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!’

St Ignominious

Back in August 2000, a priest was explaining how a Christian Nation could also be a Police State…

                 St Ignominious

It was rather late when Sara and I slipped into the Sunday morning service at St Ignominious. The congregation was just beginning the Lord’s Prayer ...

Our Christian Nation, which art in Zambia,

Hallowed be thy name;

Thy terror come

To us in Lusaka, as it is in Jerusalem.

Save us each day from daily dread,

And forgive our legislators,

As we forgive those who legislate against us;

Protect us from the Secret Police,

And deliver us from evil.

Amen

By now Father Mupulumpunshi was already in the pulpit, ready to begin one of his meandering sermons ...

‘As we sit here this morning in the Church of the Most Magnificent Deity, many of you have been asking yourselves whether things have really changed for the better since we became a Christian Nation. Do we have Good Governance? Do we have God’s Governance?

‘Look into your soul, and ask yourself honestly. Was your faith shaken when you turned on your radio this morning, and heard that armed police had invaded the house of Bululu Mwila? Admit a small sinful thought! Did you not say to yourself that it reminded you of the Mad Munshumfwa’s Dictatorship, rather than the Good Governance of God?

But I say to you,’ he cried, raising his arms to Heaven, ‘where is your faith? Where is your loyalty? Who are we, as mere mortals, to question the Most Magnificient Deity?

‘I know what you thought!’ he trumpeted, ‘when the Chief of Police could not explain it, and the Minister of Home Affairs knew nothing about it! I can see it in your eyes,’ he said, leaning forward and pointing an accusing finger at the congregation. ‘You thought that they were evil men, and that they were lying!

‘Oh ye of little faith! Have you not considered that they were struck dumb by the sight of a miracle! Was this not the angels of the Lord descending on a sinner? The Great Shepherd descending on his flock! What could mere mortals say about an Act of God! Theirs was the silence of the lambs!

‘When the Lord sends his Heavenly Police to descend directly to deal with sinners, he does not need to inform the Chief of Police or the Minister! Let alone the Magistrate! The Lord does not need a search warrant! I refer you to the Word of God! I ask you, where is the Magistrate’s Court in the Book of Genesis?

‘Do you think because the Heavenly Police found nothing, then the raid was a waste of time? Think again! If the Lord visits you tomorrow night and finds nothing, are you innocent? Instead of faith, he finds nothing! Instead of belief, he finds nothing! Instead of blind loyalty, he finds nothing! Then you are guilty! How then will you get to Heaven? Will you not go to Hell?

‘So it was with Bululu Mwila. The Heavenly Police searched his house all night and found nothing. Neither bible nor hymn book. Neither prayer book nor liturgy. Neither rosary nor crucifix. Not even a picture of Our Lord! The house of a fallen sinner!

‘Our Lord is a fisherman, and every night he must go on his fishing expeditions. But before you scorn a fallen sinner, ask yourself if you are ready to be visited by the Heavenly Fishermen.

He raised up his eyes, and addressed the stained glass windows with fervour. ‘But for the righteous amongst us, the Lord is our shepherd, and we are his sheep. We must follow him, and obey his every word. If we have blind loyalty and faith, then we need not fear the Heavenly Police.

‘So that is my message to you today. Now all rise to sing Psalm 23.’

As the organ struck the first note, we all burst into song ...

The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not scream,

He makes me down to lie;

On Nondo’s swing he tortures me

The quiet waters by.

My house he doth invade again

And me to walk doth make;

Under the threat of pointed gun

Even for my Leader’s sake.

Yea, when I walk in death’s dark vale

Then I shall fear much ill;

For he is with me, and his rod

And staff are meant to kill.

Torment and terror all my life

Shall surely follow me;

And in Red Brick forevermore

My dwelling place shall be.

Dark clouds scurried across the sky as Sara and I hurried away from the church.

‘What do you think to the priest’s question?’ I asked. ‘Do you think God has really taken over?’

‘Difficult to say,’ she said. ‘Either God or the Devil.’

No Crib for His Bed

[It is now nine years since the Catholic Church in Zambia celebrated Christmas by bulldozing houses in Ng'ombe]

No Crib for His Bed

          It’s not every day we can afford lunch, but yesterday we managed a feast of nshima and beans. ‘Aren’t we supposed to have chicken at Christmas?’ moaned Kupela. ‘Last year Aunty Jane brought us a chicken from Petauke.’

‘You were smaller then,’ snapped Jumani. ‘That was a pigeon.’

‘This year Aunty Jane can’t afford the bus fare,’ explained Sara. ‘But don’t fret, we can still celebrate the day by watching Henry Ngalazi’s Christmas Special on TV.’

          So we all settled ourselves in the sitting room in front of the ancient Supersonic, which was persuaded to gradually come back to life. Then slowly into view came Henry, microphone in hand. In the background we could see the Grand Banquet Hall at the Presidential Palace, the long table groaning under the weight of a many roast pigs.

          ‘I have with me here,’ announced Henry, ‘the Honourable Nuisance Dimba, Minister for Gluttony and Vomit, who would like to say a few words about the importance of this occasion to the nation as a whole.’

          ‘Here we see the advantages of privatisation,’ began the Honourable Nuisance. ‘In the bad old days of the Second Republic, Christmas was for everybody. Nobody wanted to work and everybody wanted to feast. Ordinary villagers would feast for seven days at Christmas, and were not be able to work for weeks afterwards.

          ‘That is why your government has privatised Christmas, to conform to the capitalist division of labour between those who produce and those who consume. Last year the entire agricultural surplus amounted to only twenty-six pigs. Behind me you see all our cabinet ministers consuming these on behalf of the nation. This amounts to only one pig per cabinet minister, and not four, as announced by Cycle Mata on Radio Phoenix.’

          ‘Having been given a whole pig,’ ventured Henry nervously, ‘some people are saying that it is unfair for each cabinet minister to also be given a new Mercedes.’

          ‘They’re being most unreasonable,’ growled Nuisance. ‘Do they really think that any normal cabinet minister could possibly squeeze himself into the back of a Toyota Corolla after eating a whole pig?’

          ‘And do you have a Christmas message for the viewers out there?’ asked Henry.

          ‘Yes,’ said the Minister. ‘This year, because of limited resources, viewers have had to watch quite a small feast. But by next year they will be paying TV licence fees, so we hope that, with the funds raised, that we shall be able to show them a much bigger Christmas feast!’

          ‘Marvellous!’ said Henry. ‘I’m sure we’ll all look forward to that!’

          But suddenly the picture changed, to show a dusty shanty town, where an armoured bulldozer was taking another run at a house, knocking down one side, and causing the roof to collapse. People were screaming, picking up their children, and running hither and thither. On the far side, a determined gang of Intifada rained a hail of stones upon the bulldozer.

          ‘My God!’ said Sara. ‘This must be Bethlehem! The Israelis are celebrating Christmas!’

          But it wasn’t Bethlehem, because surprisingly Henry’s head again came into view. ‘We have come here to Ng’ombe to find out how the Catholic Church is helping the good people of Ng’ombe on Christmas Day.’

          ‘Good afternoon Father Kamakama,’ said Henry, as a fat cleric waddled into view, through the rubble and dust.

          ‘Looks like he’s wandered into a wrong place,’ sniggered Kupela. ‘He should have been part of the feast!’

          ‘Perhaps as part of the menu,’ said Jumani.

          ‘Tell me,’ Henry shouted to the holy father, above the noise of screaming and demolition, ‘what do we see happening here?’

          ‘Here,’ said Father Kamakama, ‘we are clearing thirty acres of land which we bought in 1962, in order to build a Catholic Shelter for the Homeless.’

          ‘Are there many homeless here?’

          ‘There weren’t any, but we’re in the process of solving that problem. There should be about twenty thousand homeless by the time we have finished clearing this site!’

          Just then a woman came screaming towards the camera holding the lifeless body of baby, and an angry mob began to surround Father Kamakama, shouting ‘Nimwana wa Maria na Yosefe! Abadwa lelo mawa! Chiwumba chamgwela!’

          ‘What are they saying?’ said the priest, turning to Henry.

          ‘They’re saying the wall fell on the baby!’

          ‘Born on Christmas Day!’ chanted the crowd. ‘Jesus is dead!’

          We sat there shocked and stunned. Nobody said anything. Then Kupela broke softly into a sad Christmas carol:

Away in Ng’ombe

No crib for his bed

The little Lord Jesus

They smashed his sweet head

The bulldozer driver

Looked down where he lay

The little Lord Jesus

Had got in the way

          ‘I wonder,’ said Jumani, ‘how much the Catholic Church paid for those thirty acres of land.’

          ‘Not much,’ said Sara. ‘Just thirty pieces of silver.’

FORGIVE ME FATHER...

[In this Golden Oldie from 12^th October 2000, Kafupi accidentally makes the mistake of giving his confession to Father Spectator Kalaki]

Forgive me, Father ...

Last week I found myself passing St Ignominious, and was tempted to go in, and have a look around. Automatically, I walked through to the back, into the little room where Sara and I once signed the marriage register, many years ago. I opened the door, and went in.

But now it seemed to be the confessional. A little wooden pew stood next to a metal grill in the wall. Curious, I opened the little side door, and stepped into the priest’s secret little cubicle.

Very nice too! Comfortable red velvet armchair, bottle of whisky, and a Playboy magazine. I sat down, and poured myself a large glass of Jameson’s Irish Whisky, and opened the magazine.

Just then I heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the grill. Then the steps came to a halt, and I could hear the visitor sitting down in the pew. My whisky hand began to shake. Next I heard a voice on the other side. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

I took another gulp at the whisky. ‘Tell me, my son, what have you done which troubles your conscience?’

‘Oh Father, I have chased my wife of many years, and now my house is empty.’

‘A house without a wife is always empty. You must turn your thoughts to God.’

‘No, I mean the house is empty because she took all the furniture. She loaded everything into three containers, and took it all to Ndola. Not even a chair is left. That’s why I have come here to sit down.’

‘But my son, what did your wife do which caused you had to chase her, thereby accidentally chasing your furniture?’

‘Father, she had become very moody and bad tempered, always trying to pick a quarrel with my other wives, and even criticising my choice of girlfriends.’

‘Is that all, my son? You must explain to her that according to the Old Testament, a man may have many wives.’

‘Its not as simple as that, Father. She has been seen with another man!’

‘My son, that is an entirely different matter! Your wife has sinned. You must explain to her that the Bible allows a man to have many wives, but does not allow a woman to have many husbands. She has been unfaithful. When a woman does that, it is adultery. A deadly sin.’

‘So I did right to chase her?’

I lolled back in the armchair and took another gulp of whisky. ‘My son, I said, ‘this is a Christian nation. You have to uphold the Old Testament rule that the man is the head of household. What troubles your conscience, apart from your dreadful loss of furniture?’

‘Oh Father,’ he wept, ‘everybody is laughing at me. For I am the one who has talked about gender equality, but now people are saying I have one standard for myself, and another for my wife.’

I sat there admiring the centrefold of Playboy. ‘My son,’ I replied, ‘women are biologically different from men. It is our duty to stay on top. Even in the Vatican, the Pope is always on top of the Mother Superior.’

‘But Father,’ he persisted, ‘I have always tried to be a democrat. I have even written a book about democracy, which I intend to read one day. But now people are saying that I am a tyrant in my own home. Saying that I take decisions without consulting others. That I talk democratic and behave autocratic.’

‘My son,’ I said. ‘You don’t seem to know the meaning of sin, but you’re only mistake is saying one thing but doing another. You must drop all this hypocritical talk of gender equality and democracy, and make clear that you are following the Old Testament, the Dictatorship of God and the Tyranny of Man.’

‘Thank you Father. What can I do to make amends?’

‘Was that your first marriage?’

‘No, second. Although I always called her my first lady.’

‘Then you need to find a second lady, and go for a third term. On the way out, drop in at the Erectory and ask for Sister Magdelene. She’s very experienced at uplifting the downcast. She could give you a marvellous erection for your third term.’

‘What shall I tell her?’

‘Tell her,’ I said, ‘to show you the true meaning of sin.’

_____________________

I was still sitting there in a drunken stupor when the door of the cubicle opened, and there stood Father Fatty O’Flatulence, looking down on me with a severe expression. I drew myself unsteadily to my feet, and gave him the sign of the cross. ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’