The Civics Lesson

[First published on 4^th April 2002, this article reveals the strange education which gave rise to such peculiar leaders]

Civics Lesson

The Civics Teacher, Mr Amuna Mupampamina, swept into the classroom and wrote the date in the top right hand corner of the board. ‘4th April 1972!’ he proclaimed, as he turned triumphantly to the class. ‘And where are you all going to be in thirty years time?’

‘We are the leaders of tomorrow,’ said a voice from the back. ‘We shall be members of parliament and ministers.’

‘That’s right,’ replied the teacher. ‘That’s why you have been specially selected as the worst delinquents to come here to Numali Secondary School. You are the elite!

‘Take Mupupu Kafupi,’ he said, pointing at a tiny boy busy carving his initials on the desk. ‘He was sent to us from Lubumbashi Boys, after impregnating the headmaster’s daughter and killing his dog. Or was it the other way round?’

‘Excusez moi, mon professeur, maintenant mon nom est …’

‘English, please, Kafupi!’

‘Pardon, monsieur, I was just saying that I changed my name last week to Wabufi Kadoli. So now I have a clean record.’

‘Whoever you are,’ laughed Mupampamina, ‘I’m sure you’ll go a long way. Can anyone suggest any reasons why it is that delinquents always make the best leaders? Let’s have a little parliament to debate the issue. I shall be your Speaker. Will Samba, what do you say?’

‘In my considered opinion, Mr Speaker, the reason is that delinquents have a healthy contempt for all established traditions and rules, so they have the imagination to envisage a different society.’

‘But is that entirely true?’ asked the Speaker. ‘I’m not sure if I can allow that.’

‘Sir, as the Speaker, are you supposed to join in the debate, and suppress other people’s opinion?’

‘Be quiet, Sibetta. You’ve forgotten that I’m also your Civics Teacher. I shall put the question to Vicious Malambo. What do you think are the special qualities of the delinquent? Why do they always despise the rules.’

‘Not entirely correct, sir! Delinquents don’t always despise the rules, sir. Once I have changed the rules to suit myself, I always have the greatest respect for them.’

‘Very perceptive,’ said Mupampamina. ‘Sometimes the principles of delinquency seem to fit well with the principles of government. So what is the basic principle of government to which we have to adjust?’

With the lesson now warming up, several hands were raised towards the teacher.

‘The re-re-re-rule of rule of of raw,’ stuttered Stutter Mwansamumbi.

‘But who makes the rules?’ scoffed Cycle Mata. ‘Is it not the rule of men!’

‘It’s the words that matter!’ countered Velvet Mango. ‘The rule of lies!’

‘But why do we lie?’ asked Bedstead Dimba. ‘Isn’t it because we’re ruled by our appetites!’

‘Then it’s the rule of money!’

‘Order, order!’ shouted the Speaker. ‘Eunuch Kapimpinya! You’re asleep!’

Kapimpinya woke up with a start, and looked round for his lunch box, which had disappeared. ‘Thievery! Theft!’ he shouted.

‘I’ll accept that!’ declared the Speaker. ‘Thievery and Theft, those are the basic principles of government. All the other suggestions can be struck from the record, I’m not interested in them!

‘Now somebody tell me,’ said the Speaker, ‘what is the difference between the rich and the poor?’

‘Theft,’ said Machungwa. ‘The wealthy become rich by stealing from the poor.’

‘Quite right,’ said the Speaker. ‘And what is the method for this essential process of capital accumulation?’

‘Taxation,’ replied Kasonde, ‘is the principal method for transferring money from the poor to the rich.

‘And why is this money transferred to the rich?’

‘So that the poor will respect them as their betters and their rulers.’

‘So can you give me an alternative word for property?’

‘Theft.’

‘Very good. And what is the purpose of the judiciary?’

‘To protect the rich from the poor.’

‘Why do the ruling class need so much money?’

‘To buy votes to steal the election.’

‘But why do they need to steal the election.’

‘So that they can steal the presidency.’

‘And why do they need to steal the presidency?’

‘To be given immunity from theft.’

‘Very good. I’m sure you’ll all pass the exam, and never have to do a day’s work in your lives. But I must particularly draw your attention to the vocabulary we have been using. This is the vocabulary of the classroom, meant only for the training of the elite.

‘In later years, when I am the Speaker, and you are my members of parliament, I don’t want to even hear the word theft. You must stick to the proper parliamentary vocabulary of taxation, property, profit, privatisation, compensation, emoluments, allowances, gratuities, and so on. The word theft is used only when the poor steal from the rich. Therefore it is a word for the courtroom, not for parliament.’

Kadoli yawned and looked at his watch. ‘Half past ten. Time for break!’

‘That’s my watch!’ shouted Mupampamina.

‘I’m a quick learner,’ laughed Kadoli. ‘Its just been privatised!’

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.’