Ukwa and the Road Gang

Ukwa and the Road Gang

            The Queen was already at breakfast by the time King Ukwa came downstairs. ‘Are you feeling alright dear?’ she asked. ‘Your face looks a bit puffy. Better take your pills before you forget.’

          ‘Yes dear,’ he said grumpily. ‘Doctor knows best.’

          ‘I see from this morning’s paper that you’ve been enjoying yourself inspecting the new road to Nowhere. But what’s the point of a new road to Nowhere?’

          ‘I’ve explained it all before,’ he said wearily. ‘If I build a road to Nowhere then it will become Somewhere. Nobody wants to go Nowhere but everybody likes to go Somewhere. They’ll be big lorries going up and down everyday. Buses all the time. That’s what we mean by development.’

          ‘All you’ll do is to spread HIV up and down the road. There won’t be a virgin left in Tongaland.’

          ‘There’s never been any virgins in Tongaland,’ he growled.

          ‘Anyway, dear, I’m so glad you took my advice and appointed yourself Minister of Roads. It has provided the opportunity for you to get out of the palace. I still remember how you used to enjoy yourself when you were a minister and man of action. Of course you were younger in those days.’

          ‘I am still a man of action,’ he growled.

          ‘Yes dear,’ she said. ‘But you needed to get a bit of fresh air. It's no good just spending all your time at the microphone every day, hiring and firing people, or just giving them a reshuffle. Anyway, after hiring and firing the same people three times over, you were getting bored. Now this new job of looking at roads every day, it gives you a sense of purpose, and even a bit of exercise.’

          ‘Yes doctor,’ he growled.

          She picked up the newspaper and waved it at him. ‘But in this picture, I’m not sure that you really were inspecting a road. As far as I can see you’re just standing in the middle of the bush, scowling at three Chinese gentlemen who are sitting on a log drinking mugs of tea.’

          ‘It would be better, my dear,’ he grunted, ‘if you were to look after my little box of pills, and leave me to look after the entire country.’

          ‘Yes dear, you’re quite right. But even so, I do know the difference between the middle of the road and the middle of the forest. All I can see in this picture are trees.’

          ‘This may come as a shock to you, my dear, but if you want to build a road through a forest, you first have to cut down the trees.’

          ‘Don’t get annoyed dear, I was only asking because in this picture I can see only three men and three hundred trees. I mean, where are the lumberjacks and foresters to cut down the trees and where are the lorries to carry them away?’

          ‘The lorries aren’t there because we haven’t built the road!’ he snapped, banging the table and squashing his pill box.

          ‘Don’t get angry dear, you know what it does to your blood pressure. I was only asking because I thought I should see hundreds of men with axes. You do remember that you promised to create millions of new jobs? So why haven’t you employed thousands of people to cut down these trees? People are saying that, in the whole year you’ve created only fifteen new jobs, and that was for fifteen additional deputy ministers.’

          ‘Look,’ he growled, ‘nowadays trees are cleared with two huge bulldozers pulling a massive steel chain in between them. Axes and saws went out with bows and arrows!’

          ‘But darling, I was just asking,’ she said, pointing again to the picture, ‘because I can’t see any bulldozers either.’

          ‘We’re waiting for the bulldozers to arrive from China,’ he shouted in exasperation. ‘They’re still being manufactured.’

          ‘But perhaps later,’ she persisted, ‘then you’ll be able to employ thousands of people to level the road?’

          ‘Certainly not! We’re using road graders!’

          ‘But you’ll employ labourers to make the drainage and culverts?’

          ‘Certainly not! We’re importing six front loaders!’

          ‘But you’ll still need lots of labour for crushing the stones and digging the gravel?’

          ‘You know nothing about this!’ he shouted angrily. ‘We shall use a Symonds Cone Crushers and an MBE!’

          ‘An MBE? What is an MBE!’

          ‘You see! You know nothing! An MBE is a Mechanical Bucket Excavator!’

          ‘Instead of creating a thousand jobs, you’re buying an excavator?’

          ‘You understand nothing,’ he sighed. ‘An MBE is much more cost effective. It doesn’t take time off for funerals. It works 24 hours a day and never goes on strike!’

          ‘So you’re road is going to going to employ only a few machines and a handful of Chinese operators! You’re not creating a single job!’

          ‘What nonsense you talk,’ he sneered. ‘Even as we sit here, there are thousands of people in Shanghai being employed to make these machines!’

          ‘An MBE may never go on strike,’ she said gently. ‘But it will never vote for you.’

          ‘And even better,’ he shouted, ‘it will never need a doctor!’

          ‘As your doctor,’ she said seriously, ‘I think you need a break, you’re over-stressed. It’s time you went to look for some more investors. I have decided to send you to America for ninety days!’

          ‘Oh goodee,’ he said, brightening up. ‘But America is a very mighty big place for such a difficult task. D’you think ninety days will be enough?’

          ‘Oh yes,’ she laughed. ‘It’s amazing what a man of action can do in ninety days!’

Pabwato Flyer

Pabwato Flier

          It was Sunday night and I was a passenger on the Pabwato Flier flight to Nairobi that was just about to take off from Lusaka. A steward stepped into the gangway for the safety instructions. ‘In case of an emergency,’ he announced, ‘put your head down between your knees and pray for survival. This is a Christian Airline, so we shall all be saved.’

          ‘What if I’m not a Christian?’ said a voice behind me.

          ‘Then you’re on the wrong aeroplane,’ snapped the steward.

          I turned to the creased old man sitting next to me. ‘I seem to recognize the steward,’ I said. ‘Isn’t he Splinter Kapimbe, the well-known businessman? What’s he doing working as an air steward?’

          ‘Because of the good business opportunities,’ my neighbour chuckled, tapping his nose with his forefinger. ‘Import-export, supplying requisites to the airline, that sort of thing.’

          ‘I see you know about these things,’ I said as I turned to take a good  look at him. ‘You’re even wearing the uniform yourself!’

          ‘I’m Dotty Scotty, the co-pilot.’

          ‘The co-pilot!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then why are you sitting in economy class? You should be up in the cockpit, ready to take over if the pilot croaks!’

          ‘I’m not allowed to,’ he said sadly.

          ‘Why not? Has your driving licence expired?’

          ‘No, it’s because my late father, Lotty Scotty, was born in Scottyland. So the airline is worried that I would divert the plane to visit my relatives in Scottyland.’

          ‘So what exactly are your duties as a co-pilot?’

          ‘I have to be on duty at the bottom of the steps to salute the pilot when he gets on or off.’

          While we’d been talking the plane had climbed high into the sky, and was making a huge U-turn. Suddenly a voice came over the inter-com. ‘This your captain Cycle Mata speaking. I thought you’d be interested to know that we are diverting to Mongu to pick up a few passengers who have been stranded there since 1964.’

          A huge sigh rose up from the passengers. ‘That’s why he’s called Cycle Mata,’ chuckled Dotty Scotty, ‘he’s known for flying round in circles.’

          But before we could get over our annoyance, things got worse. Our skinny mean-looking steward stood up to make another announcement. ‘Normally at this time we would serve supper, but unfortunately the entire catering budget has been spent on printing menus and on training workshops for the catering staff, leaving no funds available for buying food. However, I have my own small kantemba at the back where I am selling cheese sandwiches at two hundred pins each, and bottles of vintage Manzi at only fifty pins.’

          ‘Half a minute,’ I said to Dotty Scotty, ‘look at the first class section up front! The Chinese are all drinking champagne and a huge fat steward is slicing a roasted suckling pig! What a feast!’

          ‘That steward is called Great Bag of Money,’ explained Dotty, ‘and one of his many companies is the Kung Fu Restaurants Ltd, which has one of its branches on this plane.’

          But suddenly the Chinese champagne glasses began to tinkle to the ground as the plane dipped sideways for another huge U-turn. ‘This is your captain speaking. I have just heard from ground control that our Mongu passengers made the mistake of protesting against the late arrival of this flight, so they have all been locked up. In view of this, we are now heading straight for Beijing!’

          ‘Beijing!’ the Chinese cheered as the impoverished Zambians jammed in the rear shouted, and demanded to see the captain. Sure enough, within a few minutes the captain arrived, resplendent in a cream silk Chinese uniform.

          ‘As captain of this aircraft I am in command of all of you here. I don’t know why you have been shouting, and I don’t know why you are trying to run away from Zambia when it is your patriotic duty to stay there and work hard, but I can tell you that I am going to Beijing to collect some hard workers because I can’t employ lazy people like you, so you can just…

          But he was interrupted by a woman’s voice from the back. ‘I have to visit my sister in…’

          ‘Madam,’ the captain interrupted sternly, ‘much as we follow a policy of gender equality on this airline, it is your husband’s duty to speak on your behalf!’ So saying, he turned and disappeared into the Chinese banquet.

          But as he left, the same woman screamed from the back ‘The engine’s on fire!’

          Immediately our skinny little economy class steward ran into the first class and began to attack the Great Bag of Money with a small plastic fork, screaming ‘I told you not buy Chinese engines from Dubai!’

          But the Great Bag gave him a hefty clip round the ear, roaring ‘You silly bugger, it’s your fault! You bought diesel instead of kerosene!’

          Now the plane began dipping sideways again, and a different voice said ‘Vee leetun to Lu-sa-ka to collek mo chizz san-witches.’

          ‘That’s a Chinese voice!’ I said to Dotty Scotty. ‘Isn’t Cycle Mata flying this thing?’

          ‘Of course not,’ laughed Dotty, ‘they just let him use the microphone!’

________________

           As I came in to breakfast, Sara looked up from her newspaper. ‘You’re lucky to be alive! From what it says here, the engine exploded!’

          ‘It was under pressure from too many U-turns,’ I explained.

          ‘It says here that the aeroplane is almost wrecked. It will take until 2016 to mend it. So are you going to remain loyal to Pabwato Flier?’

          ‘I think I’ll choose another airline,’ I replied.

The Golf Course

The Golf Course

          ‘What on Earth next?’ hooted Sara, as she looked up from the newspaper. ‘Have you read this story about Kambilimbili grazing his cattle on Mpatamatu Golf Course?’

          ‘He’s supposed to be the Minister of Sport,’ I sneered, ‘but now he’s busy destroying a golf course. Our whole way of life is under threat from these barbarians.’

          ‘I don’t know why you read newspapers if they upset you so much,’ said Kupela, as she buttered yet another slice of toast. ‘We’ve got a new government with new ideas, but you two are still stuck in the past. And anyway, which of you has ever played golf? The only game you know is darts!’

          ‘You always argue the opposite of anything we say, just for the fun of upsetting your parents, even before we’ve finished breakfast. You know very well that that this monstrous upstart Kambilimbili is not in the business of introducing any new ideas, he’s just stealing council land.’

          ‘Your trouble is,’ said Kupela, ‘that you assume the worst instead of looking for the best. What Kambilimbili is actually trying do is to transform the ancient Bemba game of bulunshi into a modern form of golf.’

          ‘Bulunshi? Never heard of it!’

          ‘Well well, my know-all parents,’ Kupela scoffed, ‘Then I have to inform you of something you don’t know, probably because you’ve never bothered to read Audrey Richards book about the Bemba, who were famous hunters. Bulunshi was an ingenious way of hunting an elephant by using a stick to hit a stone right up its bum.’

          ‘Would that kill it?’ Sara wondered.

          ‘It would die a week later of constipation,’ Kupela explained, ‘providing enough meat to feed a whole village for a couple of months.’

          ‘Huh,’ I scoffed, ‘there aren’t any elephants in Northern Province.’

          ‘Precisely because they were all victims of bulunshi,’ explained Kupela. ‘That proves my point.’

          ‘So what’s this got to do with golf?’

          ‘Golf started in a similar way. The Scots used to kill ferrets by swinging a club when the ferret put its head up from its ferret hole. It was great sport. But after they’d killed off all the ferrets, they had to invent golf as a substitute.’

          ‘So Kambilimbili is not farming but playing bulunshi?’

          ‘Have you ever heard of a Bemba farming cattle? Of course not! He’s invented a modern adaptation of bulunshi, called bulunshi golf, which involves hitting golf balls up a cow’s bum.’

          ‘Oh My God!’ said Sara. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’

          ‘Only if you swing the club clumsily and hit your foot,’ said Kupela.

          ‘So how do you get the ball out of the cow's bum?’ I wondered.

          ‘Ball boys are being trained by the National Service,’ she explained. ‘It’s the first time they’ve ever done anything useful. It’s all part of the government programme to increase employment.’

          ‘And does the National Service also mow the lawns and apply the fertilizer?’

          ‘No, the cows do all of that, the whole system is self-sustaining and eco-friendly. Hundreds of Americans are already flying in to play bulunshi golf, it’s the latest fashion in ethnic sport. New lodges are being built all over Luanshya to accommodate visiting golfers. It's just a pity you're so out of touch. You just don't know what's going on.’

          ‘It’s a pity that Kambilimbili can’t think up some more ideas like this,’ said Sara.

          ‘What are you talking about?’ laughed Kupela. ‘He’s a lateral thinker who is absolutely bristling with lots of new ideas.’

          ‘All imagination and no brains,’ I suggested.

          ‘So you may imagine,’ retorted Kupela. ‘I suppose you haven’t heard of his brilliant scheme of tearing up the railway line and sleepers between Luanshya and Kitwe, and registering the track with the International Olympic Committee. It’s now the official route for all international marathon races.’

          ‘But where shall we find the athletes for running up and down this track in the middle of nowhere?’ I wondered.

          ‘His ideas don’t stop there,’ explained Kupela. ‘He has used his position as Minister of Sport to throw all the students out of Yunza, which is now being rehabilitated as a SADC Regional Sports Centre. We shall soon be producing top-level athletes by the thousand!’

          ‘What will happen to all the Yunza students?’

          ‘The government has finally admitted that we don’t need any more unemployable university graduates, and instead we are going to train athletes to run round in circles at incredible speeds in order to earn lots of money and become world famous. Kariba Lake is to be turned into the world’s biggest swimming pool, and Kariba Dam Wall is to become the highest diving board in the world. Zambia Airforce is going to increase its number of aeroplanes to three to provide sky-diving, and the Great Bag of Maize is going to plunge from forty kilometers high in the sky in order to break the World Stupidity Record, and…’

          ‘And, and, and,’ I interrupted. ‘And Kambilimbili is just an odious little thief who is stealing land in Luanshya.’

          ‘But you have to realise,’ Kupela conceded with a sigh, ‘that some little things do go wrong. But they will soon be corrected by Our Great Leader, who is allergic to corruption.’

          ‘But you have to realise,’ said Sara, ‘that our Great Leader has just received medical treatment in Seoul, and his allergy has now been cured.’