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!’

Uncle Kalaki, by Salma Ginwalla

Uncle Kalaki

by

Salma Ginwalla

The piteous misdemeanours and terrifying transgressions of our leaders

You unfailingly unfurl and propogate for your reliable readers

No doubt, your political satire to many does provide comic relief

But for me, I shake my head in despair and disbelief

And ask: who appointed this upstart bespectacled spectator

To be our exalted nation's hell-raiser?

Why! Unbeknownst to us, this gadfly of our sluggish state

Has made our politicians a laughing stock for the world to berate

I declare that this fossilised relic of our painful past, we must deport

For he loathsomely likens our judicial system to a kangaroo court

And this whisky-imbibing sanctimonious scribbler

Audaciously derides our revered former leader as Master Dribbler

King Movious has proclaimed from his regal throne

Spectator Kalaki - GO HOME!

An Ode to Sister Salma

by Kalaki

How I wish your barbs had missed

This tormented satirist,

How your hilarious words do drop

From a new-found Malaprop,

And how I wish you'd find a scooter

To go back home to Mazabuka

Contempt of Court

Contempt of Court

‘I sit here today,’ declared the Judge, ‘to make a decision on an application from the Attorney Degenerate, to register in Zambia the London judgment against Kafupi Mupupu.’

‘Is this the notorious Judge Contempt?’ I whispered in Sara’s ear.

‘Some say his full name is Contemptuous,’ she replied. ‘Others say he is really Contemptible’.

‘First of all,’ declared the judge, ‘I shall call upon the Attorney Degenerate to summarise his arguments in support of his application.’

Up stood a wig and gown, looking more like a penguin. ‘Your horror,’ he began, ‘I stand here on behalf of the good people of Zambia. The London judgment finds that Mupupu, whilst posing as a servant of the people, actually stole fifty million dollars from them, which he used to buy fancy suits and high heeled shoes, only keeping out of jail by bribing the judiciary.’

‘Mmmm,’ an angry murmur rose up from the packed audience.

‘Silence!’ shouted the judge, ‘or I’ll have you all locked up for contempt of court.’

‘That’s why he’s called Judge Contempt,’ whispered Sara.

‘The Foreign Judgments Act,’ continued the Attorney Degenerate, ‘can be used to register the London judgment, and recover the people’s money. Your horror, I rest my case.’

‘Doesn’t he mean “your honour”?’ I wondered.

‘Difficult to say,’ she whispered. ‘People are losing respect for judges.’

‘And now,’ said the judge, ‘I call upon the Defiant Defence to put the case for the Defective Defendant.’

‘Thank you My Lewd,’ said another wig and gown, this one looking more like a huge glass of milk stout. ‘I just rise to point out that my learned colleague the Attorney Degenerate is quite wrong to claim that my client was a servant of the people. As a matter of fact, he was the king. A king is entitled to take money from the people, so that he can live like a king, and have natty suits and lovely little sparkling shoes, as befit a king.

‘Futhermore,’ continued the Defiant Defence, ‘I am entirely puzzled at the constitutional confusion of my learned colleague, when he claims that he is here to represent the people. Was he not appointed by the present king? Did he not swear loyalty to the king?

‘And how will kings ever be able to rule in future, if former kings can be brought to court like common criminals, to have their lawful decisions reconsidered? We are even brought to court to hear tittle tattle about the king buying himself a suit! Is not the king a law unto himself? Is not all law signed into law by the king? Then how does my learned friend come here to misuse his legal training, to misuse the law he got from the king, to try to undermine the very king to whom he swore loyalty! He blatantly abuses his office to represent the people against the king, whilst simultaneously accusing others of corruption. My Lewd, I rest my case.’

The crowd sat there, silent and baffled, scratching their heads. ‘Are we living in a monarchy or a democracy?’ I whispered to Sara.

‘That’s the question,’ she replied, ‘which will be answered here today.’

‘The case now comes to judgment,’ announced the judge. ‘ Firstly, I find the arguments from the defence to be entirely inadequate. The constitution is very clear that the law is made by the people, through their representatives in parliament. Therefore the king is not above the law.

‘But there are also inadequacies in the arguments of the Attorney Degenerate. He claimed that the money in question, purported to be stolen, was used to corrupt the judiciary. But if believed his own claim, then he would not be wasting his time bringing this case to court.’

‘But perhaps he is wasting his time?’ I murmured.

‘That’s another question to be decided today,’ Sara chuckled.

‘Furthermore,’ continued the judge, ‘the Attorney Degenerate has not explained how ten year old suits and shoes can have any present value, bearing in mind that they are now frayed and worn, and only big enough to fit a dwarf. So how is this money to be recovered?

‘More fundamentally, whereas the Attorney Degenerate has correctly cited the Foreign Judgments Act, he has entirely overlooked the relevance of the Importation Act of 1971, which makes no provision for the importation of foreign judgments. The application is therefore denied, and the London judgment cannot be registered.’

‘Booo! Corruption! Bent as a cucumber!’ We all stood up, shouting.

‘Contempt of court!’ squealed the contemptible judge. ‘I sentence you all to ten years in jail!’

But by this time there were bags of rotten eggs and tomatoes being passed down our row, so we all started hurling them at the judge. ‘Sell out! Bought and paid for! Traitor!’

As the judge fled, we all rushed out to the carpark, just in time to catch Judge Contempt scrambling into his limo. More eggs and tomatoes flew. ‘He’s now a rich man!’ somebody shouted. ‘He’s retiring to the Bahamas!’ How we all laughed and cheered!

I turned to Sara. ‘The night is still young, let’s go back in for a drink!’

Everybody was in jovial mood in the Playhouse Bar. ‘That’s the best comedy I’ve seen in years,’ I said to Sara. ‘Participatory theatre! So realistic!’

‘You should go to the real court,’ she laughed. ‘It’s even more ridiculous!’