade 1! But did he keep the rest of his promises?’

‘None of them,’ I laughed. ‘Because he had promised opposite things to different animals.’

‘Of course!’ laughed Nawiti, clapping her hands. ‘It all cancelled down to nothing! They don’t teach us logic in Grade 1! So now he was in a fix! What did the snake do to wriggle out of that?’

‘He said he couldn’t organize the country properly because all the animals wanted different things. He therefore announced a series of measures to change the animals so that they didn’t have opposing interests.’

‘What were his directives?’

‘He ordered the Fish to learn to fly, and the Fish Eagles to learn to swim, and new schools to be built for this purpose. Similarly the Lions should learn to eat grass and not be tempted to bite Zebra, while the Zebra would all be kept captive in the Palace garden so that they wouldn’t put lions into temptation.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Of course not. At first the animals protested, but every day came more pronouncements on his marvelous new system. One day a Lion was made Minister for Moving Zebra, and even before the animals had finished laughing there was another announcement that the river was being moved nearer the Palace for administrative convenience.’

‘Did nobody go to talk to him?’

‘Nobody can argue with a Spitting Cobra. It just spits in your face.’

‘So did the King manage to move the river?’

‘Of course not. Every day the King stood in his Palace and gave more strange directives. And every day the animals ignored him, and went about their normal business.’

‘So things remained the same as under King Nyamasoya?’

‘Of course.’

‘So how did it all end?’

‘It all ended when the forest had all been chopped down, the Eager Beavers had all swum back to China, and all the animals of Mfuwe were starving.’

‘So what did King Cobra do then?’

‘He ordered that all the animals of Mfuwe should move to Tongaland, and that all the animals of Tongaland should move to Chibombo.’

‘And did it work?’

‘Of course not,’ I laughed.

‘Why not?’ asked Nawiti.

‘Because he hadn’t bothered to consult the animals of Tongaland.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nawiti sadly. ‘Even in Grade 1, we learn to consult.’

Gabon Fever!

Gabon Fever!

I was sitting in the waiting room when I heard the doctor call my name. I slung my Chipolopolo scarf around my neck, wrapped myself in the national flag, picked up my vuvuzela, and marched unsteadily in the direction of the doctor’s surgery.

Dr Rawat was waiting for me at the door. ‘Come in, Kalaki,’ she said, as I stumbled into the room and fell laughing into a chair. Rawat sat down and looked at me so seriously that I couldn’t stop laughing.

But finally I managed to get control of myself and stood up straight. Then I slowly lifted my vuvuzela to my lips and gave her a good blast in her right ear. ‘Ha ha!’ I shouted, as I swung my scarf around my head, ‘We won!’

‘Kalaki,’ she said, ‘you look terrible!’

I leant towards her and put my finger to my lips. ‘Don’t kubeba!’ I whispered.

‘Go and lie down on the bed,’ she said sternly.

‘Oh doctor,’ I said, putting my arm around her shoulder, ‘I didn’t know you cared!’

‘I do care for you, Kalaki,’ she said kindly, ‘it’s my job. But I only wish I could get some help from you.’

‘You’re the one that’s being paid to do it,’ I laughed, ‘I’ve got my own problems.’

She held me down on the bed while she examined me. ‘Your pulse is 150, your temperature is 40.3, your blood pressure is 240 over 140 and your eyes are very bloodshot!’

‘Be Jesus!’ I exclaimed. ‘Am I dead already? And it’s only yesterday I was as fit as a fiddle, or possibly two fiddles! Tell me doctor, give it to me straight! I’m a brave man when I’ve got the spirit in me! Shall I live to see the World Cup? Or shall I fall victim to a prophesy from TB  Joshua?’

‘You’re suffering from Gabon Fever,’ she declared solemnly. ‘It’s all over!’

‘All over!’ I gasped. ‘The final curtain?’

‘No, Kalaki,’ she laughed, ‘I meant it’s all over everywhere?’

‘What?’ I said, pulling up my trouser leg, ‘am I coming out in a rash?’

‘I mean Gabon Fever has spread all over Zambia!’ she laughed. ‘Come back and sit in the chair, and I’ll give you some medicine.’ She leant back to the shelf behind her and took down a little bottle of red pills. ‘You take two of these three times a day, and you should be alright by the end of the week.’

‘God bless you doctor,’ I said. ‘If only I’d brought my sainted mother to see you, she’d still be with us today.’

‘But no alcohol while you’re taking the pills,’ said Dr Rawat, smiling sweetly.

‘What!’ I shouted, leaning over and catching her by her stethoscope, ‘You silly old bat! I’ve told you never to give me pills that can’t be washed down with alcohol! You can stick your pills up your vuvuzela!’

‘Calm yourself, Kalaki,’ she said as she deftly disengaged herself, ‘It’s one of the symptoms of Gabon Fever. Lack of respect for authority!’

‘What d’you  mean, you cheeky little quack! I’ve never had any respect for authority!’

‘That’s why there was such chaos when the team arrived,’ explained Rawat. ‘Gabon Fever! The fans were on the runway, up the control tower, everywhere! The police couldn’t do anything!’

‘Ha ha,’ I cackled, ‘What can they do! All they know is tear gas and guns! If they do anything they just cause a riot!’

‘Driven by Gabon Fever,’ continued the doctor, ‘the fans ignored the police, ignored all the rules of the road and ignored all the government ministers!’

‘Ha ha,’ I shouted, jumping onto my seat and blowing my vuvuzela. ‘See how Dotty Scotty was left opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water! See how we declared a public holiday for ourselves and left the schools and factories empty!’

‘Get down now Kalaki. I’ve got other patients waiting.’

‘See how the government tried to take the credit, when all they had done was to try to sack the coach!’

‘Please, Kalaki, just swallow two of these pills!’

‘Let them show us the Gabon Disaster Report, then we shall see how the government can help football!’

‘Please, Kalaki, this is a non-political hospital!’

But I blew my vuvuzela in her face. ‘See how the bogus bishops tried to take the credit, saying their prayers had been answered! Saying God had favoured us! But we blew our vuvuzelas in their faces, and instead thanked our boys for their determination and skill!’

‘Kalaki, get down from this chair!’

Down I jumped, off the chair and into the corridor, blowing my vuvuzela as hard as I could.

When I opened my eyes I found myself surrounded by a bile-green plastic curtain. Sara was sitting at the side of my bed. She put her hand on my forehead. ‘You’ve come round at last,’ she said, ‘you’ve had a bad attack of Gabon Fever.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘When you blew your vuvuzela, your eyes popped clean out of their sockets.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘I was just scoring two penalties.’

‘The other patients were so frightened,’ said Sara, ‘that they all ran away. One fellow who hadn’t walked for years jumped out of his wheelchair and ran straight out through the gate!’

‘That wasn’t my fault! They were just going to join the celebrations!’

‘You infected them with Gabon Fever!’

‘Did I?’

‘You did.’

‘Oh Good!’    

The Minister's Visit

The Minister’s Visit

What a scene it was at Shoprite Manda Hill!  Suddenly the ZNBC camera crew arrived and set up their lights, right in front of the checkout counters. Next came a bunch of security men, black suits and dark glasses, jabbering into their walkie-talkies, and forming a menacing circle in front of the cameras. Then down from his upstairs office came the managing director, Mr Johannesburg Kurtz, to see what was going on. Finally, there was a roll of drums, and trotting into the shop came a huge fat rhinoceros of a man, squeezed into a bright blue suit three sizes too small for him.

A shiver of excitement went through the crowd of shoppers, as they began to crowd around this impromptu theatre, wondering what was going to happen next.

The rhinoceros took a step towards Mr Kurtz, who put out his hand to greet him. But the rhinoceros ignored the hand and instead stabbed a short fat finger into Kurtz’s chest and barked into his face ‘Do you know who I am?’

The hapless Mr Kurtz leaned backwards, trying to escape the stench of bad breath. ‘I don’t doubt that you’re about to tell me.’

‘Don’t think you can be rude to me!’ squealed the rhinoceros, now spitting fire into Kurtz’s face. ‘I’m the Honorable Mr Chipembele Kambilimbili, Minister for Labour, Factory Inspections, Work Permits and Instant Deportations.’

Now Chipembele pushed his finger up Kurtz’s nose, as Kurtz raised himself on his toes to try to save himself from this embarrassing intrusion into his person. ‘You wouldn’t be allowed to be rude to a minister in your own country!’

‘Well actually,’ said Kurtz, as he finally managed to lift his nose off from the end of Chipembele’s finger, ‘that’s not entirely true, because in my country…’

‘Well you’re not in your country now!’ squealed Chipembele, ‘You’re in my country. And here you have to be polite to the minister!’

‘Certainly sir,’ said Kurtz, bowing slightly. ‘Is there any matter in which I can be of assistance? Are you returning some foodstuffs which were not entirely up to your expectation? Some ice-cream that was too cold? Some chocolate that proved too sweet? A bottle of wine, perhaps, which tasted of alcohol?’

A ripple of mirth went round the audience.

Chipembele put his mouth up against Kurtz’s ear and screamed ‘Ever since you arrested my nephew for stealing a tube of toothpaste I’ve been waiting to get even with you. And now I’ve come to sort you out! I’m here to inspect your shop!’

‘Certainly sir,’ replied Kurtz, ‘Let me first show you our extensive range of toothpastes, all at competitive prices.’

‘But not free of charge,’ said a voice from the audience, as everybody laughed and clapped.

But Chipembele now ignored Kurtz, and instead bent down to the cashier at the checkout counter. ‘How much do they pay you my dear?’

‘Twenty thousand a day,’ she replied sadly.

‘Just as I thought!’ shouted the minister. ‘Slavery! I hereby increase your wage by 100%! You will now receive two million a day! With immediate effect!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘A man of action!’

After the cheering had died down, Kurtz said ‘I think you’ll find a 100% increase on twenty pins brings the daily wage from twenty to forty pins.’

‘Boo!’ laughed the crowd. ‘Deport him!’

‘Everybody knows,’ scoffed Chipembele, as he turned to the crowd, ‘that a 100% increase means adding two zeros, so twenty thousand becomes two million! We employ foreigners who can’t even do arithmetic, while our own graduates remain unemployed!’

‘Revoke his work permit!’ shouted the crowd, as they laughed and clapped.

Now the minister, encouraged by the crowd, was warming to his task. He turned to the woman who had been just about to pay for her grocery. ‘How much are you being charged for all this?’

‘Three hundred and twenty thousand,’ replied the woman.

‘See how this Kurtz robs us!’ shouted Chipembele. ‘He knows very well that my government has just knocked off three zeros, and the right price should now be three hundred and twenty kwacha!’ He turned back to the customer, saying ‘Just give the cashier a one thousand note.’ Then turning to the cashier, he said ‘Now you give her change of six hundred and eighty kwacha.’

‘Hurray!’ laughed the crowd. ‘More money in our pockets!’

‘And look at this!’ Chipembele crowed, as he picked up a tin of sardines. ‘It says expiry date June 2016!’ Then he put his finger into the ring on the tin, and ripped off the lid. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as he lifted a sardine high into the air for all to see, ‘These sardines are all dead! They suffocated! They expired a long time ago!’

‘Even the chickens!’ laughed the crowd. ‘They’ve all expired!’

Then Chipembele swaggered up to Kurtz and tipped the contents of the tin over his head. Kurtz stood there patiently, wearing a wry smile, and wondering what might happen next, as the sardine oil dripped down his face.

And what happened next was even more surprising. The film director leapt out from behind the camera, shook Kurtz by the hand. ‘Well done!’ he said, as everybody cheered. ‘You have just appeared on Candid Camera!’

‘Good God!’ laughed Kurtz. ‘I never guessed! That ugly fat fellow really looks like Chipembele! I really thought he was the Minister of Labour and Whatever!’

‘And so he was!’ laughed the director. ‘But there was another reshuffle last week, and now he’s the Minister for Comedy and Error. We’re putting his comedy show on TV every night.’

‘I’ll watch out for it,’ said Kurtz. ‘What’s it called?’

‘It’s called The News,’ he replied.   

Constable Chilufya's New Year Resolutions

Constable Chilufya’s 
New Year Resolutions

Constable Chilufya sat motionless at his massive desk, admiring the huge picture of his own stern face on the opposite wall. Suddenly this famous man of action leapt into action, as he firmly and resolutely pressed one of the buttons on his desk.

Almost immediately there was a timid knock on the huge mukwa door, and then, as the door slowly creaked open, there appeared the figure of a trembling adviser, the hapless Mr Wobbly Wamwenso, Presidential Adviser for Inadvertently Amusing Announcements.

‘You’re late!’ shouted Chilufya, ‘You should have been here three minutes ago with your proposed draft of my Ten New Year Resolutions.’

‘Sorry Your Excellency. Here they are Your Excellency,’ squealed Wobbly Wamwenso, as he quickly traversed the acre of excellent Persian carpet in front of His Excellency’s excellent desk. His wobbly knees knocked together loudly, and his hand shook as he offered Chilufya a fluttering sheet of paper, and tried not to piddle on the Persian carpet.

‘What!’ roared Chilufya. ‘Only one miserable page! You’re supposed to have been working on this since the end of September! Is that all you can produce! Let me have a look!’ he snarled as he snatched the sheet of paper and looked at it. ‘What! Only ten resolutions! The nation expects a lot more promises from a man of my enormous promise! Sit down!’

Poor little Wamwenso had to kneel down on the carpet because Chilufya’s huge throne was the only chair in the room.

Now Chilufya began to read in a loud derisive tone. ‘First Resolution: I shall continue the war against corruption. Is that all you can say?’ roared Chilufya. ‘Which corruption? Corruption is everywhere! What you should have said is that I shall continue the fight against corruption in the previous government.’

‘What about corruption in this government?’ whimpered Wamwenso.

‘That’s the job of the next government,’ shouted Chilufya. 'Now the Second Resolution: I shall introduce the new constitution within 90 days. Within 90 days of what? What you mean is that I shall introduce the new constitution within 90 days of my retirement!

‘The next one is even worse! I shall introduce the windfall tax. Windfall tax? What is this, you miserable halfwit?’

‘I’ve no idea, Your Excellency. I just read about it in the newspaper.’

‘You idiot, you mean the rainfall tax. The revenue collected from this tax will be invested in the Meteorological Department to enable them to plan and implement a programme of increased rainfall in future.

‘And the next one, I shall increase the number of women in my cabinet?  Can’t you even finish a sentence?  I shall increase the number of women … provided that they promise not to provoke gender violence by talking about gender equality.’

‘My apologies, Your Excellency, I foolishly overlooked your abhorrence of gender violence.’

‘And even more foolish is the Fifth Resolution: I shall uphold the rule of law. You mean uphold the rule of law by telling the police who to arrest and by instructing the judges on which ones are guilty.

‘Sorry, I overlooked that bit.’

‘As a man of action I need to say how I am going to implement my promises. Now look at the next one: I promise to protect the security of the nation. You have completely omitted to say by putting the Shushushu to spy on all the opposition members of parliament who are undermining the security of the nation by criticizing the government.

‘And the Seventh is even worse. I shall ensure full employment for all. All of whom? All the unemployed? We can’t possibly employ all these lazy people! I can only promise full employment to the Chinese because they work hard and bring development.’

‘Development, yes Your Excellency, sorry Your Excellency, I’d forgotten about that.’

‘Sorry is not good enough, you dunderhead,’ Chilufya shouted angrily. ‘You’re incompetent! Useless! You’re fired, with immediate effect!’

Poor Wobbly Wamwenso turned and made his wobbly way towards the door, leaving behind a wet patch on the Persian carpet.

He had nearly reached the door when he heard another coarse shout from the Mighty Chilufya: ‘Wait a minute, I have just seen your Eighth Resolution: I solemnly promise that I shall implement all of my New Year Resolutions, subject to my presidential discretion on whether to take action or not. Perhaps you’re not quite as stupid as I had thought. Come back here!’

Wobbly Wamwenso came wobbling back to the same damp spot on the carpet that he had left only a minute earlier. ‘I hereby revoke your dismissal,’ declared Chilufya, ‘and you are hereby re-appointed as a Senior Presidential Adviser, with immediate effect!

‘And now,’ continued Chilufya, ‘Let us look more calmly at New Year Resolution Number Nine. I promise to remain steadfast in all my decisions and never to flip-flop or U-turn.’

 Constable Chilufya stood there silent, slowly turning purple in the face. Finally he exploded with a scream. ‘Get out you cheeky chakolwa! Get out! You’re fired! With immediate effect!’

Chilufya was still trying to calm himself down when the First Lady put her head round the door. ‘I’ve got The Boast on the phone asking for your New Year Resolutions. What shall I tell them?

‘Tell them,’ replied Chilufya, ‘that I have only one resolution. I have resolved to give jobs to everybody.’

‘Yes, dear, if you say so.’

Now Chilufya was again alone in his office.  ‘That’s right,’ he growled at the closed door, ‘I have resolved to give jobs to everybody … except presidential advisers!’

The Chilufya Comedy Show

The Chilufya Comedy Show

‘Come quick,’ Sara shouted, ‘you’re missing the Chilufya Comedy Show!’ I rushed to the sitting room, and settled down in front of the TV.

There on the screen, standing behind his famous desk, surrounded by his comedy team, with a stern expression on his face, was our favourite comedian, Constable Chilufya.

In front of the desk stood a bent old man with a bald head. His left hand clutched a stick to prevent him falling over, but his right hand was raised high, holding a bible. Saliva dribbled down his chin as he pronounced the sacred oath of office, ‘I solemnly swear to keep government secrets.’

‘And I hope you do,’ said Constable Chilufya severely. ‘I don’t want any loose or careless talk in my government. For example, yesterday I overheard somebody gossiping that the previous minister was receiving three salaries, that his qualifications were fake, and that he was previously fired from Yunza for stealing students’ bicycles. Now this is the sort of information which must be kept strictly secret, otherwise it could undermine investor confidence.’

‘Ha ha,’ I laughed. ‘His humour has a fine sense of irony.’

‘Yes,’ laughed Sara. ‘And I like the way he keeps a straight face.’

‘Yes, Your Most Sacred Excellency,’ said the poor old man, as he tried to step backwards but tripped over his own walking stick. The Protocol Officer managed to catch him as he fell, and carry him out of the room.’

‘You see,’ said Constable Chilufya, ‘how soft hearted I am to re-appoint these ancient hangovers from an earlier age. Their pension funds were looted by the previous fake government, so I can only keep them alive by giving them fake jobs in my government.’

‘Even his lackeys,’ I laughed, ‘they also manage to keep straight faces.’

‘It's all part of the discipline of the comedy team,’ explained Sara. ‘But see how some of them are looking at their boots, or looking out of the window. They’re actually bursting to laugh, but they know they mustn’t! The whole joke is to make it look serious!’

As we were talking, the consummate comedian turned with deadpan expression to his next victim. ‘Mr Kwindili, as the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, you need to be respectful and diplomatic towards your subordinates. If you don’t respect your subordinates, they will never respect you.’ But having said that, Constable Chilufya looked slowly and menacingly around the room. ‘Talking of subordinates,’ he said, ‘where is my Secretary to the Cabinet this morning? The incompetent buffoon has been avoiding me ever since I discovered that he allowed a fake buyer to steal fake gold from right under his fat nose. Find the slippery fellow and bring him here immediately!’

Now up stepped up an old woman in a faded PF chitenge. She held the bible high, saying ‘I swear to find jobs for all my relatives.’

‘He’s actually appointing a woman!’ I exclaimed.

‘See what job she gets,’ Sara sneered.

‘Mrs Bwalya, I mean, er, Ms Kabanshi, I have appointed you to a very responsible position in the Ministry of Finance, as Chief Cleaner. But I have to warn you right now not to misuse your position in order to poke your nose in wrong places, or try to clean up this notoriously dirty ministry. Only yesterday I fired the previous Cleaner with immediate effect after she went into the fake Minister’s office and found him printing untold trillions of fake money on an old fake Gestetner duplicating machine. If news of this scandal had leaked out then the country could have suffered capital flight, a fall in the value of the kwacha, and possibly general financial panic.’

‘If people took him seriously,’ I laughed, ‘ he really could cause a financial collapse!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ laughed Sara. ‘Everybody knows it’s just a comedy show.’

Now up to the desk waddled a fat middle-aged man, whose open mouth and vacant expression belied the cunning in his beady little eyes. He held high the bible, saying ‘I swear to put an end to all the nonsense in this government.’

Constable Chilufya looked at him, seemingly puzzled. ‘Are you the new head of the DEC or the ACC? You can’t be the new Chief Justice, I’m not due to fire the crooked old fellow until next week. Were you given a letter of appointment? Let me see it. It might be a fake.’

‘I am Mr Sarcastic Sikota,’ he replied, ‘and I am here on behalf of my client Mr Sanctimonious Mumbo Jumbo, formerly Ambassador to Alaska, whom you have publicly accused of selling fake snow to the Eskimos. You have claimed that the evidence for these crimes was collected when the Director for Eskimo Corruption, the DEC, was sent on a fishing expedition to Alaska. Since these fake allegations have destroyed my client’s career as an ambassador, my client is claiming damages of one trillion to rebuild his career as a fake pastor.’

At this point Constable Chilufya leant forward and shook the hand of Sarcastic Sikota. ‘Ah, now I remember. I am swearing you in as Leader of the Task Force. Your job is to clear out all the nonsense and corruption from my government!’

‘Didn’t he appoint a new Task Force Leader last week?’ I laughed.

‘That one,’ laughed Sara, ‘turned out to be a fake.’

The Beast of Lingalinga

The Beast of Lingalinga

Lingalonga was a very strange land. It consisted of two cities, Lingalinga and Longalonga. But these two cities were complete opposites. Longalonga was a huge city of massive mansions and large green gardens, all built on rolling hills, but with very few people. These few people looked down on the little city of Lingalinga, where millions of people lived in little houses all squashed together, with no gardens at all. And no green grass, only dust.

The few people of Longalonga never did any work. They were the ruling class. If they wanted any money they would just phone Washington, and money would come. But although they never worked, they were never idle. They were always busy with cocktail parties, golf tournaments, charity feasts, recitals and that sort of thing. They very much liked organizing conferences to discuss the appalling problems in nearby Lingalinga. It hardly needs to be said that the people of Longalonga lived much longer than those in Lingalinga, which was why it was called Longalonga.

Things were very different in Lingalinga, where people had to work all day from morning to night. They had to provide the bricks and cement and gates and pipes and all the materials to build the huge mansions in Longalonga. And they also provided domestic services, and sometimes even sexual services for the nearby ruling class. They worked hard for little money, and could only afford to build tiny houses for themselves. There was so much sickness and poverty that the people of Lingalinga did not linger longer, which was why it was called Lingalinga.

But the main problem was the Beast of Lingalinga, which was so-called because it lingered in Lingalinga and was never seen in Longalonga. During the daytime there was no problem. The people went about their work happily, looking after the ruling class, laughing and singing as if they had not a care in the world. But at night came the Beast.

By eight o’clock at night the good people of Lingalinga would lock up their houses and turn off the lights and go to bed and hide under the blankets, because they knew the Beast was on the prowl. Parents would warn their children that if they misbehaved, the Beast would come and get them. And he would.

Any man walking on the road at night might be pounced upon by the Beast, and taken away to the monster’s lair, where the Beast would pull the man’s balls until he admitted being a thief. If the Beast could catch a lady of the night, she would be dragged away to his filthy lair and raped. If the Beast was in a bad mood, he could shoot bullets out of his nose, and kill you on the spot.

Sometimes a gang of hotheads would spot the Beast at his evil deeds, and would try to chase him away with stones. But then the vile Beast would raise his enormous rear into the air and let fly with a poisonous gas, to lie over the land like a yellow blanket, causing all the good people of Lingalinga to spend the next day coughing and vomiting, or in some cases dying.

And when such disturbances and riots occurred, the ruling class would become very agitated, complaining one to another about having to make breakfast for themselves because the maid hadn’t turned up. And later in the day they would be found at their cocktail parties, tipping gin martinis down their fat throats and discussing the problems of Lingalinga, saying such things as ‘They all drink too much, that’s their problem!’ Others would say ‘They should work harder and build themselves proper houses’. But the more shrewd would say ‘This is a good opportunity to get a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation to research into their problems’, to which another might reply ‘Oh My God, I shall have to charge five hundred dollars a day to go into that stinking place’.

But the good people of Lingalinga already knew the cause of all their problems. It was the Beast! The only question was, how to get rid of it? And where did the ghastly thing come from? Then up stood a young man, Mr Obama Kaponya, and said ‘this Beast has been sent by the King to terrorise us!’

‘But the people answered him, saying ‘No, no, why should our lovely King do such a thing to his beloved people?’

And Obama Kaponya said ‘Because he wants to kill us all, and give all our building work to the Chinese!’

And the people said ‘That’s it! Now we see it! Manje tachiona!’

But others protested, saying ‘But what can we do? We don’t appoint the King! We can’t do anything!’

‘Yes we can!’ declared Obama Kaponya. ‘Next week is the election! Vote him out! We shall appoint a new King! A King who loves us, and doesn’t send the Beast to terrorise us!’

And of course the people of Lingalinga were many, and the ruling class were few! So they voted in a new King who really loved the people. And when the new King was sworn in by four Catholic Bishops, the whole of Lingalinga rose in celebration. They celebrated all through the day, and they celebrated all through the night, and they continued to celebrate all through the next day. And they were quite ready to continue celebrating all through the next night.

But then the Beast came back.

The Beast of Lingalinga