The Red Card

The Red Card

          The bishop walked to the lectern, opened the Good Book, and announced ‘The reading this morning is the Parable of the Turbulent Priest, as recorded in the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 23 Verses 12-36…’

          There was in the Land of Zed at that time a young priest by the name of Francis Bwabwata, who liked to speak out against sin and corruption. He had just been ordained as a priest and was keen to make a name for himself.

          So one day he knelt down and prayed to the Lord, saying ‘Oh Father in Heaven, where can I find some sin and corruption to expose? When people are in church they are always on their best behaviour, and I have failed to find a single case of theft or even fornication within the holy precinct of the church.’

          ‘Fear not,’ answered the Lord, ‘for the world is full of the sins of greed, covetousness and gluttony which lead to corruption. You must follow your congregation to find out where they go after church.’

          And so, the very next Sabbath, young Father Francis followed his flock out of the church and into the nearby Soccer Coliseum, where the local team, the Neanderthal Warriors, was playing the Chibuku Chola Boys.

          And what the innocent Francis saw was too awful to behold, so much so that he had to scurry back to his church, fall to his knees and pray to the Lord, saying ‘O Lord I have seen terrible things. The referee is paid to see the sins of one side rather than the other, while the local team has dug special muti under the goalposts, and the crowd participates by hurling beer bottles in a most partisan fashion. O Lord, I have come back here to pray for peace and goodwill to prevail on Earth.’

          Whereupon the Good Lord, who can get really annoyed sometimes, roared ‘It’s no good coming here to pray, you are supposed to go out there and do something about it! Show them all a red card!’

          And so, fortified with this backing from such a famous celestial mentor, the good priest Francis went forth courageously to the next match armed with a red card. And when the referee failed to award an obvious penalty, Francis raised his red card and shouted ‘In the name of the Lord, send him off’. Whereupon, a crowd of Neanderthal supporters ran onto the pitch, picked up the referee, and carried him off.

          After this initial success, Father Francis immediately formed a supporters club, which he called the No Nonsense Neanderthals, and kitted them out with red cards, red whistles and red shirts. And before long Father Francis became a national hero for his Christian Crusade against corruption in football, extending the his campaign off-field to the rigged election of club directors, backhanders in stadium building contracts, illegal selling of players, and so on.

          Even better for Francis’s reputation, he was soon arrested by the Police Farce on charges of having a red card without a licence, inciting a football crowd to shout at a referee, and wearing a red shirt without permission from Manchester United. As soon as the various laughable charges had been duly laughed out of court, he was carried shoulder high to the clubroom of the Neanderthal Warriors and made Chairman of the Club alongside a new board of directors.

          That evening Father Francis again knelt in prayer. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said, ‘I humbly thank you for this opportunity to lead football towards the Kingdom of Heaven, and to do my small part in your work to rid this Earth of sin and corruption.’

          And the Lord spoke unto him, saying ‘Just watch yourself, and make sure you don’t get pompous.’

          Father Francis was soon so busy reforming football that had no time for either church or prayer. But one evening he was so pleased with his own good work that he thought of asking the Lord whether he didn’t deserve promotion to an even higher calling. ‘O Lord,’ he prayed, ‘I trust you have been appreciating my good work, and I’m humbly asking whether you would back me for the presidency of the Land of Zed at the next election, so that I may extend your fight against sin and corruption.’

          ‘My son,’ replied the Lord solemnly, ‘I have seen that you have fired two directors who disagreed with you.’

          ‘I’m pleased you appreciate that,’ purred Father Francis. ‘Maintaining unity in the club is always my top priority.’

          ‘My son,’ intoned the Lord, ‘I see that you have never been available to hear complaints from the Supporters Club.’

          ‘It’s difficult to attend to everything,’ explained Father Francis, ‘I have had to spend so much time attending high-level FIFA meetings in Switzerland.’

          ‘My son,’ continued the Lord, ‘What are you doing about the continuing complaints of corruption in the Neanderthal Warriors Football Club?’

          ‘Unfortunately, O Lord, my disciplinary committee was sent on forced leave.’

          ‘My son, I have no choice except to give you a red card. You must take leave from your present job and devote yourself to forty years of prayer and fasting.’

          ‘But after that, O Lord, shall I ascend to the presidency?’

          ‘No my son,’ intoned the Lord solemnly. ‘You will ascend to Heaven.’

          ‘Thank you, O Lord,’ replied Father Francis. ‘And shall I sit at the right hand of God?’

          ‘No, my son,’ said the Lord firmly, ‘you shall sit at the left hand of Judas.’

A Wonderful CV

A Wonderful CV

            It was a warm afternoon in the village of Baluba. The men were dozing in the nsaka, and the women were away working in their fields. Suddenly children began to skip and dance and shout, pointing to a rising cloud of dust on the horizon. A vehicle was approaching!

          How could this be? There was no by-election. Perhaps some tourists were lost? They were still wondering when the Pajero drove into the village and stopped at the nsaka. Out stepped a man in a striped suit and tie, and started to shake hands with everybody. ‘Who are you?’ they asked. ‘Where have you come from? Are you a minister?’

          ‘I am much more important than that,’ he replied. ‘I am Clever Chiwa, the son you sent away to get educated. I have come back to visit my village.’

          ‘Ah ha,’ said one grizzly old mudala, ‘that was many moons ago, before the year of the locusts.’

          ‘Yes,’ said another, ‘So what have you brought back for us? Will you build a new church? A new road? A new school?’

          ‘Much more than that!’ said Chiwa, making a grand expansive gesture toward the horizon.

          And so, within the hour, after the indunas had been disentangled from their conjugal duties with their younger wives, and the Chief had been roused from a drunken slumber, the Indaba was ready to meet their long lost son.

          ‘My son,’ began the Chief, ‘It is thirty years we have been waiting for you to come back to this village, to reap our reward from our investment in your education. We are now assembled to hear what you have brought us.’

          Dramatically Chiwa pulled out his pocket a bundle of papers. ‘Here,’ he cried, ‘I have brought you my CV!’

          ‘Your See Vee!’ shouted the Chief, ‘What’s that! I wanted a Tee Vee!’

          ‘A CV is much better,’ explained Chiwa. ‘CV stands for Celebrated Victories! It lists all the marvelous things I have done in my life!’

          ‘Oh Dear,’ said the Chief sadly. ‘Things like failing to come home for your own mother’s funeral. Anyway, please read this See Vee to us because we have forgotten our spectacles.’

          ‘It would take too long to read it all,’ Chiwa apologized, ‘because my enormous accomplishments are so many. But suffice it to say that I have a doctorate in the anatomy of a cow…’

          ‘He could have stayed here to study the cow,’ muttered one of the indunas.

          ‘… and I am a Distinguished Professor in the Engineering of Stress Release Patterns in the Vertebrae of Bovine Species at the University of Donald Duck in Disneyland!’

          ‘Have you ever worked for a living?’ wondered the Chief.

          ‘Like all geniuses,’ said Chiwa, ‘My brilliant mind is in much demand. Currently I am the Royal Controller of Cattle in England, with special responsibilities to supply the Queen of England with prime-cut beef for all Royal Feasts!’

          Now at last the Chief’s interest began to perk up. ‘Then you could become my Royal Controller of Cattle?’

          ‘Indeed I could,’ agreed Chiwa. ‘Then at last I shall be able to use my incredible skills to develop my country. You must stop using your herd as a mere bank for capital, and instead begin cattle farming for a profit. And for that job, you have found the best man in the world. Congratulations!’

          And so that the villagers in Baluba began their three-year programme of building the sort of mansion which would be necessary to accommodate a man of such social distinction and global accomplishment. In the meantime Chiwa set up his house and office in Lusaka and began drawing up the contracts to establish a modern cattle ranching business in Baluba, involving the import of tractors, bailing machines, sileage plant, pasture grass, barbed wire, and so on. All to be supplied by Chiwa Agriculural Supplies Ltd, of Brixton, England.

          So every week the Chief sent a lorry load of 20 head of cattle to Lusaka, to raise the cash for the investment in this very profitable exercise. In fact Chiwa was so busy with drawing up the strategic plan, and acquiring inputs, that six months passed without him again finding time to return to Baluba.

          Then one day the children began dancing, and singing Bwana Chiwa, Bwana Chiwa, Bwana Chiwa. But out of the Landcruiser stepped a different gentleman in a black suit and black trilby hat. ‘I am Bee Jay Phiri’ he announced, ‘I left this village thirty years ago, but now I have returned to develop it!’ So, of course, this returnee was also taken to see the Chief and all his indunas.

          ‘I hope you’ve brought some money to invest.’ said the Chief.

          ‘Much better than money,’ laughed Phiri, ‘I have three degrees in aeronautical engineering from the University of Kermit in Muppetland!’

          ‘We already have a brilliant development manager,’ replied the Chief. ‘A man by the name of Clever Chiwa.’

          ‘I know Chiwa,’ said Phiri, ‘I met him once in Brixton. He was running a small butchery in Brick Lane.’

          ‘I’m told,’ said the Chief, ‘that he supplied beef to the Queen of England.’

          ‘That’s right,’ said Phiri. ‘That was the name of pub next door.’

          ‘Well,’ said the Chief grimly, ‘What’s your big idea?’

          ‘It’s a stroke of genius,’ admitted Phiri. ‘Just sell off all your cattle to buy an aeroplane, flatten the maize fields to make an airport, establish Baluba International Airlines, and we’ll all be rich!’

          ‘Isn’t it marvelous,’ said one of the indunas, ‘at last we have these young men returning home to help develop their own motherland.'

The Great Ukwa

The Great Ukwa

          The Master of Ceremonies moved to the front of the podium to announce ‘I now bring to you, all the way from Lusaka, the most marvellous magician the world has ever known, the Great Ukwa!’

          As he spoke, onto the podium glided the imperious magician, extravagantly dressed in the cream satin suit of a Chinese emperor, although on his head was the cap of a police constable, and around his shoulders the red satin cloak of a medieval king.

          Around the podium stood a ragged crowd of villagers, mostly men, for the women were away working in the fields. The scene was set in the middle of a dusty football pitch that boasted not a single blade of grass, in a bare landscape of miserable poverty.

          The Great Ukwa moved slowly in regal fashion to the front of the podium, fixed them with the terrible glare of his beady eyes, and scowled. The crowd trembled in anticipation. Suddenly and unexpectedly his right arm shot out and punched the air, and simultaneously there was a fearsome red flash and crack, and a puff of white smoke rose up from his clenched fist. ‘I am the King of this Land and All Beyond! I am the Mighty Ukwa, the Great Magician. I have all the powers!’

          ‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd, as they punched their fists into the air, although no clouds of smoke rose up from their fists, because they did not have any power, let alone all the powers.

          ‘I have come here today to ask you, in this by-election, to give your vote to the candidate of the Punching Fist,’ shouted Ukwa, as he punched his fist into the air, causing another crack, flash, and puff of smoke.’

          ‘What is the name of our candidate?’ laughed the crowd.

          ‘His name is Nangu Umo! I am giving him to you as your member of parliament!’

          ‘Where is he?’ laughed the crowd.

          ‘I have made him invisible!’ declared the Great Ukwa, with another bang and puff of smoke. ‘Members of parliament are never seen in their constituencies! They just disappear in a puff of smoke. If I were to show him to you now, you would never see him again. Better that you never see him in the first place!’

          ‘Then who is going to help us?’ shouted the crowd.

          ‘I, the Great Ukwa the Magician will help you!’ he answered, punching another explosion into the air. ‘I have brought this magic all the way from China and I can do anything! I have all the powers! Am I not the one who ended the drought in Southern Province by transferring the Mosi-o-Tunya to Choma? Am I not the one who ended the poverty in Chirundu by transferring it to Lusaka? Was it not my mighty Punching Fist which knocked Itezhi-Tezhi District clean out Southern Province and right into Central Province, thereby bringing it nearer to Lusaka!’ He gave the air another explosive punch, as another puff of smoke rose in the air. ‘And all done with immediate effect!’

          ‘But what are you going to do for us?’ demanded the crowd.

          ‘I am Ukwa the Magician, and I have come here today to announce a big transformation. For fifty years the government of this country ignored Nsala. But today you are lucky, I have noticed it. I therefore hereby declare you to be a District, which means that you qualify for six clinics and a secondary school, which will appear within ninety seconds, as soon as I punch the air!’ So saying, the Great Magician punched the air. Flash! Bang! Boomagazang! A huge cloud of smoke enveloped the entire podium. But when it had finally cleared, the Mighty Magician was gone. And with him had gone the six clinics and a secondary school. All gone in a puff of smoke.

          ‘Here one minute and gone the next!’ laughed the crowd.

Now the Master of Ceremonies leapt back onto the podium. ‘I now give you our candidate for Nsala, the famous Mr Butuntushi Butungulushi of the By-Election Bonanza party…’

As the crowd cheered, onto the stage bounced a fat and jolly gentleman. ‘My friends,’ he began, ‘We brought the Great Magician Ukwa here, not just to entertain you, but also to remind you of how we have been treated in the past. How were we treated?’

‘Promised everything, got nothing!’ chanted the crowd.

‘Exactly!’ responded Butungulishi. ‘How many clinics were we promised?’

‘Six!’ answered the crowd.

‘And how may did we get!’

‘Nelyo chimo!’they cried.

‘When did we ever get anything?’

‘Only during the election,’ they answered.

‘Exactly!’ cried Butungulushi. ‘During the election we got brown envelopes, chitenge, bicycles, beer, fertilizer, relief food and empty promises. So what is the policy of the By-Election Bonanza party?’

‘More by-elections!’ shouted the enthusiastic crowd.

‘The voice of the people must be heard!’ shouted Butungulushi. ‘You shall have more by-elections! You just send me to parliament, and I will represent you by immediately selling myself to the ruling party for a hundred million. This money will be brought back here to you my people. Once I have sold myself on your behalf, this will trigger another rewarding by-election, when more gifts will be showered upon us. In this by-election, you can again elect somebody from the By-Election Bonanza party, who will of course again sell himself to the ruling party. As we continuously repeat this developmental cycle, we shall soon become the richest constituency in the country!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Three cheers for democracy!’