The A Team!

The A-Team

            

           On board the Challenger jet sat the A-Team in all their impressive glory. In the centre of the aircraft, on his gold-plated throne, sat the Leader of the A-Team, His Excellency Cycle Mata. On his right, on a little wooden stool, sat his Minister for Nonsense and Disasters, Wobbly Dotty Scotty. On his left, sitting on the toilet, was the Smelly Hatchet Man, the frightening Splinter Kapimbe.

          ‘Well,’ said Cycle Mata, ‘Why are we going to Mansa, what’s the problem there?’

          ‘By-election,’ said Hatchet Man. ‘The forces of darkness and evil are plotting to take over the entire constituency by capturing votes which rightly belong to the Punching Fist. The opposition has been using Mansa Community Radio to claim that the PF is really the Bufi Party.’

          ‘So what’s our plan?’ said Cycle Mata.

          ‘We could offer to supply electricity to all the local primary schools,’ suggested Dotty Scotty.

          ‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Cycle Mata. ‘We promised that in the previous election. That’s why they’re calling us the Bufi Party.’

          ‘The answer is simple,’ snarled Hatchet Man. ‘We just declare a state of emergency, lock up the opposition and cancel all by-elections.’

          ‘Too grand a plan,’ cackled Cycle Mata, ‘I’m saving that one for later. This is just a preliminary operation. We shall just move in quickly, cancel the radio station license and arrest the station manager on suspicion of drug trafficking. Dotty, go and ask the pilot for our expected time of arrival so I can make some preliminary arrangements.’

          Two minutes later Dotty Scotty came wobbling back from the pilot’s cabin, his face even more pale than usual. ‘There’s nobody there!’

          ‘What are you talking about, you old fool!’ shouted Cycle Mata.

          ‘The cabin is empty. His parachute is missing.’

          ‘He’s Bemba,’ said Hatchet Man darkly. ‘He’s joined the B-Team.’

          ‘But look at those clouds all around us,’ said Cycle Mata, as he looked out of the window. ‘We’re still up in the air!’

          Dotty Scotty peered out of the window. ‘Those clouds are not moving!’ But even as he spoke, the clouds cleared and they could see that the plane was sitting on dry land.

          ‘Thank God for the autopilot,’ laughed Cycle Mata rather nervously. ‘We’ve arrived safely at Mansa Airport!’

          And so they stepped down from the Challenger, only to find no welcoming party, no salutes, no bootlickers, no dancing girls and no party thugs. Over in the distance they could see a queue of people going through a large gate. A gateman seemed to be in charge.

          ‘Iwe malonda, bwela!’ shouted Cycle Mata rudely at the gateman, as the old man in a long white beard came slowly over. ‘Iwe, mudala, where is the DC, where is the Paramount Chief Mwata Kazembe, where is our convoy of Mercedes?’

          ‘No, no, no,’ said the old man. ‘It looks like your plane must have crashed. I am St Peter, and you have arrived at the Pearly Gates of Heaven!’

          Now Cycle turned to whisper to his two chola boys. ‘This is the Master Plan we need. If we can just get in to see God he can work a few miracles for us. Put money in Mansa pockets. Give them jobs overnight. Put nurses and medicines in the clinics. All the things we promised in ninety days, nice Old God can do it for us in a flash of lightening. This could be the solution to all our problems! We can win the by-election after all!’

          So now Cycle Mata turned to the gateman, ‘Well malonda, or whatever you call yourself, just let us in through your Pearly Gate so we can go and talk to your Paramount Chief. People of our stature can’t waste time talking to the malonda at the gate!’

          ‘I’m in charge of issuing visas,’ said St Peter calmly. ‘You have to apply beforehand. Some people wait years to get in here. Even Archbishop Milungu has been waiting more than ten years.’

          ‘Piffle and nonsense my man,’ sneered Dotty Scotty. ‘Look at that crowd of people just walking in straight through the gate. I don’t see any sign of visas!’

          ‘They are poor people from Zambia,’ explained St Peter. ‘We have a special Memorandum of Understanding with their Ministry of Health to let them straight in. They are innocent souls who have suffered enough, and automatically qualify for Heaven. For them all visa requirements have been waived.’

          ‘Ha ha,’ scoffed Hatchet Man, ‘We’re also from Zambia. And we’re not just Zeds like those bedraggled ruffians and street kids, we are the A-Team!’

          ‘A-Team?’ wondered St Peter. ‘What does this ‘A’ stand for?’

          ‘We are at the top!’ explained Dotty Scotty. ‘Those Zeds are at the bottom! We are the ruling class! We have diplomatic passports, we don’t even need visas! We have all the privileges! We have the money and the power!’

          ‘It is easier,’ said St Peter, ‘for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’

          Dotty Scotty whispered under this breath ‘These damn villagers talk in riddles.’ But turning to St Peter he said ‘Look, old chap, let’s do a deal. You give us the visas and we’ll give you the contract for the new road from Chama to Mongu. Half the contract price up front! How’s that?’

          ‘Oh?’ said St Peter. ‘Why didn’t you say that was the sort of deal you’re looking for? Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Let me explain to you where to go. You see those stone steps over there at the edge of the cliff. Walk over to those steps and keep going down until you reach the place where such arrangements are organized.’

[Partly based on a storyline suggestion from facebooker Nelson Langford Ndhlovu]

Speech day in Muchinga

Speech Day in Muchinga

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          ‘No second-hand books,’ muttered Scotty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Story line suggested to Kalaki by Facebooker Victor Kabwe]

           

            

Charlotte's Diary

Charlotte’s Diary

Monday

Oh Dear Diary, My poor old Scotty looked such a mess when he came to breakfast this morning, still in his dressing gown, unshaven and confused. The first thing he did was to knock the sugar bowl onto the floor. ‘Who put the damn sugar bowl there?’ he shouted.

‘You’ve forgotten your glasses,’ I said gently.

‘Enema!’ he shouted for one of the servants. ‘Enema!’

‘Darling,’ I said, ‘her name’s not Enema, it’s Enela. I’ll go and get your glasses. We must learn to become self-reliant. We won’t always be living in this house with twenty-seven servants.’

‘We’re the servants of the people,’ he cackled, ‘so we have to be looked after properly.’

When I came back he was trying to read The Pest. ‘I don’t seem to look very well in this picture,’ he whined. ‘Are they trying to make me look silly?’

‘You’ve got the newspaper upside down,’ I said. ‘Try it again after putting on your reading glasses. And here are your false teeth, they will help you tackle the cornflakes.’

Oh Dear Diary, He used to be so handsome and energetic. Never marry a man twenty years older than yourself.

Tuesday

          Oh Dear Diary, Another struggle with My Old Man at breakfast. At least he arrived with his teeth and spectacles, but his eyes were bloodshot, his breath was poisonous, and the wobble had returned to his right arm.

          ‘Have you taken the pills for your wobbly right arm, dear?’ I asked him gently.

          ‘Useless fart of a doctor, his bloody pills don’t work,’ he snorted. So saying, he took a hip flask out of this dressing gown, and poured whisky all over his cornflakes. ‘This should do the trick’ he chuckled. ‘What’s on my programme today?’

          ‘You’ve got all day to try to make yourself look presentable,’ I said. ‘This evening you have go to another gala dinner, Christine is being given another award.’

          ‘What for this time?’ he growled.

          ‘She’s being given the award for being the Woman with the Most Awards.’

          ‘Is Michael going?’

          ‘No,’ I laughed, ‘He’s resting. He’s not a young man like you to be gallivanting around to all these award ceremonies.’

          That evening I dressed him up in his dark grey suit. It didn’t fit properly on his hunched back, but the sleeves were long enough to hide his wobbly hand.

          Oh  Dear Diary, Sometimes I remember those young men that courted me at college.

Wednesday

          Dear Diary, Last night my Old Man never reached his bed. He was brought home unconscious from the gala dinner, and left to sleep it off on the sofa. Strangely enough, this made his appearance at breakfast more presentable. When he finally woke up and staggered towards the breakfast table he was still wearing his suit, spectacles and teeth from the night before. Although he did have some trouble eating his cornflakes because he spent a long time finding his wobbly hand in his long sleeve.

          ‘There is a report here in The Pest,’ I said grimly, ‘of your behaviour at the gala dinner. It says that you defended the government by saying We men know what we’re doing. We’re not like women quarreling about which one has been sleeping with somebody’s husband.’

          ‘I don’t remember saying that.’

          ‘That’s the remarkable thing about you. You can never remember saying anything. Especially after insulting all the women in the country, including your wife who works hard to make you look normal. According to The Pest report, your statement came straight after several members of the cabinet had a fight about who was sleeping with somebody’s wife. And then, after your heroic statement that We men know what we are doing, you collapsed and were carried out.’

          ‘Really Lotty,’ he replied, sounding genuinely hurt, ‘you know what the doctor said about my brain not being properly connected to my legs. You should be more sympathetic.’

          Dear Diary, The real problem is that his brain is not properly connected to his tongue.

Thursday

          When my poor Old Dotty came to the breakfast table this morning, he seemed confused, but got my name right on the third attempt.

‘Look at this headline in The Pest, I said. ‘You told parliament that some of your cabinet colleagues are corrupt. Have you gone completely mad?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I was defending my friend Kapimbe, who had previously said the same thing.’

‘But why defend him? Is he not going to be fired?’

‘I have to defend him, because he is supposed to take over from me, so I can retire. That was the original arrangement. But if he is fired, I shall be stuck with this job until I die.’ Tears ran down his wrinkled old face and dripped into his breakfast whisky.

Don’t tell anybody, Dear Diary, but next time I shall marry a younger man, energetic and witty. I already have my eye on Spectator Kalaki.