The Handover

[It is just after the election in 2008, and the time has come for Morleen to hand over State House to Thandiwe]

The Handover

Sunday

My poor Old Sugar has gone to bed and is already snoring, so its time to confide in you, My Dear Diary. When my dear Sugar finally woke up this morning, he was like a dinosaur with a sore head. ‘I’ve been president for over a week,’ he roared. ‘When is that woman going to let me into State House?’

‘Don’t you worry My Darling,’ I said gently, ‘I’ll have a word with Morleen, and find out what’s causing the delay.’ So I gave her a call on my new Blackberry, and she invited me round the next day. ‘I’ve been waiting for your call all week,’ she said, ‘what was the delay?’

‘Shall I bring Old Sugar?’ I asked. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘its better to keep things between the two of us at this stage.’

Monday

Dear Diary, Today was so exciting. I’ve been learning all about furniture and the art of government. This morning, before Old Sugar had woken up, Morleen was already taking me on a tour of my new home. ‘You won’t have to change anything,’ she said. ‘Your husband is exactly the same size as the previous president, so everything will fit perfectly.’ ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I admitted. ‘I’d been wondering why he was chosen.’

‘There were terrible problems previously,’ explained Morleen, ‘when we had to replace a large president with a small one, and after that change the small one with my beloved Muwelewele. You can’t have a huge president balancing on a tiny chair, it lowers the dignity of the presidency, quite apart from the threat to national security.’

‘So we don’t have to bring any of our own things?’ I asked.

‘Good gracious no,’ laughed Morleen. ‘The wardrobe is full of suits that will fit your Sugar Daddy…’

‘I call him my Sugar,’ I corrected her, ‘Not Sugar Daddy.’

‘Oops,’ she said, ‘My mistake. Anyway, your Sugar should be able to step into the same shoes. Its all part of the legacy.’

‘And fit into the same old policies?’ I wondered. ‘Perhaps I should bring him along tomorrow to talk about that?’ ‘Good gracious no,’ she laughed, ‘its better to keep things between the two of us at this stage.’

Tuesday

Dear Diary, this morning I confided my fears to Morleen, about whether my poor Old Sugar could really run the country. ‘On our little farm in Chipata,’ I explained, ‘I used to have to do everything, because he was usually asleep. But if he woke up, I would send him into town to attend party meetings. Otherwise he would hang around the farm and start quarrelling with the workers.’

‘It’s much the same with this job,’ said Morleen. ‘You just take charge, and if he becomes a nuisance, you send him to meetings of SADC or the AU to talk about Darfur or Mugabe. Then, while he’s away, you can continue to govern the country.’

Now she had me really worried. ‘How can I do that?’ I asked her. ‘What if ministers try to interfere?’ But Morleen just laughed. ‘Never talk to a minister, just phone his secretary, and tell her you’ve got instructions from State House. That way, the minister just does as he’s told.’

Oh Dear Diary, I’m really worried that Morleen’s system won’t work for me. Supposing these ministers have ideas of their own? Even worse, supposing my Old Sugar starts to interfere. He could really mess things up.

Wednesday

Dear Diary, I’m feeling more confident today, after Morleen explained everything. ‘These ministers,’ she said, ‘are specially chosen because they have no ideas of their own. They’re all old and dull, and rather sleepy. The only one who understands how a ministry works is the minister’s personal secretary, who has been there for years. So the country is always run by the First Lady and the ministers’ secretaries. It’s women who govern this country. Men just steal and talk.’

Thursday

Dear Diary, the newspapers are starting to gossip that Old Sugar hasn’t been seen for two weeks, and maybe he’s fallen asleep. So I woke him up early, and took him round to Morleen for the Big Handover. She made him sit on the great throne at the head of the long table. ‘I’ve called your press conference for tomorrow,’ she said, as she put a sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘It will be very simple and straightforward. All you have to do is read out this list of new ministers.’

‘Oh goody,’ yawned Old Sugar. ‘I hope I can get along with all of them.’

‘Just make sure,’ said Morleen sternly, ‘that you don’t lose any of these sheets of paper, or you might end up with more ministers than ministries.’

But my poor Sugar had already fallen asleep. I turned to Morleen and whispered ‘Is it really alright for me to take charge? After all, I haven’t been elected.’

‘Don’t worry,’ snapped Morleen. ‘Nor was he!’

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!’

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.

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.’

No Women to be Found!

[First published on 24 August 2006, under the title ‘Incredible!’]

No Women to be Found!

‘Today,’ explained President HaHa, ‘we shall be interviewing women applicants. We are looking for one or two respectable women who genuinely support our Ponga traditions of polygamy, lobala and the subordination of women.’ The President was addressing the Parliamentary Selection Committee of the UPND, the United Patriarchy for National Discrimination.

‘Only if we can find women who respect men as the head of the household,’ cautioned Patriarch Muchishanya, the Chairman for Drastic Domestic Dictatorship.’

‘Let me just remind you,’ said Madman Kuku, Chairman for Masterful Male Monopoly, ‘that if we can just find one or two women who are able to quietly support and assist us men with our parliamentary duties, then they could do their work better if we also make them members of parliament.’

‘We must certainly bear all these points in mind,’ said HaHa, as he signaled the secretary to call the first applicant. A young woman entered the room and was directed to the single chair on the other side of the table.

‘Mrs Bufuma Chumi,’ said HaHa, ‘I am informed that you have applied to stand in Kasama, even though your husband lives in Choma. Do you have your husband’s permission to be away from home during the election campaign?’

‘We both agreed,’ replied Bufuma, ‘because Kasama is my home area.’

‘Thank you for coming to interview,’ said HaHa. ‘We’ll let you know.’

‘Monstrous!’ snorted Madman Kuku, as Bufuma departed. ‘Obviously a woman has to stand in her husband’s constituency, where she can look after her family and be properly supervised by her husband.’

‘Let’s hope the next applicant is more suitable,’ said HaHa.

‘Kathy Kusasiyana,’ said HaHa, looking sternly at the file, ‘it says here that your husband objected to you standing, but despite this you insisted on filing this application. What do you say about that?’

‘You see,’ said Kathy, ‘my husband was quite agreeable until he had a visit from a whole delegation from the Constituency Committee, who asked him to take control of his wife. Otherwise, they said, I would be known as a hule who was sleeping around in order to seek political favours.’

‘So when your husband withdrew his permission, you just ignored him?’

‘Women need to be able to take their own decisions,’ declared Kathy.

‘Thank you for that, Kathy’ said HaHa. ‘That was all we wanted to know. We’ll let you know in due course. Don’t phone us, we’ll phone you.’ As she left, he turned to his committee members and exclaimed ‘My God, if she won’t even obey her husband, what chance of her obeying me!’

‘Good morning, Mrs Martha Mtendere. There’s just one question I want to ask. Did your husband give you permission to apply for this seat?’

‘Oh yes!’ said Martha enthusiastically. ‘He backed me all the way!’

‘That’s all we need to know,’ said HaHa, as Martha stood up to leave ‘We’ll let you know in due course.’

‘We can’t have that!’ hissed Patriarch Muchishanya. ‘She’s not an independent person. Her husband is the one in control of her, she’s under his thumb. Since he’s the one in charge, we should rather ask her husband to stand!’

‘We can’t do that,’ sneered Madman Kuku. ‘He belongs to MMD.’

‘Even worse!’ snorted Patriach Muchishanya.

‘Miss Charity Chimwemwe,’ said HaHa, ‘make yourself comfortable. We have just one question for you this morning. You are thirty years old and you don’t have a husband. Why is that?’

‘I prefer to be independent,’ replied Charity, so I can make my own decisions. Then I can be on equal terms with men.’

‘Thankyou,’ said HaHa. ‘The secretary will show you out.’

‘My God!’ screamed Madman Kuku. ‘Thirty years old and not married! She must be a feminist or a prostitute or a lesbian! Or possibly all three! Whatever she is, she’s unacceptable and probably illegal! Get her out of here, and out of the party!’

‘Mrs Samira Sanama,’ said HaHa, ‘we just called you in to ask you what you know about the party’s gender policy.’

‘The policy promises gender equality,’ replied Samira, ‘with women being equal in law, and having equal access to all opportunities.’

‘Thank you,’ said HaHa. ‘You may now leave.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed HaHa, as soon as she’d gone. ‘Our policy never once uses the word equality. We have always used the word equity, meaning that we men must use our authority to treat our women fairly!’

‘Exactly,’ growled Madman Kuku. ‘Now you see the danger of letting women apply for men’s positions! I told you so from the beginning! I think we’ve heard enough!’

The meeting had now finished, and the party spokesman Patriarch Muchishanya came out onto the steps, into the bright lights of ZNBC cameras. ‘I have to announce that UPND cannot find any woman as a parliamentary candidate.’

‘Why not?’ asked Henry Nkalaushi, thrusting his microphone in front of Muchishanya.

‘We simply cannot find any women!’ declared Muchishanya.

‘You have just heard,’ said Henry Nkalaushi, looking into the camera, ‘a most incredible statement from the least credible of our party leaders.’

Just then a bright red BMW open sports car came swooshing up to the kerb, with a beautiful young at the wheel, her blond hair extensions flying in the wind. She waved energetically to old Muchishanya. ‘Come on Daddyo! she squealed, ‘Time to party!’

As Patriarch ran to the driving door, she clambered over from the driving seat into the passenger seat, carefully negotiating her miniskirt over the gear stick. At which point Henry Nkalaushi leaned over to her with his microphone. ‘Muchishanya says he can’t find any women! Any comment?’

‘He’s telling you the truth!’ she laughed. ‘It was me who found him!’

‘And what’s your role in the election?’ Henry asked.

‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘I’m in charge of his erection expenses!’

People Power

[First published on 28^th September 2006, a month before the Tripartite Elections of 2006]

People Power

It was Monday 2^nd October 2006. Excited expectation gripped the large crowd gathered in front of the Supreme Court, waiting for the Chief Justice to announce the results of the Presidential Election. At the back of the crowd sat two old men, well known in their day but now almost forgotten. Their names were Kapelwa Musonda and Comrade Bonzo.

‘I still think we had a better system in the old days,’ sighed Comrade Bonzo, ‘when people just voted yes or no, according to whether they wanted their beloved leader to continue or not.’

‘I remember one election,’ said Kapelwa, ‘when over two million people voted yes, and only one person dared to vote no. This single dissenter was hunted down by the party cadres, cornered at Luburma Market, and beaten like a dog. What was his name? I can’t quite remember.’

‘Simon Kapwepwe,’ said Comrade Bonzo.

‘I never thought I’d live to see dissent become respectable,’ said Kapelwa. ‘Who do you think can win out of this lot?’

‘Its got to be Elephant Muwelewele SC.’

‘SC? What does SC mean?’

‘Sensitive to Criticism. If anybody criticizes him, he loses his temper. So he’s in a rage all the time. He’s alienated everybody: teachers, pensioners, doctors, miners. Spits in the face of everybody. They’re all united against him!’

‘So how can he win?’ wondered Kapelwa.

‘Because he’s restored One Zambia One Nation,’ declared Bonzo. ‘He’s united the nation, as did the Great Munshumfwa SC!’

‘SC?’

‘Sole Candidate,’ explained Comrade Bonzo.

‘But Muwelewele is not the sole candidate,’ snapped Kupelwa, getting exasperated. ‘If they’re united against Muwelewele, they’ll vote for one of the others. Probably Cycle Mata SC!’

‘SC?’

‘Spitting Cobra.’

‘Nobody trusts a Spitting Cobra,’ laughed Bonzo. ‘They’re more likely to vote for Grimface HaHa SC.’

‘SC?’

‘Southern Corruption,’ explained Bonzo.

‘You mean Ponga tribalism,’ said Kapelwa. ‘So he can’t win. And nor can Godfear Meander SC.’

‘SC?’

‘Soiled with Crap,’ explained Kapelwa. ‘He soiled himself with the reintroduction of the Putrid Order Act, and a putrid smell has lingered around him ever since.’

‘So the choice is hopeless?’ wondered Bonzo. ‘Isn’t there anybody else?’

‘Only Ngosa Ngoni SC,’ sneered Kapelwa.

‘SC?’ wondered Bonzo.

‘Sued by Creditors,’ explained Kapelwa. ‘Only his creditors will vote for him. They’ll never get their money back unless he becomes president.’

‘Shush,’ said Bonzo. ‘The Chief Justice has started to speak!’

‘…for the Presidential Election held on 28^th September 2006, the official and certified results are as follows:

Ngosa Ngoni 359

Godfear Meander 3,602

Grimface HaHa 390,151

Cycle Mata 539,123

Elephant Muwelewele 755,920

‘Welewelewelewelewele,’ ululated the hired praise singers, as all the bootlickers and sycophants crowded round to congratulate the Great Elephant.

‘However,’ said the Chief Justice ominously, ‘the Spoilt Papers numbered 1,904,240. Normally these would be discarded. But these ballot papers make up 53 per cent of the vote, and each has the words PEOPLE POWER clearly written on it. In these circumstances, I have no option but to declare that all the nominated candidates have been rejected, in favour of People Power, which has won the election by a decisive overall majority.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Bonzo, ‘how did this happen?’

‘I think I know,’ said Kapelwa slowly. ‘On Election Day there was a column published in The Post, under the title People Power, advising voters that all five candidates were unsuitable, and that it would be a mistake to merely choose the best when all are bad. So voters were instead urged to write People Power across the middle of the ballot paper.’

‘Therefore,’ continued the Chief Justice, ‘I declare that no government has been elected. According to the Constitution, without an elected President, I automatically become the acting President. There will be no ministers or members of parliament. The country will be administered by the civil service, under the guidance of a Constituent Assembly, which will also have the task of finalizing a new Constitution.’

‘Hurray!’ cried the crowd. ‘No more presidential trips to London! No more ministerial allowances! No more gratuities for MPs! Away with the parasites! Now the people are rich!’

As they cheered, a young man wearing the national flag climbed on top of a stone lion. ‘Away to State House,’ he shouted, ‘with all those bricks, we can build a new Chibolya!’

‘Demolish the mansions!’ chanted the crowd as they surged forward. ‘Demolish the Redbrick! Power to the people!’ The Chief Justice was airlifted to the front of the crowd, to lead the triumphal march up Independence Avenue. ‘Justice from the Chief Justice! We’ve waited forty years for this!’

The two old men were left sitting by the fence, staring at events in disbelief. Comrade Bonzo turned slowly to Kapelwa Musonda. ‘This is all your doing, isn’t it? This is not really happening, is it? I’m not even really here! I’m just a character in one of your stories.’

‘Its worse than that,’ said Kapelwa sadly, a tear running down his face. ‘We’re just a couple of characters in one of Kalaki’s stories.’

________________________________________________________________________

With apologies to Kapelwa Musonda, father of Zambian satire.

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!’

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.’