Election Rally

[First published on 3^rd August 2006 under the Title ‘Toilet Politics’, this piece was written in the run-up to the 2006 Elections]

Election Rally

Sunday afternoon in the park. Some people walking, some talking, some quarelling, some gawking, some just reading newspapers, as children played all around, and policemen watched grimly. Suddenly the camera panned around, and our TV screen was filled with the massive head of an elephant.

‘Oh no!’ Sara sighed, ‘it must the Muwelewele rally in Cheatwe. Why are we forced to watch this?’

‘It is a mark of intelligence,’ I declared, ‘to find amusement where ordinary mortals find boredom.’

‘Then there’s no point in you watching it,’ snapped Sara, like a chameleon catching a fly.

The great elephant was angrily shouting at the microphone, his eyes bulging and his front legs shaking with rage. ‘Don’t listen to these other so-called leaders, full of lies and fantasies and false promises! This Cycle Mata has been going round saying that in the last five years I haven’t built even a single toilet!’

‘I didn’t know Cycle Mata said that!’ Sara exclaimed.

‘You see!’ I laughed. ‘The Great Elephant Muwelewele can be most amusing. He spends all his time repeating the insults that others have thrown at him. That’s why he’s always in such an awful rage!’

‘The people are starving!’ shouted Muwelewele, ‘and Cycle Mata wants me to build more toilets. Heh heh’ he chuckled, as the crowd looked on sullenly. ‘First you must produce more food to put in your bellies. Only after that will you need toilets!’

The camera panned back into the crowd, which continued to move up and down and around in constant motion. ‘Why are they all moving around like that?’ I wondered.

‘Probably looking for a toilet,’ said Sara.

‘But why is this Cycle Mata so interested in toilets?’ Muwelewele angrily demanded of the nearest mango tree, which was too frightened to make any reply. ‘I’ll tell you why! Because he is a toilet man who lives in a toilet and stinks like a toilet!

‘But this toilet man is too stupid to understand the economics of toilets. Toilets are just a waste of food. An efficient economy demands an efficient digestive system! We must digest all our food, so that we have the strength to produce more copper for our investors. How can I bring investors here if you are demanding extra money that you are just flushing down the toilet!’

‘He’s got a point,’ I said. ‘After structural adjustment of their stomachs, the starving workers don’t need toilets anymore.’

‘But should he be saying so?’ wondered Sara.

‘This Cycle Mata has forgotten that, when he was in government, he was the very one who privatised the toilets. All government toilets were sold off to private individuals, to be rented out to those who could afford to eat excessive amounts of food. This is the same man who is now asking the government to build more toilets!’

‘Is this toilet man a lawyer, to know whether the Constoootion requires people to be given toilets?’ shouted Muwelewele, angrily banging his head on the podium. ‘We must follow the rule of law, according to the Constoootion. Now, as a constoootional lawyer, I am the only one qualified to interpret the meaning of the Constoootion…’

‘I thought he was a criminal lawyer,’ I said.

‘All lawyers are criminals,’ laughed Sara.

‘Is a criminal lawyer qualified to interpret the Constitution?’ I persisted.

‘Definitely,’ Sara replied solemnly. ‘It’s a criminal Constitution.’

‘You have it on my considerable authority,’ Muwelewele continued, angrily biting the microphone, ‘that the word toilet is not mentioned in the Constoootion.’ He now leant forward and addressed the crowd very solemnly. ‘If anybody here today is looking for a toilet, he won’t find it in the Constoootion.’

‘But anybody looking for the Constitution,’ said Sara, ‘might find it in the toilet.’

‘What Cycle Mata doesn’t understand,’ shouted Muwelewele, his face turning purple with rage, ‘is that by the abolition of public toilets, this government has turned waste management into an efficient public enterprise.’

‘Wait for something smelly,’ said Sara.

‘The secret of our agricultural success has been the huge pile of dung produced by the ruling class of elephants. It is only we, in the government, who can afford to eat the huge excess of food that is necessary to produce the vast supply of rich fertilizer which is needed for our new deal agricultural revolution.’

As he spoke, a series of dull thuds were heard coming from behind the elephant, as a cloud of steam rose in the air. ‘I hope you can now appreciate all I have done for you,’ trumpeted the Great Elephant as he waved goodbye to the crowd. Then off he trotted, leaving behind a huge pile of steaming dung.

Now at last the crowd showed real interest, surging forward, all scrambling to push the precious fertilizer into big brown envelopes. ‘How extraordinary,’ I said. ‘Everybody seems to have a brown envelope. Where did they all come from?’

‘From the leader who visited them yesterday,’ said Sara.

‘HaHa!’ I laughed.

‘Exactly,’ said Sara.

Nomination Day

[This piece was first published on 29^th November 2001, when presidential candidates were filing their nominations for the forthcoming election]

Nomination Day

The Supreme Judge sat at his Supreme Desk in the lobby of the Supreme Court, like a latter day Buddha.

Suddenly cries were heard outside, ‘Kafupi for ever!’ Into the lobby strode little King Kafupi himself, followed by his Chief Bootlicker, Velvet Mango.

‘I told you to have him here by 9 o’clock,’ screamed little Kafupi, stamping his high heels on the marble floor. ‘We shall look like fools if he doesn’t appear!’

‘Sorry Your Excellency,’ whimpered Velvet, grovelleng on the floor, and trying to lick the king’s boots, ‘I thought you’d sent the helicopter.’

‘Helicopter! We can’t use that!’ hissed the King, stealing a sidelong glance at the Buddha, ‘I’ve told the old fool that it’s a level playing field.’

Just then there were more cheers and ululations from outside, and the King and his Bumbling Bootlicker hastened back to the entrance to see what was happening. ‘Candidate Kabeji!’ roared the crowd, as a hundred party cadres carried an old bus chassis to the front of the Supreme Court.

‘Isn’t it marvellous to see the party machinery in good working order?’ purred Velvet into his master’s ear.’

‘Who took the wheels?’ asked Kafupi.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Vernon, ‘we’ve still got the party cadres.’

‘Who took the engine?’

‘We’re better off without Western technology.’

On an old rusty bucket at the front of the bus sat the driver, an untidy old shamble of a man in a dirty brown suit. He pulled at an imaginary handbrake, opened an imaginary door, stepped out onto an imaginary step, and fell face down on the very real pavement.

The King frowned and dug his stiletto heel into Velvet’s foot. ‘Is this our Kabeji, or have you brought the wrong one?’

‘Hooray!’ cried the enthusiastic rent-a-crowd, as the drums rumbled. ‘Our Candidate! Our Kabeji! He has dropped from Heaven! Mphasao ya kwa Mulungu! Appointed by Kafupi!’

As a thousand chitenges danced to the drums, so a thousand cabbages danced in the breeze. ‘Who needs to capture hearts and minds?’ purred Velvet, ‘when we can capture so many bottoms!’

The old brown Kabeji was helped to his feet, and began to climb the steps. ‘My God!’ whispered Kafupi, as the monster approached, ‘this can’t be our Kabeji. Looks more like old Chakomboka!’

‘He’s dead.’

‘So’s this one,’ retorted the King.

‘A cabbage in the hand,’ sniggered Velvet, ‘is worth two in the vegetable garden. So saying, he grabbed the confused old man by the back of the neck, and hauled him into the lobby, and in front of the Buddha.

‘Name?’ demanded the Supreme Judge.

‘Er, erum, argh, aha, araghargh,’ replied the old man, coughing and spluttering, as sticky globules of green gelatinous phlegm splattered onto the Supreme Desk.

‘I’ll put you down as a don’t know,’ said the Judge, moving his chair backwards to get out of range.

‘His name is Loony Kabeji,’ snapped Kafupi. ‘Just write it down, before I have you investigated for plotting a coup.’

‘Yes Your Excellency,’ shivered the Buddha, as his wobbly fat began to solidify like candlewax. He turned towards Kabeji, ‘Hold this book in the air, sir, and repeat after me…

‘I, being of sound mind…’

‘I, being of Garden Compound…’

‘do solemnly swear…’

‘do seldom swear…’

‘that I was born a Zambian citizen…’

‘that I was born in Southern Michigan,’

‘and my parents were born in Zambia…’

‘and my parents were born in Gambia…’

‘ and that I am not too old…’

‘and I shall do as I’m told…’

‘to always say no no to corruption…’

‘to follow Kafupi’s instructions.’

‘Almost correct!’ laughed the Buddha. ‘I’m sure you’ll get it right with a bit more practice. Now you can go outside and celebrate with your supporters.

As they came outside the crowd cheered, and the shambling old monster raised one arm in the air and shouted ‘This day’s my last!’ So saying, he fell down in a heap.

‘Your Candidate has announced,’ Velvet shouted to the crowd, ‘that the die is cast!’ Then, turning to the party cadres he growled ‘Get this corpse out of here!’

As the rent-a-crowd began changing their tee-shirts and chitenges, in preparation for the next candidate, little Kafupi was busy climbing up onto the cushions in his Mercedes. Suddenly he heard a gruff galumping sound right behind him. There stood the drooping flesh and slobbering mouth of the real Loony Kabeji.

‘Where were you, you gormless old fart?’ shouted Kafupi. ‘We had to do it without you!’

‘Sol sol solly I’m late,’ he stuttered, as saliva dribbled down his scarred and battered chin. ‘I went to the Civ Civ Civic Centre by misteck.’

‘Your not up to Kafupi’s standard,’ jeered Velvet. ‘You’ll never be able to drib drib dribble like him!’

Dr Kapupushi

[This piece was first published on 17^th August 2000, just after President Chiluba had returned from Malawi with his new honorary doctorate]

Dr Kapupushi

Tuesday

Dear Diary, I’ve been left all by myself again. This morning I was having breakfast with my dear littul Fleddie when he suddenly said ‘Pack my bag for me, will you dear?’

Oooh, the way he orders me about, you’d think I’m a member of his Cabinet. Who does he think I am, to be ordered about like this? Peter Machungwa?

But of course I didn’t say any of that. ‘Off again, dear?’ I said. ‘Have a nice time. Where is it this time?’

‘Off to Malawi to see my friend Muluzi.’

Ooh, Dear Diary, how I hate that big greasy polygamist! I never know what he and Fleddie get up to. Shouldn’t be surprised if my naughty littul Fleddie came back with another wife!

Wednesday

Dear Diary, I found out from this morning’s Post why my Fleddie has gone to Malawi. He’s gone to get a doctorate. He’s all show, nowadays, my Fleddie. He goes to London for his suits, Paris for his shirts, and Rome for his high heel shoes. It’s not fair. He never lets me wear high heels. I wonder why?

And now he wants a doctorate! Fancy getting his suits from Saville Row and his gold watches from Geneva, and then having to go to Malawi for a doctorate! Malawi, of all places! Doctorates are supposed to come from Harvard or Oxford! People go to Malawi for peanuts! Maybe my poor littul Fleddie is not tall enough to go to Oxford.

Thursday

Oooh, I’m so annoyed! Opened my Post this morning, and found they’d published bits from my Diary. I should never have trusted that Spectator Kalaki, who was round here yesterday, drinking my tea and nibbling my ear. Naughty man! He must be the one who tore out a couple of pages from you, Dear Diary, while I was in the kitchen making the tea.

Let him claim the cledit, what do I care! Nobody will believe I wrote such things about my husband. And anyway, if my little Fleddie can be an Honolaly Doctor, then I can be an Honolaly Writer!

But, Dear Diary, I think I know why he wants this doctorate. It’s not just vanity. It’s another of his name changes. If he changes his name to Doctor, he’ll be able to go for a third term!

But I don’t mind. When I pull off his gown and cap, there inside I shall find my same darling littul Fleddie. I love him so!

Friday

My little Fleddie came back late last night from Blantyre, still wearing his black cap and purple gown. I had to laugh. As he climbed down from his big motor car, his big floppy cap fell down over his eyes, causing him to trip over the front step. He landed flat on my lovely Persian rug which I bought from Kamwala Trading.

‘Dr Fleddie, I presume,’ I laughed, as I tried to help him up. But he couldn’t see the funny side of it, and went to bed in a huff. And also in his gown.

Saturday

Dear Diary, I think this silly Doctor Business has gone to his head. He came to breakfast still dressed in his new cap and gown.

‘Good morning Darling Fleddie,’ I giggled.

‘Doctor Fleddie to you,’ he said sternly. ‘You forget I’ve been born again as a Doctor.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘What did you do, dear, to get this doctorate? You haven’t read anything for years. That Vicious Malambo pleaded with you to read his report on Good Governance, but you wouldn’t even open it. And that nice big book by Muna Ndulo on the Rule of Law, you just sit on it so you can reach the table.’

‘What do you know about it, you Grade Four drop-out!’ he shouted at me in a most undoctorly way. ‘I have received this degree on behalf of everybody in Zambia! Other people have been reading, even if I haven’t!’

‘Then maybe we have all become doctors!’ I laughed. ‘That would be much more democratic! We can have Michael Shouter as Doctor of Expulsions, Dawdle Lupunga as Doctor of Swindles, Clueless Cluo as Doctor of Disasters, Grunting Tembo as Doctor of Growl ...’

But he wasn’t amused. Instead of reading The Post,

he just sat there reading his new certificate, and stroking the lovely soft fur on his gown.

Sunday

Oh Dear Diary,

I do try to respect my dear little husband, but I can stop laughing at his honololy doctorate. This morning at breakfast my Doctor Fleddie fell into a tellible fit, after his big doctoral cap fell off his little head, right into his pollidge.

‘Its too big for you dear,’ I said. ‘Didn’t they have a smaller size? You’d better stay at home today, while I give it a wash. Without that cap, people will think you’re just plain Mister.’

‘What do you know about it?’ he shouted. ‘Clothes maketh the woman, but doctorates maketh the man! I am the Doctor of Democracy! Everybody knows that! I’m the one who doctored democracy in Zambia!’

‘I know you did dear. And everybody admires the way you doctored the Constitution, to stop that Old Munshumfwa, the Mad Malawian Doctor, from...’

‘What’s wrong with Kapupushi?’ interrupted Fleddie, as our cat walked in through the French window. ‘He seems to be limping.’

‘He’s Doctor Kapupushi now,’ I laughed. ‘While you were away I had him doctored.’

Sugar Daddy

[This piece, first published in September 2008, looks at corruption during the previous election campaign]

Sugar Daddy

‘Come in and sit down,’ said Velvet Mango sternly, as Humpty Dumpty rolled through the door and came to rest in a vast armchair. Velvet remained at his desk with a severe expression on his ancient wrinkled face. ‘I’m thoroughly fed-up with you! I spent all last week coaching you on the Art of Politics, and then you go off to the Kateka Initiation Ceremony and make a complete hash of everything! You’ll never win an election like that!’

‘I’ve completely changed my political style,’ he laughed. ‘I went there as Humpty Dumpty, but I’ve come back as Sugar Daddy! Doesn’t that sound so much more attractive? So sweet and delicious! All the girls love a Sugar Daddy!’

‘Its not funny,’ growled Velvet Mango. ‘If you’re going to be a president, you’ve got to know how to behave, and what to wear. You even seem to have ignored everything I told you about choosing the right hat. On state occasions you should wear your Head of State hat, and behave accordingly. Others will be wearing their uniforms, robes, crowns and feathers, and make empty noble speeches about patriotism and national unity. By appearing as a dignified Head of State you can collect votes without even saying a word!’

‘I prefer a more informal style,’ chuckled Sugar Daddy, as he took a sweet out of his pocket.

‘You did the opposite of what you were told!’ shouted Velvet. ‘You stepped out of your official Head of State Jet wearing a shabby Political Party Hat and a loud chitenge shirt, and giving the party sign with both hands. You offended all the dignitaries who had lined up in their official robes to greet you.’

‘I like to appear as a man of the people,’ laughed Sugar Daddy.

‘You seem to be oblivious,’ sneered Velvet Mango, ‘to the rule that you’re not supposed to use official government transport for blatant electioneering.’

‘You’re just jealous that I’ve got so many hats to wear, whereas you’ve got nothing to cover your bald head!’ laughed Sugar Daddy, as his huge belly heaved with mirth. ‘But don’t worry, I soon took off my Political Party Hat, put on a Head of Government Hat, and began distributing sugar to the starving.’

‘Wrong again,’ groaned Velvet, putting his head in his hands. ‘Distributing relief food is an administrative job, not political. Before you left I made it very clear that you should put on your Government Hat to explain government policies, but not get involved in distributing gifts.’

‘Well you were wrong, because everybody loved me and called me their Sugar Daddy! The young girls all came to kiss me, and promised to vote for me. Even the photographer from The Boast came specially to take my picture!’

‘Of course he did!’ snarled Velvet Mango. ‘Bribing electors is specifically prohibited in the Electoral Code, and he caught you in the act! If we didn’t have the Electoral Commission in our pocket, you could easily be debarred!’

‘You’re just jealous of my popularity, you withered old has-been!’ cackled Sugar Daddy. ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that I took off my Government Hat when I went to the Girls Initiation Ceremony.’

‘Ah ha!’ said Velvet, ‘I hope you put on your Father of the Nation Hat, and advised the young people on their marital responsibilities.’

‘I considered that,’ laughed Sugar Daddy. ‘But my uncle offered me a Tribal Hat, beautifully made out of dead hyena. Wearing this hat signifies that a man is looking for another wife, and luckily enough I still had enough sugar left to offer a very attractive lobola. So, having improved my political standing by marrying the Paramount Chief’s youngest daughter, I instructed all my tribesmen to vote for me, and to chase any other candidates who had the insolence to step into my tribal territory.’

Just then the office was filled with a sensuous ring-tone taken from the Overture to the Karma Sutra Erotica. ‘Hello Sweetie,’ said Sugar Daddy, as he picked up his cell phone. ‘… Even me, Sweetie, I’m missing you … I’ll be home soon, Sweetie … Daddy’s bringing you a large lollipop … Bye bye Sweetie.’

Sugar Daddy looked round at Velvet, who had his head on his desk, and was moaning quietly. ‘Wake up, you crafty old lizard. I’m going to get elected on a manifesto of supplying the nation with sugar. Remember those good old days under the Unending National Interference Party, when there were only state shops, and they sold nothing but sugar! Anybody with a party card could eat as much as they liked! I shall re-establish the National Sugar Marketing Board, with jobs for everybody. Anybody who opposes me will be locked up! Happy days are here again!’

‘The way you’re going,’ Velvet sighed, ‘you’ll never win this election.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sugar Daddy. ‘Don’t you think so? Then what more can we do?’

‘The usual,’ groaned Velvet. ‘I’ll have to rig it!’

The Silly Ass

[This piece was first published on 26^th July 2001, at a time when the MMD was supposedly looking for a presidential candidate to replace the cunning little dribbler]

The Silly Ass

Last night Sara and I were watching the TV news, when suddenly the screen was filled with the greasy creased ingratiating face of Mr Velvet Mango, Chief Liar of the Movement for Marketing Donkeys.

‘Turn him off,’ I pleaded. ‘He gives me the creeps.’

‘It’s hard to believe,’ laughed Sara, ‘that this repellent creature is trying to attract votes. I’m fascinated.’

‘It is my honour and privilege, as party spokesman,’ began Velvet Mango, ‘to report the result of our deliberations on the next Presidential Candidate. I’m sure the nation will fully appreciate the dilemma faced by our National Execution Committee, in that some of our best leaders have been executed, whilst others have fled the party, or even fled the country.’

‘All that remains,’ cackled Sara, ‘are the snakes, hyenas and donkeys.’

‘We need to rid the party,’ said Mango with a crafty leer, ‘of these clever leaders, who have misused their intelligence to manipulate the constitution, deceive the people and arrogate more power unto themselves. We are therefore of the considered opinion that the voters are now calling for a truly stupid leader, who is not suspected of having the brains to organise large scale theft and corruption.’

‘Yes!’ laughed Sara. ‘Bring on the donkey!’

‘It therefore gives me great pride and pleasure to present our new Presidential Candidate…’

So saying, he reached to his left, and pulled out an old grey donkey. ‘I present to the nation Mr Eunuch Kapimpinya, a donkey with neither brains nor testicles. Completely harmless in all respects. A loveable leader at last!’

‘Hee-haw! Hee-haw!’ responded the donkey.

‘God in his generosity and wisdom has given this Christian Nation a donkey to take us to the Promised Land, just as he gave Jesus a donkey to travel to Jerusalem.’

‘Didn’t that end in the crucifixion?’ I asked.

‘But are donkeys truly indigenous?’ wondered Sara. ‘We don’t want another foreigner on the throne.’

‘Some people may ask,’ said Mango, as he leered into the camera, his saliva dripping down the screen, ‘whether a donkey is eligible to stand as a Presidential Candidate. It is my pleasure to allay any fears on this count. The party’s legal advisor has assured us that, so long as both parents were born in Zambia, there is no bar to a donkey becoming President.’

‘I can foresee one problem,’ Sara said. ‘I could get arrested for insulting the President if I called him a donkey. And suppose I called him a silly ass?’

‘It can’t be wrong to call him a donkey if he actually is a donkey,’ I said. ‘But according to the law you have to show respect to the Head of State. So it would be insulting to call him a silly ass, as if he were just an ordinary silly ass like other silly asses. You would have to refer to him as His Excellency the President Dr Almighty Silly Ass PhD. This is the form of politeness which is much appreciated by silly asses.’

As we were talking, the greasy Mango had lifted the donkey’s foot onto the table. ‘Look at this hoof!’ he cried in triumph. ‘Even if he had brains, how could he steal? Nobody can say he has long fingers! He doesn’t have any fingers at all!’

‘But if the billions were loaded into a cart,’ suggested Sara, ‘he could easily pull them all the way from the Bank of Zambia to State House.’

‘Listen to the empty echo,’ said Mango in triumph, as he rapped the donkey’s skull with his knuckles. ‘Absolutely nothing between the ears.’

‘Maybe he’s like most men,’ said Sara, ‘with his brains in his testicles.’

‘It’s a good thing he can’t hear what you’re saying,’ I laughed.

Whereupon Mango turned the donkey round, and displayed its rear end to the camera. ‘Most important of all, no testicles! No problem of this one producing too many spoilt brats to terrorise the nation!

‘And no more wasting government funds on pomp and splendour. No need for a Mercedes, he’ll be able to trot to all official functions. No need for State House banquets, he eats only grass. He’ll feed off the State House lawns, and deposit his dung in the flowerbeds. He won’t even need to occupy State House!’

‘Of course not!’ laughed Sara, ‘because little Kafupi will be staying on!’

‘Last of all,’ cried Mango, turning again towards the donkey, ‘I shall ask the donkey a few questions, so you can see how really stupid he is.

‘What’s the different between 49% and 51%?’ asked Mango

‘Hee-haw’ replied the donkey

‘What’s the difference between a doctor and a nurse?’

‘Hee-her,’ laughed the donkey.

‘What’s the difference between a loser and a winner?’

‘A stuffed ballot!’ retorted the donkey.

‘He shouldn’t have said that!’ I exclaimed, ‘he’s given the game away!’

‘But it does show,’ laughed Sara, ‘that he really is a silly ass!’

Road to Manda Hill

[Back in April 2000, Kalaki wrote this advice on how to win an election]

Road to Manda Hill

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, but nothing of much interest had come down the wire from Reuters, and we had drawn a blank on the Internet. ‘If Sir Fred comes in and finds we haven’t got a story,’ I said to Sam, ‘he’s going to get a bit ratty.’

‘Let me show you the new Manda Hill,’ said Sam. ‘There’s always something going on there. If not, we could easily provoke something.’

So off we footed, up the Great East. As we came to the traffic lights, there loomed into view a massive monstrosity, without shape or form, let alone architecture.

‘My God,’ I said. ‘What’s that? Another Namboard Depot? An aircraft hangar? Or has Simon Mwewa built himself another house?

‘Don’t be silly,’ laughed Sam. ‘This is Manda Hill!’

‘Who’s being silly?’ I snapped. ‘There’s no hill here at all. I thought we were heading for parliament!’

‘If you want to go to parliament,’ explained Sam, ‘you have to start here. This is where you can buy all the things that will get you up the hill, and into parliament.’

As we got closer, I could see that the Manda Monstrosity was divided into different sections: Political Game, Hoprite, Truthworth, Moore Flattery, Supreme Tarnishers, and so on.

‘Political Game is the most popular nowadays,’ said Sam. ‘Let’s go in there.’

Each section had its own sign hanging from the ugly tin roof. Selection Game, Nomination Game, Membership Game, Dark Corner Game, Expulsion Game, and so on.

‘Let’s see what they’ve got in Electoral Game,’ I said.

People were flocking around the shelves, where big notices advertised the goods on sale. Under a notice saying Organise Party Defections were the following items for sale:

Forged membership card, 1 pin

Genuine card of deceased, 2 pins

Genuine card of living, 3 pins

Buy a hundred and get ten free!

All UNIP cards half price!

‘Now you can see,’ said Sam, ‘how the free market has liberated politics. Previously this was all done secretly up the Hill, and the rest of us didn’t know what was going on. Now it has all come down the hill, where anybody with money can join in.’

‘It has certainly come a long way down hill,’ I admitted.

We walked on until we came to a notice saying Buy Your Votes Here, and showing another pricelist:

Voter’s Cards 50pins

Green Reggies 100pins

10% Discount if you buy a hundred!

‘Some of these prices seem a bit steep,’ I said. ‘I know for a fact that a reggie from the back door of the Green Registration office costs only 30 pins.

‘But the advantage here,’ Sam smirked, ‘is that you can buy in bulk.’

The next section was entitled ‘Ideal Qualifications for Candidates’, where Form V certificates were going for 50 pins, diplomas for 100 pins and degree certificates for 500pins. ‘Some of these prices are quite reasonable, I admitted. ‘I mean, why spend a fortune buying back door examination papers, when instead you can get Form V certificate for only 50 pins!’

‘The liberalization of the economy has made things much easier,’ laughed Sam. ‘With enough money you can even become Bantu Botatwe. The really difficult and expensive thing is to become indigenous.’ As he was speaking he pointed towards the central display of certificates in gold frames, and a notice which said:

Genuine indigenous birth certificates while you wait! Essential for all aspiring presidential candidates. Only 5,000 pins for a genuine indigenous parent. Buy one parent and get the other one free! You too can be president!

‘Excellent investment,’ said Sam. ‘For only 5,000 pins, you could soon be in a position to empty the entire national treasury. That’s a very high rate of return on your capital investment.’

We walked down further to the Salaula Nikuv Computers, where a big sign read

Get your own Nikuv computer to ensure your own party members are on the Register. Just press the ‘Upload’ button’ to give yourself an inbuilt majority. Just press the ‘Delete’ Button to entirely remove all opposition voters. Election success guaranteed!

‘All these things used to be secret,’ explained Sam. ‘But now we have transparency, so that everybody can see what’s going on. Let’s go and have a look at Hoprite. Its much more fun.’

‘There aren’t any commodities!,’ I exclaimed, as we walked in. ‘Just people sitting on the shelves!’

‘They are the commodities!’ laughed Sam. ‘Hoprite is where the party hoppers hop from one party to the next.’

On the shelf sat an ancient forlorn Munkombwe with a placard round his neck saying Up and Down provincial chairman seeks job as Minister for Muddle in the Movement for Marketing Democracy. The saliva dripped down his poor old chin as his left eye looked to the left, and his right eye to the right, each trying to spot a prospective buyer.

‘He can’t get a job like that,’ laughed Sam. ‘For one thing, he’s well past his shelf life. And for another, the exchange rate is well known.’ He pointed to Bank of Zambia notice on the wall, clearly setting out the current party-hopping exchange rates:

50 party members = 1 councilor

10 councilors = 1 provincial chair

10 provincial chairs = 1 MP

10 MPs = 1 Minister

‘Is that entirely correct?’ I wondered. ‘I thought Independent MPs were supposed to be much more valuable than ordinary party MPs.’

‘Its difficult to say,’ replied Sam. ‘There hasn’t been enough trade to establish a firm market price.’

‘But I heard that Chastity Mwansa was promised a job as Minister of Helicopters.’

‘Promised,’ he laughed. ‘Promises are very cheap. Up to now she hasn’t been given anything. The silly girl thought she could collect her own lobola! But it’s only her father who can be made Minister of Helicopters!’

‘Before we go,’ I said, ‘let’s have a look at Bookworld.’

‘Actually, it’s called Cookworld, because they sell only cookbooks.’

‘Can a cookbook help you win an election?’

‘Of course,’ Sam laughed. ‘Winning an election is just like stuffing a chicken and cooking it. If you stuff a ballot box you can cook an entire election.’

Sale of Stolen Property

[Back in October 2002, Kalaki had already anticipated the problem of how to sell off Kafupi’s ill-gotten gains]

Spectator Auctions PLC

Sale of Stolen Property

Bankruptcy and Liquidation of Kafupi and Associates

Sheriff’s Sale of Stolen Property

GOODS SPECIFIED IN THIS SCHEDULE HAVE BEEN SEIZED BY TASK FARCE BAILIFFS UNDER PROCESS IN ACTION NUMBER O1/2002/NEWDEAL/LEVY, BEING STOLEN PROPERTY NOW TO BE SOLD FOR CASH, AND THE PROCEEDS RETURNED TO THE RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE PEOPLE OF ZAMBIA.

THE SPECIFIED GOODS WERE SEIZED FROM MUPUPU KAFUPI AND ASSOCIATES, NOW DECLARED BANKRUPT AND IN LIQUIDATION.

ALL GOODS LISTED IN THE SCHEDULE

WILL BE SOLD BY PUBLIC AUCTION:

VENUE State House, Plot One, Independence Avenue, Lusaka.

DAY Thursday 3 October 2002

TIME 10.00h

GOODS LISTED IN THE SCHEDULE:

Furniture

One white leather armchair, too large for six small presidents, but too small for one large president. One purple plastic sofa, suitable for heavy duty encounters, needs new springs. One king size mattress/trampoline, ideal for multi-party sexual athletics.

Clothes and Personal Effects

524 Paris suits, high quality but very small, suitable for pompous pot-bellied dwarf. 4,321 pairs of high heel shoes, all expensive but extremely vulgar, suitable for Emelda Marcos.

728 pairs of sunglasses, exclusive Mafia design, suitable for concealing actual intentions.

545 boxes of artificial finger nails, suitable for long fingers. 176 boxes of finger glue, suitable for enhancing sticky fingers.

Books and Documents

Twenty copies of The Rule of Law by Prof. Muna Ndulo, untouched and still in the original plastic wrapping. One copy of a master’s thesis on democracy, author unknown. One million presidential ballot papers (already marked). Two copies of the Gabon Report, both bloodstained.

Logistical Equipment

Two thousand ballot boxes (already stuffed). Two hundred tin trunks (empty). Ten kilometers of tunnel, with no light at the other end, suitable for use during a popular uprising.

Pick-up Trucks

120 Mazda pick-ups, mysteriously picked up from nowhere, with money picked up from somewhere, and very useful for picking up votes from nowhere.

Other Transport Vehicles

One V-24 fuel injection Jaguar Supercar, one BMW highspeed motorbike, one Challenger speedboat, and one Apache helicopter, all left behind by the Brilliant Mastermind of Top Intelligence when he fled the country in a canoe.

Real Estate

130 huge mansions, built by Malumba and Kachungwa, and situated in Lusaka, Chienge, Chilubi Island and the Bahamas. Particularly suitable for storing girlfriends, concubines, tin trunks, and fugitives from justice. Copies of title deeds can be obtained from Swindle Mulenga and Associates, Photocopiers.

Mine Shaft

One large empty hole in Luanshya, ideal for disposing of rioting copper miners, and any other malcontents and rabble rousers who threaten the property of respectable citizens.

Former Employees of Kafupi

One Chief Justice, quite expensive to bribe, more suitable for judicial systems in Colombia or Nicaragua. One Attorney General, very cheap and nasty, complete with compliant Director of Public Prosecutions. One wooden Vice-President, very durable, but well past sell-by date. One Chief Clerk of the National Assembly, never properly qualified, but very experienced in petty theft and poaching. One Unspeakable Speaker, blind and deaf, notoriously flatulent and completely immune to shame, but still complete with a full set of dangerous teeth. One velvet mango, very smooth on the outside but very rotten on the inside, very experienced in polluting elections.

METHOD OF PAYMENT

All bids must be enclosed in dirty envelopes in dirty brown envelopes. However, dirty money should be well laundered. All payment must be in cash, delivered in tin trunks. All cash should be in dollars supplied by the Bank of Zambia. Dollars supplied by former Bank of Zambia Governor Frantic Coma are not legal tender because the ink is known to smudge. In conformity with IMF rules, all payments in kwacha will be treated as worthless paper.

SALE PROCEEDS GO TO STARVING ORPHANS

Proceeds from this sale will be used to pay the expenses of the Morleen Mwanamwana Initiative, to send a delegation to Paris to attend the Starving Orphans Charity Ball.

SIGNED:

Inspector Kalaki

(Leader of the Task Farce)

Vera's Story

[In this piece, first published in February 2003, Vera tells how her beloved Fleddie suddenly became a changed man]

Vera’s Story

I knocked on the front door of the little house in Twapia, and it flew open straight away. ‘Karaki!’ exclaimed Vera, throwing her arms around me. ‘I haven’t seen you since the days of the Gleen Libbon! Come in! With your beard and long shirt and fat belly, I thought it was the Archbishop of Canterbury! What’s been happening to you?’

‘I was impregnated by Milingo,’ I laughed, ‘so I had to join the church! But never mind me, I’ve come to talk to you about your ex, and his present troubles. How did he ever get himself into such a pickle?’

‘It’s a long story,’ she sighed. ‘Come and sit down and I’ll tell you everything.’

‘What puzzles me,’ I said, as we sat down together on the purple plastic sofa, ‘is how we voted for him to bring democracy and end corruption, but he did the opposite. He seemed so straightforward, but now it seems he had his fingers in every till. It’s almost like he turned into another man.’

‘You know, Karaki,’ she said, putting her hand on mine, ‘you seem to have a nose for things. I’ve always said you’re not as silly as you look. Let me tell you what actually happened.

‘It was soon after we first moved into the Presidential Palace. I can still remember that Thursday morning, as if it were yesterday. The place was so huge, and my little Fleddie was so small, and when lunch was ready we couldn’t find him.’

‘But you eventually found him?’

‘Yes, three hours later, in one of the upstairs toilets, reading a book. Do you know that place has thirty-four toilets?’

‘The ruling class need lots of toilets,’ I said. ‘What was he reading?’

‘Humanism Part One,’ laughed Vera. ‘Old Munshumfwa had taken all the other books with him, only Humanism remained, in all the lavatories.’

‘There was a terrible shortage of toilet paper in those days,’ I reminded her. ‘That’s how the Second Republic ended, with Humanism being flushed down the toilet. It was printed on lovely soft paper.’

‘I remember,’ she said wistfully. ‘It was the only thing we liked about Humanism.’

‘So is that what changed him, reading the toilet paper?’

‘No,’ she said, as tears welled into her eyes. ‘It was much worse than that. Two days later he disappeared again, and this time we couldn’t find him at all. We didn’t know what had happened, whether he had fallen into one of the tunnels, or had been blown up the chimney, or had accidentally flushed himself down a toilet. We looked everywhere! My Fleddie was gone! I was tellibly wollied that my lovely tiny littul Fleddie had been eaten by one of the peacocks!’

‘But this wasn’t reported in the papers!’

‘Of course not! Causing public alarm is a climinal offence. We had to keep it quiet!’

‘And was he never found?’

‘Two weeks later he turned up on the doorstep. I opened the door, and there he was! It was him, but at the same time it wasn’t him. Because he was wearing a shiny mafia suit, dark glasses, barbie doll high heels, and speaking with a weird American accent. He had changed tellibly!

‘But I was so pleased to see him, I didn’t even ask why he was dressed like a gangster. I gave him a big kiss and screamed Darling you’re back! Come and have a bounce on the purple plastic sofa! But he seemed to have forgotten everything. He jumped on the sofa and started to trampoline all by himself, until he made this hole with his high heel,’ she said, pointing to the punctured purple plastic right next to where I was sitting. ‘He seemed to have entirely forgotten how we used to bounce together on the purple plastic sofa.’ Tears rolls down her cheeks, as she rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief. ‘He didn’t seem like the same man at all.’

‘My poor dear Vera,’ I said, as I helped to wipe away her tears.

‘And my Fleddie had always had this delicious littul mole on his lovely littul bum. But when we went to bed,’ she sobbed, ‘there was no spotty on his littul botty! It had gone. Instead the spotty had moved to his…’

‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I said, putting my arm around her, as she wept into my cup of tea. ‘But how could this have happened?’

‘My littul Fleddie Mpundu was a twin. Now the other one, Kafupi, had turned up to take his brother’s place. He has always been a rascal and ne’er-do-well. A former tomato seller and bus conductor! And now my husband!’

‘But why didn’t you refuse?’

‘In my tradition, the brother inherits the widow.’

‘But didn’t people in government notice that this was not the right man?’

‘They didn’t know about the spotty on his botty!’

‘But wasn’t Kafupi’s behaviour rather strange, compared to your lovely littul Fleddie?’

‘That wasn’t for them to question. Because of his high office, they just had to obey his instructions, however silly! It’s all explained in the Constootion.’

‘So can Kafupi be held responsible for all his mistakes?’

‘I’m sure he had no idea what he was doing, he was always in a cloud of smoke. He never had any idea where he was, or where the money went, or how many suits he bought.’

‘So how do we prove all this?’

‘He must be taken to court!’

‘For theft?’

‘No, to prove that this is not the real Fleddie!’

‘No spotty on his botty?’

‘Exactly,’ she sobbed, as I tried to console her.

____________________

‘What have you been doing today?’ asked Sara, when I finally got home.

‘I’ve just heard a fantastic story from Vera,’ I said, ‘about how her husband completely changed into somebody else!’

‘Huh!’ said Sara. ‘All women have that problem.’

Pssshhh!

[By the late 1990s, the MMD government had seriously set about dismantling the system of public social service established during the first and second republics. One of the most serious casualties of this comprehensive policy of national destruction was the national education system, as recorded in this piece from August 1998]

Pssshhh!

Last Tuesday we were surprised when our son Jumani walked into the house, back from boarding school.

‘I thought you didn’t close until Friday,’ said Sara.

‘That school you sent me to was absolutely terrible,’ he replied, as plonked his hold-all onto the floor, and threw himself into an armchair.

‘It no use just running away,’ said Sara. ‘Sensible people take action to put things right.’

‘You’re so out of date, you two,’ he replied in exasperation. ‘You sound just like my friend Bufundi, who wrote a letter to the Minister. He said that if only the Minister knew what was happening at Njala, he would take action to put things right.

Then Jumani told us his story ...

It was more than a six weeks ago, when Bufundi sent that letter. We were beginning to give up hope of any response when, last Wednesday morning, Bufundi came running down to the river to where we were having our morning wash. ‘The Minister has come!’ he shouted. ‘We’re assembling in the hall!’

We got there just in time, as the Distinguished Honourable General Myanga, Minister of Education and his entire delegation marched into the hall. As he climbed onto the stage, we all cheered and clapped!’

‘I have received a letter from this school,’ announced General Myanga, ‘which has complained about the Headmaster.’

‘Yes!’ we cheered. ‘He’s a thief!’

‘First of all,’ said the General Myanga, ‘I am saddened and upset by your cheers. I am a very humble man, so I become very embarrassed when people cheer my famous wisdom and integrity.’

The hall fell into an uncomfortable silence.

‘Discipline means following the rules,’ began the General. ‘If an army private thinks he wasn’t given enough beans with his nshima, is this a matter which threatens the integrity and sovereignty of the nation! Is he supposed to complain to the General in charge of the Army? No, he should complain to his sergeant, who is the one to deal with such minor matters!’

‘Are we in the army?’ came a voice from the back.

‘Whether we are in the army or in school, the same rule applies. All complaints must follow due process. This is essential to government policy of following the rule of law. Here in school, if you want to write a letter of complaint, you should first give it to your teacher to check the English. If your letter is judged up to standard, your teacher will forward it to the Headteacher.’

‘We have no teachers,’ came a voice from the back.

‘You must understand that government policy is based on equity,’ General Myanga declared loudly and firmly. ‘All the other schools are in the same position. Therefore it would be inequitable, and morally wrong, to favour your school by providing more teachers when other schools are also short.’

‘We’ve no books,’ came another complaint.

‘I have come here to explain the new government policy of decentralisation, where authority over schools has now been localised. The Head should refer any problems to the local District Education Officer. As Minister, I am fully occupied with policy, and matters of international educational development. It is not the job of the Minister to deliver books to schools.’

‘We’ve no food,’ came the same voice from the back.

‘According the government policy of structural adjustment,’ said Myanga, ‘subsidies have been abolished. You are now responsible for feeding yourselves. This government stands for initiative, self-reliance and entrepreneurship. You must understand that government can no longer provide everything. You must learn to help yourselves. Days of spoon feeding are past.’

‘We’ve got no spoons!’ shouted the same voice.

‘Look,’ said the Minister, as he looked impatiently at his gold watch, ‘government cannot do everything for you. Government is only one of many stakeholders. We believe in a policy of partnership, a public private partnership, a partnership between the government and the community, between the teachers and the students. All stakeholders must be willing to contribute.’

‘The partnership of the rider and the horse!’ shouted the voice from the back. ‘Which stakeholder bought your new metallic green Landcruiser VX?’

‘What indiscipline!’ screamed Myanga, his eyes bulging. ‘Give me the stick! I’ll deal with him myself!’

But as he leapt from the stage, he slipped. We all gasped as he fell upon the ghastly metal skeleton of the school’s last remaining chair. He staggered to his feet, but a sharp metal prong had punctured his vast wobbly belly.

Pssshhh! We all stood transfixed in fascinated amazement as hot air, steam and yellow puss squirted out of his disgusting belly. Pssshhh! The great fat Minister was going down like a balloon! Smaller and smaller he got! From general down to brigadier. Pssshhh! From brigadier down to colonel. Pssshhh! From colonel down to major. From major down to captain. Pssshhh! From captain down to lieutenant. More and more he shrank. From lieutenant to sergeant. Pssshhh! From sergeant to down to corporal. Pssshhh! From corporal down to private. Pssshhh! Finally, there was nothing there at all. Just an empty suit, a puddle of yellow slime and a nasty smell.

That was when we went on the rampage! We burnt the school to the ground!

‘I don’t get it,’ said Sara. ‘You burnt down the school because the Minister evaporated?’

‘We burnt down the school when we realised there was no hope. We thought the minister would save us, but the minister was just a bag of nasty stinking wind. So there was nobody to save us! There was nothing there! Just hot air, steam and a putrid stink! All our hopes shrank to nothing.’

‘That wasn’t nothing,’ I said. ‘That was government policy.’