Death Trap

Published in December 2003, this piece looked back at the time, ten years earlier, when our Football Heroes were sent to their deaths by a government that gave them an old rickety aeroplane that wasn’t airworthy…

Death Trap

I scanned the array of empty chairs in the vast sitting room. Nobody there at all. I was just about to leave when I spotted the wrinkled and diminutive Kafupi Kadoli, sitting up like a cocky cockroach in the corner of a huge white leather armchair. ‘Kafupi!’ I said, as I went over to greet him, ‘Where is everybody? Have all your friends deserted you?’

‘Certainly not!’ he laughed, ‘They’re all down at the magistrate’s court, where my case is coming up later this morning. Do excuse me for not standing up to greet you, but it’s such a struggle to climb back up onto this chair.’

‘That’s life,’ I said. ‘Once you slip down, it’s always difficult to climb back up. Maybe you could apply to the Physiotherapy Department at the UTH to be given a little ladder.’

‘Certainly not!’ he snapped. ‘I’ve always been against government assistance for the handicapped. Anyway Kalaki, what brings you here today? To talk about ladders?’

‘Of course not. I came to ask you about the Aeroplane Disaster of 1993.’

‘Hah! Nowadays The Post seems to be entirely preoccupied with resurrecting corpses from ten years ago. Maybe you should change the paper’s name to The Postmortem.’

‘Were you the one responsible for the crash?’

‘Hah! Certainly not! I have a perfect alibi! I was on an official trip to Bujumbura at the time of the disaster. Four thousand kilometres from the scene of the crime!’

‘But you were in Lusaka when the decision was taken to use the ill-fated aircraft. So you must have been implicated.’

‘Certainly not!’ he retorted. ‘That was two days before the crash happened, and two thousand kilometres away from where it happened. So how could I have been involved?’

‘It is claimed that the aircraft was a death trap.’

‘Certainly not! It was a Blundering Bugaboo, made in Canada in 1923.’

‘But were you not the one who took the decision to use this ancient old Bugaboo?’

‘Certainly not! The decision was taken by the officer in charge of all our Blundering Bugaboos, Air Marshall Shaky Shikashiwa.’

‘Perhaps he advised you against using the plane, and you overruled him?’

‘Certainly not! I ruled over him, but I didn’t overrule him.’

‘But you demanded blind loyalty?’

‘Certainly not. I allowed him to open his eyes and have a look at the plane.’

‘He reported that one wing was loose. Wasn’t that dangerous?’

‘Certainly not! I made a point of showing him that there was a perfectly good spare wing on the other side.’

‘Is it true that one engine was getting too hot?’

‘Certainly not! Engines are supposed to get hot.’

‘Since you left earlier for Bujumbura, I wonder why you didn’t use the Blundering Bugaboo? If it was such a nice plane, wasn’t it also suitable for you?’

‘Certainly not. My wife was far too large to fit through the small door of the Bugaboo. So reluctantly we had no choice but to settle for the luxury Boeing 737 with the en suite bathroom.’

‘So the Bugaboo wasn’t a death trap?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘So you don’t feel responsible for the death of the Fallen Heroes.’

‘Certainly not, Kalaki. In fact, that would be logically impossible. You see, it is only possible to become a Fallen Hero after death, so nobody can cause the death of a Fallen Hero. Perhaps you meant to ask whether I should feel responsible for turning these young men into Fallen Heroes.’

‘And do you feel responsible?’

‘Certainly not! It was the outpouring of national grief that turned them into Fallen Heroes. I certainly wouldn’t want to claim any special responsibility for that. Although I was careful to make sure that I wept more than anybody else.’

‘Because you felt responsible?’

‘Because, as a great leader, I had to take the lead.’

‘It was a national tragedy.’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining. It provided a marvellous national re-awakening. It brought us together as a nation after a period of political division and acrimony.’

‘But it was also a time of much murmuring that that our leaders did not care for the people’s heroes, who were negligently sent to their fate in a rickety old death trap. That must have been a great embarrassment to the government.’

‘Certainly not! Simply not true! On the contrary, people understood that it was not the business of government to be providing air transport. They soon understood that government funds were meant only for government leaders, and not ordinary citizens, who should pay for themselves.’

‘To stay alive?’

‘The date of death of each of us is set by the Lord, and it is not the business of the government to try to interfere with the will of God. That is why we declared ourselves to be a Christian Nation.’

‘And the government gave them a Christian burial.’

‘Since the day of the Fallen Heroes, people have now become accustomed to mass funerals. And government has also become more experienced in assisting people to pass quickly through the agonies of life in order to reach Heaven at the earliest opportunity, in order to re-unite with their Fallen Heroes.’

Just then Kadoli’s secretary put his head round the door. ‘The Minister for Shushushu, Air Marshal Shaky Shikashiwa, has sent a limousine for your trip to court. It’s already waiting outside. Shall I tell the driver to wait?

‘Certainly not!’ screamed Kafupi. ‘It might be a death trap!’

Malicious Allegations

[First published in June 2000, this piece looks at the prospects of getting a court judgement against a government minister]

       Malicious Allegations

All rose as Judge Chibepesho walked solemnly into the court and sat down at the bench.

 ‘This court is hereby convened,’ said the Judge, ‘as a Tribunal on Ministerial Conduct, to hear the case against Mr Newspeak Dimba, Minister for Misconduct.

 ‘Mr Newspeak Dimba, you have been charged with misusing your position as Minister. The facts before this court are that you were appointed in 1991 as the guardian of Ms Zambia, but that you misused your position, and neglected her. How do you plead?’

 ‘I am innocent, M’Lud. I bought Zambia legally during the 1991 elections, paying ten gluders and a bottle of beer. Since then she has been my property, to do with as I please.’

 ‘The law of property cannot take precedence over human rights. Look at the poor wretch,’ said the Judge, pointing to Ms Zambia who sat on the floor, thin and shivering. ‘Is she attending hospital?’

 ‘The poor woman has no money to pay hospital fees.’

 ‘As her guardian, are you not supposed to take care of her health and welfare?’

 ‘Ha!’ snorted the Minister, thrusting forward his fat waistcoat, ‘I made it clear to her from the start that she had to stand on her own feet. I told her plainly that she could expect nothing but self-sacrifice. Now she has the audacity to come here and complain that I never provide for her!’

 ‘So you have refused to take her to hospital?’

 ‘M’Lud, you must understand my predicament. My own children are away at university in America, where I have to pay both school fees and medical expenses. They will need a high standard of education if they are to manage all my property, and take their position in society.’

 And did you manage to provide university education for poor little Zambia?’

 ‘What use would it be to her? What future does she have?’

 ‘Well, you may have a point on that one. But now I must turn to the more serious charge against you. The plaintiff has complained that ever since she came into your house, you have raped her every night.’

 ‘Rape is a foreign word, M’Lud. Foreign to our custom and tradition. As a man, I am entitled to take pleasure in my own property.’

 ‘She claims that you have invited your whole gang of friends to share your pleasure.’

 ‘Really, M’Lud, is it not a basic right that I may share and enjoy my property with my friends? What sort of friend would I be if I did not ask Zambia to entertain my visitors?’

 ‘So it wasn’t rape?’

 ‘We are entitled to take what we have paid for. I refer you, M’Lud, to the Law of Contract.’

 ‘But what about women’s rights? Has Zambia not ratified the Declaration on Equal Rights for Women?’

 ‘Exactly, M’Lud. She was given an equal right to each of us, and we shared her equally amongst ourselves. I am sure the medical evidence will support my claim.’

 ‘So this was more of a business proposition?’

 ‘That’s right, M’Lud. My friends are all foreign investors who have bought shares in Zambia.’

 ‘She also complains you took her house and sold it.’

 ‘It was a government house, M’Lud. If you look at the Contract of Sale drawn up in 1991, you will find that ten gluders and a bottle of beer was the price not only for Zambia herself, but also for her house. This was clearly part of our policy of privatisation.’

 ‘Where exactly is this house situated?’

 ‘Along Corruption Avenue, M’Lud, just behind this High Court. As part of our policy for ensuring the independence of the judiciary, this house is now available to any judge for the price of only five gluders. We are looking for a judicious person of property, wishing to extend their property portfolio. Such a house would undoubtedly be most suitable to a gentleman such as yourself, M’Lud.’

 ‘I have heard enough,’ said Judge Chibepesho, ‘and shall now pronounce judgement.

 I find that Mr Newspeak Dimba, as Minister of Misconduct, has done everything expected of him. I would like to take this opportunity to reassure him that the judiciary supports the principles of the Law of Property, and the policy of privatising government houses, especially those in the vicinity of the High Court. I therefore dismiss all the charges against this Most Honourable Minister.

 ‘As for Zambia, normally I should have sent her to prison for prostituting herself, and for making malicious allegations. But since she is already dying and cannot afford medical attention, and since this is a Christian nation, I shall leave her to the mercy of the Lord. May her soul rest in peace.’

Forget It!

Forget It!

The lawyer leant forward menacingly towards the man in the witness box. ‘Professor Donald Amnesia, you were born in 1957, is that correct?’

‘I can’t possibly be expected to remember that My Lord,’ said the absent-minded professor, looking to the Judge for mercy. ‘I was far too young at the time. I have only hearsay evidence from my parents, who were both notoriously unreliable.’

‘Surely you must know how old you are,’ said the Judge irritably. ‘Don’t you have a birth certificate?’

‘You will appreciate, My Lord, that a learned professor such as myself has an extensive personal library. Looking for one small document like that would need a bibliographic search that could take months.’

‘Just get on with it,’ the Judge snapped at the lawyer. ‘You are supposed to be looking for stolen property, not missing birth certificates.’

‘Moving on,’ said the lawyer, ‘in 1985 you came back from the States with a Doctorate in Amnesia and Forgetfulness?’

‘That’s right,’ said the professor proudly, thrusting his big belly forward and adjusting his wonky spectacles. ‘I wrote a thesis entitled The Role of Forgetfulness in the Criminalisation of the State.’

‘What was it about?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said the professor. ‘But it was mainly composed of impressive quotations from other people.’

‘But soon after you came home, you were appointed Economic Adviser to Mupupu Wabufi, even though you had no qualifications in economics!’

‘I was not an adviser in the economy of money. I was an adviser in the economy of truth!’

‘You mean that you advised him how to lie?’

‘Good gracious me no! What are you suggesting! He was already an excellent liar! Everybody believed his lies! He didn’t need any advice from me!’

‘So what did he need you for? If nobody knew he was lying, there was no problem.’

‘On the contrary, My Lord, there was a very big problem. The problem was that he knew he was lying. All his lies and misdeeds used to give him nightmares. He dreaded the day when it would all catch up with him, and he would have to stand in this court and tell the truth.’

‘So you had to teach him to believe his own lies?’

‘That wasn’t possible either. Wabufi was a very clever little chap, and not gullible enough to believe his own lies. This is the terrible burden of great leadership.’

‘So what did you advise?’

‘I advised him that the solution to his problem was forgetfulness, which is the key concept in the economy of truth. I taught him how to forget all the lies and misdeeds of yesterday, so that he could better concentrate on lies for today and tomorrow. That is the secret of how to be a great leader. The secret of an easy conscience is lack of memory.’

‘Since you must know where all these lies were buried,’ suggested the lawyer, ‘it seems that you may be the very one to unravel the mystery of the missing funds. The incoming government has found that the entire contents of the Treasury have disappeared, and they have inherited nothing but huge debts. Do you have any information about this?’

‘I certainly do. I know for a fact that the previous Minister of Finance was extremely forgetful. Perhaps he absent-mindedly banked the money in a wrong bank. Or took it to the National Assembly instead of the Ministry of Finance. Or put it in a wrong tin trunk. I suggest you ask him.’

‘So you have managed to remember that he was forgetful. I was beginning to think you couldn’t remember anything!’

‘It is important to remember when to forget, but not to forget when to remember.’

‘How many houses do you own, Professor Amnesia?’

The absent-minded professor looked over his spectacles, put his tongue in his cheek, and scratched his head for a couple of minutes. But finally he had to admit his difficulty. ‘I have to admit,’ he admitted, ‘that as an academic specialised in qualitative matters, I cannot speak with any precision or certainty on purely quantitative matters. I’ve never had a good memory for figures. I suggest that you put your question to the Director of the Central Statistics Office.’

‘I put it to you that you bought twenty-four houses in the last year!’

‘Really? I can’t remember any such thing. It sounds rather unlikely. I’m sure I would have noticed all the title deeds. Perhaps you should ask my wife, she might know something about it. She runs a very successful little café in Katondo Street.’

‘Are you the director of ten different companies which have all collapsed?’

‘You forget that a company which has collapsed doesn’t have directors, only liquidators.’

‘Why did you drive here in an old Datsun 120Y, when you have three new Mercs at your mansion in New Kasama?’ shouted the lawyer, banging his fist on the table.

‘Even me, I’ve been wondering about those Mercs. My wife says that they belong to the Shushushu. She says they parked them in my yard because they were short of space, but they seem to have forgotten about them.’

‘Nobody can remember anything!’ yelled the lawyer. ‘Can you remember swearing on the Bible?’

‘Swearing on the Bible?’ said Amnesia, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘No, I’m sure I never did anything like that,’ he finally replied. ‘I’ve sworn never to swear. I couldn’t forget a thing like that.’

The lawyer came close and hissed into the professor’s face. ‘Will you ever remember anything?’

‘If I ever get back into power,’ Amnesia growled menacingly, ‘I shall certainly remember you!’

Stray Bullet

[A Commission of Inquiry investigates a gang of criminals called the Police Farce! Is this the Barotseland Inquiry of 2011? No! This piece was written in July 2001]

Stray Bullet

It was the morning of 15 January 2002, and the Truth Commission was sitting in the Mpulumushi Conference Centre. In the chair sat Saint Simon Sucker, with his two other Commissioners, Quack Quackwie and Clueless Cluo.

‘In the dock this morning,’ began Saint Simon, ‘we have the former Inquisitor General, Mr Slyarse Nyangalala.’

Turning to Nyangalala, Saint Simon spoke slowly and solemnly. ‘The People of Zambia charge you with arming a gang of thieves and criminals, commonly known as the Police Farce, to protect the Movement for Murdering Dissidents from the consequences of their crimes.’

‘My client Mr Slyarse Nyangalala,’ said Robot Siboza, ‘has hired me as his attorney, to speak for him. He refuses to speak because he has done nothing wrong.’

‘I wonder,’ quacked Quack Quackwie, ‘if he has done nothing wrong, then why has he hired a lawyer to defend him? Perhaps there is another reason why he refuses to speak?’

‘Yes indeed there is,’ replied Siboza. ‘After thirty years of service in the Police Farce, his English is very limited.’

‘Let’s get down to particulars,’ said Saint Simon, with some irritation. ‘Let us take, as an example, Nyangalala’s strange inability to find out who murdered Mr Paul Baldwin Ronald Wezi Ng’uni Ngenda Tembo …’

‘His long name was the main obstacle,’ interrupted Siboza. ‘By the time Nyangalala had finished writing out the name of the alleged murder victim, the witnesses had always forgotten their evidence.’

‘Alleged murder victim?’ queried Quack Quackwie. ‘The victim took a bullet right between the eyes! Is that not murder?’

‘There remains the intriguing but unanswered question,’ smirked Siboza, ‘of whether the alleged victim may have accidentally and allegedly walked into a stray bullet which had been allegedly wandering around the town quite innocently, thereby causing the alleged death.’

‘Alleged death?’ clucked Clueless Cluo.

‘With all due respect,’ sneered Siboza, ‘if the Commission had more forensic experience, they would be aware that not all bullets cause death. In the case of politicians, it is common for bullets to pass straight through the head without doing any damage at all.’

‘I myself attended the funeral,’ cried Clueless Cluo, her wobbly fat trembling with rage. ‘Ten thousand mourners saw the corpse laid out in the coffin.’

‘But did you have a doctor check the pulse of the alleged corpse?’ asked Siboza. ‘Do not forget that the opposition is in the habit of staging mock funerals, merely as a way of causing political embarrassment to the government.’

‘I can assure you,’ said St Simon grimly, ‘that all three of us Commissioners followed that coffin to the grave, and saw it buried six feet down.’

‘I don’t doubt that you all followed a coffin to Leopards Hill,’ laughed Siboza. ‘The only question in my mind is whether you followed the same coffin as you saw in the church.’

‘Are you suggesting it was switched?’

‘There are various possible explanations. For example, you must surely be aware that there is always a continuous queue of coffins travelling up the Leopards Hill Road. It is very easy to accidentally join the wrong burial. I myself have done so several times.’

‘Is your client seriously claiming that Mr Paul Baldwin Ronald Wezi Ng’uni Ngenda Tembo is still alive and well?’

‘Excuse me,’ protested Siboza, ‘my client is not making any claims. It is your Commission that is making claims. My client has no information on the whereabouts or health of this person. I was merely pointing out, since you asked me, that there is no convincing or conclusive evidence of murder.’

‘In that case,’ cried Saint Simon triumphantly, ‘could you please explain why the three notorious brothers, Innocent Kaponya, Blameless Kaponya and Harmless Kaponya, were, on 19 July last year, charged in the High Court with the murder of Mr Paul Baldwin Ronald Wezi Ng’uni Ngenda Tembo?’

‘If you refer to the case record,’ retorted Siboza. ‘These three Kaponya brothers were known criminals, who had already used a gun to steal a tube of toothpaste from Shoprite.’

‘But they confessed to the killing.’

‘That was just to try to avoid the death penalty. It turned out, after further beatings, that they made this false confession because they were trying to avoid the mandatory death penalty for armed robbery. To avoid this dreadful fate, they falsely confessed to the lesser crime of killing a politician, so that they would serve only five years for manslaughter.’

‘Then this Commission will also question these Kaponya brothers!’

‘They were all hung last week.’

‘But why were they hung?’ asked Saint Simon. ‘I thought you said they didn’t commit the murder!’

‘You’re not following,’ explaind Siboza patiently. ‘They were hung after being found guilty of armed robbery involving a tube of toothpaste.’

‘Very well then,’ sighed Saint Simon, with some exasperation. ‘We will proceed to the next case. Let us look at Nyangalala’s failure to arrest the culprits in the case of the six hundred petrol tankers which disappeared, and the case of the bogus ICASA contracts.’

‘It will be more difficult to go there,’ Quack Quackie quickly declared. ‘Unfortunately all those secrets went to the grave with Mr Paul Baldwin Ronald Wezi Ng’uni Ngenda Tembo.’

Saint Simon Sucker sighed sadly. ‘So what can we do?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Clueless Cluo. ‘I’m Clueless.’

Where is it?

[Every time the government changes hands they begin looking for the property stolen by the previous incumbents. This was the situation in May2002, when Kalaki wrote this piece]

Where is it?

‘Mr Cycle Mata,’ said the Judge, ‘According to the evidence put forward by Inspector Waffle Watumpa, you secretly stole the Rule of Law from the government, and have been driving it around as if it were your own.

‘But I am much persuaded by the evidence from many witnesses that you have never had anything to do with the Rule of Law. Whenever you wanted to fix your enemies, you always hired your own gang of thugs. I therefore absolve you of all charges of ever having had anything to do with the Rule of Law, and you are accordingly acquitted.’

‘Thank you My Lord. I should just like to say how grateful I am for my stay in Kamwala Prison. Despite my considerable previous experience, I had never before managed to meet so many thieves and criminals in such a short time. I have recruited them all into my party, and we will soon be in a position to take over the government.’

‘Splendid!’ laughed the Judge. ‘That’s what we mean by democracy in this country!’ Then the Judge turned more seriously to the Clerk of the Court. ‘I am very concerned about how this case was botched by this baffled buffoon, Inspector Waffle Watumpa. Weren’t the Police supposed to have brought the Rule of Law here, as an exhibit of the stolen property?’

‘My Lord!’ exclaimed the Clerk of Court in alarm, ‘the Suspector General has always been very clear that the Police will never have anything to do with the Rule of Law! We are trained to never go near it.’

‘Then why wasn’t it brought by an officer of the court?’

‘It would set a disastrous precedent, My Lord. The Rule of Law has never had any role in court proceedings, and has never previously been found in any court room.’

‘Really? Why’s that?’

‘Due to the constitutional separation of powers, My Lord. We are concerned with administering the law, not with ruling. That’s the job of the executive. Once a court concerns itself with the Rule of Law, it would set a dreadful precedent. All previous judgements would be wide open for appeal, because of evidence obtained under torture. Even those hanged would have to be dug up, resuscitated, resurrected and retried. Both the cost and the smell would be inestimable.’

‘So where is the Rule of Law now?’

‘It was Mr Bigwig Abashi who claimed that Cycle Mata stole the Rule of Law. So perhaps he’s the owner!’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’ exclaimed the judge. ‘Call Bigwig Abashi!’

An ancient little bald fellow hobbled arthritically into the witness box. ‘Are you the owner of the Rule of Law?’ asked the Judge.

‘I am the Very Right Honourable Doctor Bigwig Abashi, constitutional lawyer with three degrees, and currently Minister of Perks for Supply.’

‘Yes yes,’ said the Judge irritably, ‘we know all that. The question is whether you are the owner of the Rule of Law?’

‘Ha ha,’ cackled the wrinkled old lizard, ‘I’d never fix my enemies if I bothered with that! The very existence of the Rule of Law is a great mystery. But as far as I understand the matter, the Rule of Law is supposed to be kept in a safe place, locked up in the cells of the Shushushu.’

‘The Rule of Law is locked up? Has it committed an offence?’

‘It’s not that, but rather a matter of constitutional principle. You see, My Lord, if the Rule of Law were set free, the Shushushu themselves would immediately become unconstitutional.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the Judge. ‘I hadn’t thought of that! But to settle this case we should really find the Rule of Law, since Cycle Mata was accused of having stolen it. So I order that the Supreme Shushushu be brought here before this court, to confirm that he really has the Rule of Law under lock and key.’

‘We can’t do that, My Lord,’ screeched Bigwig, ‘you must surely be aware that the Shushushu does not officially exist.’

‘Oops, I quite forgot that!’ said the Judge, as he scratched his smelly yellow wig with his filthy fingernails. ‘But if we can’t be sure that the Rule of Law is locked up, then how can we be sure that it hasn’t escaped or even been stolen?’

‘There is quite a bit of general evidence,’ smirked Bigwig, ‘that the Rule of Law is safely under lock and key.’

‘What evidence?’ demanded the Judge.

‘There’s so much evidence,’ replied Bigwig. ‘Let me give you an example. We have so many investors in the country who treat their workers like slaves, pay them starvation wages, and beat them if they protest. Now, if the Rule of Law were set free, obviously all these hideous investors would be prosecuted, punished and then deported.’

‘A good point,’ said the Judge. ‘We certainly need to protect the economy from the Rule of Law. Indeed, if the Rule of Law were to escape, it could cause havoc. That’s why this court must be in a position to assure the nation that the Rule of Law has not escaped, but is locked up in a safe place. I have a duty to the nation to get to the bottom of this matter. Bring the Chief Government Spokesman.’

So now the fat face of Mr Bedstead Dimba blinked uncomprehendingly at the court. ‘Mr Dimba,’ said the Judge sternly. ‘Can you tell us the whereabouts of the Rule of Law?’

‘I can assure you,’ said Dimba slowly, ‘that the Rule of Law is safely in the custody of the government.’

‘The government! The government!’ snapped the Judge irritably. ‘Who is the government! Who governs this country?’

Dimba paused, scratched his head, and looked at the ceiling. ‘This country is governed,’ he said slowly, ‘by the Rule of Law.’

Election Sakulani

[Published in November 1996, at the time when the devious little Kafupi was organising the most crooked election in the history of Zambia]

Election Sankulani

Last Thursday I got home rather tired, and covered in dust.

‘Where have you been?’ asked my daughter Kupela. ‘You look as if you’ve just come from a funeral.’

‘You’ve guessed right,’ I replied, ‘I’ve just come from the burial of Election Sankulani.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Kupela.

‘He was a she,’ I said. ‘You’ve never heard of her because your Social Studies books are full of the achievements of men, but the women have gone missing.’

‘Get to the point,’ said Kupela, ‘just tell me who she was!’

‘Election Sankulani was our greatest freedom fighter. I first came across her when I was a young journalist, back in 1962. It was during a meeting at Government House, when she turned on Roy Welensky and shouted at him You give us an election where everybody can vote, and anybody can stand, and then you’ll find out what we Africans really think of you! We all hate you!’

‘Welensky was furious, and shouted back What do you mean, you silly woman! We already have elections to the Legislative Assembly in Lusaka, and the Federal Assembly in Salisbury. You Africans have been boycotting these elections because you don’t like our democratic system! All you know is boycott! Because you just want to put your Village Chief in charge!’

‘Two years later it was Election Sankulani who wrote the 1964 Zambian Constitution, which was signed at Lancaster House by the Village Chief, dressed up in a western suit. Then she organised Election Day, after which the Village Chief was installed as President. Welensky was sent back to Newcastle.’

‘So did the Village Chief make her a minister after that?’ asked Kupela.

‘No, he dropped all the women freedom fighters, and sent them back to the kitchen. He said government was for men, and women should look after the home. He called this Partnership. It was a word he borrowed from Welensky.’

‘So what happened to Election after that?’ asked Kupela.

‘She used to make public announcements from her market stall in Chilenje. In 1973 she warned against the One Party Constitution. During the dark days of the dictatorship, any journalist who quoted her was automatically fired. Only brave dissidents and secret police were found anywhere near her market stall.’

‘Then one day in 1991 all the Chilenje marketeers were told to reduce their prices by half, because the Village Chief was coming round. When he came to Election’s stall he spoke to her, I’ve crossed you off my blacklist, and I’m sorry I destroyed your life. To make amends, I want you to organise another Election Day, just like you did in 1964.’

‘And so she became a real person again?’

‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘Election soon rediscovered her old energy, climbed one anthill after another, and restored the Lancaster House Constitution. Just like 1964, people formed their own parties, chose their own candidates, criticised the government, and voted for their choice.’

‘And did the Village Chief get re-elected?’ asked Kupela.

‘Of course not. They elected the Township Tyrant. But poor Election finally began to lose faith in her principles when the Township Tyrant began to behave even worse than the Village Chief. As she lost faith, her health began to fail.’

‘In what way was the Tyrant worse?’ asked Kupela.

‘He fired the journalists who criticised him. He brought back the state of emergency. He made people apply for a police permit before holding a meeting. He threw his political opponents into jail, and closed the university. Every time he did something worse, Election’s health deteriorated. All hope for Election was fading away.’

‘But was he worse?’ asked Kupela. ‘He was just the same as the previous guy!’

‘He was even worse,’ I said. ‘He changed the Constitution so that only a minority of people were eligible to stand for office. The rest were excluded.’

‘We’ve learnt about that at school,’ said Kupela. It’s called minority rule. That was the Welensky system!’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘The day she realised everything had come full circle, that’s the day she died. We shall never see her like again.’

‘Oh yes we shall,’ said Kupela brightly. ‘We shall have more Elections, and we shall always vote for change!’

‘I suppose so,’ I said sadly. ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast!’

Race to State House

[First published on 17 August 2006, more than two months before the election of October 28th]

Race to State House

‘Turn on the news,’ said Sara. ‘We may have some election results.’

The screen was filled with the huge nose of Philipi Nozi. ‘We now go over to Henry Nkalaushi, who was at Lumumba Bus Station earlier today.’

The camera now moved to the confusion of a dusty bus station, where Nkalaushi stood with microphone in hand. ‘Today is Thursday 28^th September, and the crowds are here today to see the beginning of the Presidents Race to State House. Right now I am standing next to the Mercedes bus of the amusing Mr HaHa, who is confident that his bus can win the race. People call him HaHa because he has never driven a bus before in his life. But Ha Ha argues that he is experienced as the manager of a large company, so he must be able to manage a small bus.

‘Over here we have the bus of Cycle Mata, so-called because he has been driving round and round the same roundabout for the past five years. People say that if only he could only develop a sense of direction, he could go a long way.

‘Now we come to the third competitor, who traveled all the way from Chipata in this oxcart.’ The camera peered into the ox-cart, but it appeared to be completely empty. ‘I am told,’ sniggered Nkalaushi, ‘that this presidential aspirant was very big in Chipata, but as he traveled along the road to Lusaka he became smaller and smaller, and now he has disappeared completely.’

‘Our fourth contestant, meandering around in that wheelchair over there, is the famous General Meander. He will explain to anybody that cares to listen that he is a born leader, and all he needs is somebody to lead. He admits that, without anybody to push his wheelchair, he is sure to come last in the race. But he also explains that his strategy is to collect evidence of corrupt practice by all the other contestants. After the election he will petition the Supreme Court. Then all the others will be disqualified, and he will be declared the winner.

‘But the biggest talking point here today is the unexpected absence of the reigning champion, the fearsome Great Elephant Muwelewele. Neither the elephant nor his bus have so far appeared.’ As he spoke, the burly figure of the Suspector General walked up to Henry Nkalaushi, and took the microphone…

‘By virtue of the powers vested in me under the Electoral Act, I am hereby banning the use of petrol or diesel in this Race to State House. Such use of petroleum products would give an unfair advantage to those with money who have bought large buses, contrary to the spirit of the Electoral Code of Conduct.’ So saying he took his gun out of its holster and fired in the air. ‘The race begins!’

The camera now turned to a crowd of people in the corner of the bus station, all pulling at a large tarpaulin, which gradually rolled away to reveal a huge grey heap sprawled on the ground. ‘Muwelewele! Muwelewele!’ they cried. ‘Wake up! Wake up! Time to be president again! Time for the great race!’

‘The Great Leader is answering the people’s call,’ Henry Nkalaushi shouted in exhultation, as the Great Elephant rose slowly to his feet. Then, encouraged by his supporters pushing at his rear, the Great Muwelewele finally broke into a little trot. Off he went, at a steady ten kilometers per hour, down Lumumba Road, and off in the direction of State House.

‘My God,’ I said, ‘couldn’t HaHa get out of his bus and run after him?’

‘No,’ laughed Sara. ‘As a managing director, his only previous experience has been running other people, not running himself!’

‘What about Cycle Mata?’

‘He can only run round in circles.’

Now the nose of Nozi reappeared on our screen. ‘We now take you to the scene at State House, where the Great Muwelewele has claimed victory and another five years in office!’

As the huge crowd cheered, the Great Elephant slowly climbed the steps and re-joined the mighty She Elephant who had been confidently awaiting the return of her partner in power. Up they went on their hind legs, as they came together in one shuddering conjugal embrace, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, trunk to trunk, and leg to leg. The crowd stood hushed, amazed and frightened at such display of primordial ecstasy.

‘It will take a gynaecologist to prise them apart,’ said Sara.

‘Aren’t they supposed to turn and thank their supporters?’ I wondered.

‘No,’ laughed Sara. ‘The happiness is just between the two of them. They did it for each other.’

‘I suppose their supporters will get their reward,’ I said.

‘Very likely,’ laughed Sara. ‘They’ll soon be arrested for the corrupt tricks they used in helping the Great Elephant to win the race!’

‘That seems a bit unfair,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ said Sara. ‘Our Great Leader is the champion of the fight against corruption.’

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.’

The Settlement

[Published in April 2002, this piece looks at the divorce between Kafupi and Deera]

The Settlement

‘What have we got this morning?’ asked the judge, as he sat himself on the bench.

‘Divorce settlement for Mrs Deera Kafupi, My Lord,’ said the clerk of the court, as a woman in a brilliant green satin suit squeezed her ample bulk into the witness box. The morning sun glinted upon her many rows of pearls, and heavy gold earrings.

‘My dear Deera,’ said the judge, leaning forward and peering over his spectacles, ‘What are you asking of this court?’

‘My Lord,’ said Deera, ‘my husband has divorced me, and left me destitute and starving.’

‘I shan’t asked you to swear on the bible,’ laughed judge. ‘How much are you asking for?’

‘For my share of the ploperty, My Lord.’

‘Tell me about the marriage,’ said the judge. ‘Did you help your husband in his work?’

‘Oh yes, My Lord. When I met my littul Kafupi, he was just conductor on a little minibus. That was more than thirty years ago. He had no qualifications at all. He only got the job because he was so short. He could walk up and down the minibus without have to bend.’

‘So how did you help him make his money?’ asked the judge.

‘I was the one who knew alithmetic. So I showed him how to count the money. And how to siphon off a little margin for himself.’

‘So things began to go well? Suggested the judge.

‘Oh yes,’ said Deera. ‘Soon we recluited all the other conductors into the same scheme, and set up the Movement for Money Diversion.’

‘So all the conductors were on the take?’

‘They all got their little share.’

‘But your husband got more?’

‘They all paid ten percent into his holding company, the Milking Money Deposit. He had the cheque book, but I was the blains behind it.’

‘So how much would you say your husband is worth?’

‘He’s velly litch!’

‘Just from milking the bus company?’

‘That was only the beginning, My Lord. After milking the bus company, we soon moved into bigger organisations. Then we set up the Movement for Marginal Diversion, for the diversion of government funds.’

‘So you infiltrated the government?’

‘Even the state,’ My Lord. ‘We even set up the Movement for Manipulating Democracy, which successfully diverted the Constitution.’

‘But were you still assisting your husband, or was it now him doing all these things?’

‘Oh no, My Lord. Without me it couldn’t work. Sometimes it happened that a disgluntled gloup of people would become despelate and dangerous after Kafupi had diverted their wages, or pensions, or medicines. But then I would always alive by helicopter with a few bags of mealie meal for their empty bellies, some salaula for their naked bodies, and some salt for their wounds. We called it the Hopeless Foundation, a charity for all the people whose lives we had made hopeless. Then all the hopeless people would jump up and down and cheer, saying The hour has come, Deera was sent by Kafupi, and Kafupi was sent by God! Kafupi Mpusushi!’

‘What a marvellous marriage partnership!’ declared the judge. ‘And a most equitable gender division of labour! For the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away! So what went wrong?’

‘Sex,’ said Deera.

‘Sex!’ the judge salivated. ‘I’ve been waiting for this bit! Was he perverted? Insatiable? Bisexual? Was there any sadism? Masochism? Fetishism? Any whips? Black leather? Anything like that? Ho ho, you must tell me everything, that's what I'm here for!’

‘Don’t over excite yourself,’ snapped Deera. ‘It was just the normal sort of mid-life crisis. First his eyes began to wander. Then his hands began to wander. Then his other parts began to wander. He was going with other women.’

‘How many? Two at a time? Three at a time?’ demanded the judge, leaning forward, rubbing his hands, and bouncing up and down on his seat. ‘Where did they do it? Did you catch them at it? Were they naked? Did you take any photos? Have you got any exhibits to put before the court?' The judge was now perspiring with excitement.

‘Calm down, My Lord! For him, it was just a natural extension.’

‘Natural extension? How big was his natural extension?’

‘Another natural extension of MMD, into the Multiple Matrimonial Diversions. He used the helicopter to snatch other men’s wives. Then he kicked me out of the house.’

‘A thief and a philanderer!’ gasped the judge. How much is he worth?’

‘About five billion dollars, My Lord.’

‘Good God! And how much did you manage to carry away when you were chased?’

‘Only a couple of million dollars, My Lord. I’m destitute.'

‘Well, Deera, from what you have told me, I can see that you did your best to stick by your husband and help him in all his nefarious endeavours. Therefore, under the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1981, you are entitled to half of the marriage property. I therefore award you two and a half billion dollars.

'Ooh, thank you my Lord!'

‘In addition, I sentence you to twenty years hard labour for receiving stolen property.’

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)