The Struggle

[First published on Independence Day in 2002, this piece looks at the past years of glorious struggle…]

The Struggle

The Big Man, otherwise known as His Most Highly Excellent Excellency, climbed slowly and majestically up the steps to the podium and looked solemnly out at the crowd gathered on the lawn under the midday sun, as they sweated in their heavy Paris and London suits, fanning themselves with their gold printed programmes, and mopping their faces with their silk handkerchiefs.

‘Imagine the scene here thirty-eight years ago,’ began the Big Man, ‘when we first celebrated our independence. Instead of the select few we see here today, there were thousands from every walk of life. I am told that one minister arrived on a bicycle, and rode across the lawn with such enthusiasm that he crashed into a drum of chibuku, which soaked the American Ambassador.’

‘Ha ha,’ everybody laughed. ‘Probably from Lundazi! We were all villagers then!’

‘Yes,’ said the Big Man. ‘That was the problem. We were all villagers then. In 1964 we all looked the same, frayed shirts and laughing shoes. Just a bunch of freedom fighters straight out of the bush.’

‘Probably the Bush Hotel in Ndola!’ somebody shouted.

‘Some of these new political leaders had never even seen the inside of a hotel,’ continued the Big Man. ‘But now they had to weld themselves into a political elite that could enjoy the best hotels in London and New York. This meant that they had to struggle to develop as a new political class, with the wealth and experience to be respected in the world. Above all, they had to struggle to avoid falling back into the starving masses from whom they has so recently emerged.’

‘More champagne!’ shouted an irritable voice, summoning one of the small army of uniformed waiters.

‘And as we keep the champagne flowing,’ said the Big Man, ‘it is fitting that we should today honour the man who did so much to establish us as the ruling class…’

As he was speaking a bald old man in a white silk safari suit walked from the marquee and stood in front of the podium.

‘Bashimpundu Munshumfwa,’ said the Big Man, ‘we honour you today for your great role in our struggle for independence. In those early days, after our colonial masters had been chased, it was left to you to establish the new political elite from amongst an unlikely band of undisciplined malcontents. In those days, your new elite were in a dangerous position; they could easily have been swept away at the first election. But thanks to your foresight and determined action, many of that original band of pioneers are still with us here today.

‘It was you, Bashimpundu, who solved the problem of elite class preservation with the brilliant electoral innovation of the one party election. This enabled six candidates from the same party to stand for each parliamentary seat. Since the electorate had now been relieved of the bothersome task of choosing between different party policies, they were now free to sell their votes to the candidate who paid them best.

‘It is this system which has ensured the stability of government, and the formation and independence of an enduring political elite, because only those presently within government had access to the funds to buy sufficient votes. Although the one party state has now been abolished, we have managed to extend this free market in votes to the multiparty system. In this way our multi-party system has managed to preserve the essence of the one party system, which is the provision for the intergenerational reproduction of the elite class. This has enabled us to triumph in the long struggle to create and preserve the elite class.

‘The Struggle!’ they all chanted, as they raised their champagne glasses.

‘I therefore,’ continued the Big Man, ‘appoint you Hero of the Struggle, First Class. I also award you a free house and six free Mercedes for life, irrespective of the cost to the starving masses.’

The old man took out his white silk handkerchief and shed a few tears of joy as the gold medal was put round his neck. As he walked away, an old woman took his place.

‘Mama Chibebebe Kakasha, we honour you today for a different type of struggle. In those early days, many women who had played their part in chasing the British now demanded their equal place in society and in government. But we must thank you, Mama Kakasha, for confining them to the Women’s League. You managed to keep them busy dancing for the Great Leader at the Airport, and making the tea at party conferences. In the continuing struggle for men’s domination over women, you are our heroine. I am sure all the women of Zambia must know what you have done for them. You were the heroine who assisted us in our struggle to respect our traditional culture by maintaining male supremacy in the nation, and…’

As he was speaking, shouts and shots were heard from behind the marquee, and then a hoard of skeletons in rags came galloping through, falling upon the waiting banquet, sinking their teeth into the lobster and crab, and spilling a big bowl of caviar all over the American Ambassador.

‘How did they get in?’ squealed the Big Man.

‘We’re dealing with it, Your Most Highly Excellent Highness,’ the Chief of Oppression shouted back, as the tear gas blew the wrong way. ‘We were taken by surprise. They tricked us by being so thin that they walked straight in through the front railings!’

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!’

All Hail the New Speaker!

[First published on 7^th February 2002, just after the election of a new Speaker]

All Hail the New Speaker!

Sam and I were sitting in the Press Gallery of the Great Cathedral at Manda Hill. We were about to witness the consecration of the new priest to preside over all their ancient and medieval rituals.

‘Why is the priest in charge called a speaker?’ I whispered to Sam. ‘Shouldn’t he be a cardinal, or at least an archbishop?’

‘This is a different sort of church,’ explained Sam, ‘Instead of priests, bishops and pope, here we have members, ministers and speaker.’

‘But do they all worship God?’

‘Here God is Money, and Money is God,’ chuckled Sam. ‘So they worship Money, which they believe to be the visible sign of God on Earth.’

‘But does that explain the Chief Priest being called the Speaker!’

‘He is called the Speaker because Money talks,’ explained Sam. ‘The old God of Morality has not muttered a word for two thousand years. But the God of Money is chattering all the time, through his representative here on Earth, the Speaker. When the Speaker speaks, even the bishops tremble, because they also fear and respect the Power of Money.’

Just then a shabby little figure shuffled in and crouched in front of the Speaker’s Chair. ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, ‘is this odious little creature the new Speaker?’

‘Of course not,’ laughed Sam. ‘This is Chiwelewele, the church rat. He’s been here so long that he was made the Chief Clerk. His job is to officiate over the proceedings, and then creep back into his hole.’

‘Please be upstanding,’ said Chiwelewele, ‘to sing the Money Anthem,’ as the entire congregation stood up simultaneously. For all their political differences, they were all united in their praise of their One God…

Stand and sing of Money,

market free,

Land of bribes and joy in unity,

Victors in the struggle

for our right,

We hold money tight,

Praise our Great Dollar,

Praise be, praise be,

Fat men we stand,

In the desert of our land,

For our Great Dollar,

Praise to thee,

Strong and free.

‘There are two candidates for the position of Speaker,’ continued Chiwelewele. ‘Firstly there is Bumfutu Bapunda, who is well known as a silly ass. Standing against him is the most famous and distinguished son of this House, Mr Alesosa Mwelwamwelwa. Those who want Mwelwamwelwa should walk past the right side of my chair, for righteousness is next to godliness. Those who are misguided should walk on the wrong side.

‘What’s that?’ I asked Sam, pointing to the large copper cross hanging high on the wall.

‘Copper crosses were used as money in pre-colonial day,’ he explained. ‘That’s our old traditional Copper God, worshipped long before the God of Abraham, in the days when the slaves dug up the copper and the chief grew fat on the proceeds.’

‘And the tatty old cabbage, hanging on the cross?’

‘Shush,’ said Sam, ‘that is the Great Cabbage that now rules the land. ‘Some people think that it’s just a useless cabbage, but actually it’s represents the big bundle of greenbacks which command the loyalty of our most illustrious crooks and thugs.’

‘It looks a bit tatty round the edges,’ I sniggered.

‘Some of the honourable members of the house are known to have a nibble now and again, according to the understandable demands of their extravagant lifestyle.’

As we were talking, the fat and honourable members were filing back from voting. ‘Look!’ I said. ‘Some have cabbage leaves sticking out of their pockets.’

‘Dollar notes,’ laughed Sam. ‘They’re already finding out how to get nearer to God.’

‘Our new Speaker,’ announced Chiwelewele, ‘is the Right Honourable Alesosa Mwelwamwelwa!’

‘Hear hear,’ cheered the members, as they counted their dollar notes, and Chiwelewele dressed the new Speaker in skirt, cloak and long white wig, so that his past reputation might be clothed in the finest disguise.

‘He has to wear the wig,’ whispered Sam, ‘to cover the panga scars acquired during his years as a party cadre in the Movement for Murdering Dissidents.’

‘My first duty,’ said the new Speaker, ‘is to lead this August and Honourable House in the Oath of Allegiance. ‘Please bend the knee, and repeat after me…’

All the ancient honourables attempted to bend their fat and arthritic knees as they chanted their Oath of Allegiance to the Holy Dollar…

Our Dollar, which art in pocket

Hallowed be thy name;

Our brown envelopes have come,

A new deal is done,

With Pajeros, to take us all to heaven.

Give us each day our daily bribe,

As well as our government houses,

And imprison those who speak out against us,

For ours is the dollar, the power and the glory,

With girlfriends for ever and ever,

In bed.

‘And now,’ the Speaker solemnly announced, as he gave the sign of the cross, ‘I do adjourn this House sine die, while I await further instructions from God the Kwacha, God the Dollar, and God the Holy Cabbage.’

What freedom it was to walk out from the fetid flatulent air of the Cathedral of the Holy Cabbage, into the fresh breeze outside.

‘There’s something familiar about the appearance of that new Speaker,’ I said to Sam. ‘He looks remarkably like the previous old villain. I seem to get a whiff of the same stench!’

‘You’re right!’ said Sam. ‘They’ve had the previous fellow resurrected! It’s a miracle!’

‘Who performed the miracle? Was it the God of Abraham or the God of Money?’

‘In this Christian Nation,’ laughed Sam, ‘who can tell the difference?’

Haunted House

[First published on 10^th January 2002, this piece looks at the new arrival in State House, the clumsy foot-in-mouth Kabeji]

Haunted House

Wednesday

Dear Diary, today we moved into our marvellous new home, now that my derar husband Kabeji has got the top job. The previous tenant, Wabufi Kafupi, was in tears as he handed over. He had kept the house marvellously, but was refused an extension of the lease after having been caught stealing the cutlery and eating all the peacocks and impala from the garden.

‘Please,’ said Kafupi, as we said goodbye, ‘don’t change anything. Leave it as it is. Even the pictures on the wall.’

Thursday

Kabeji slept like a log last night, after I’d given him his pills. But I just couldn’t get comfortable on that mattress. The springs are all finished. ‘What was Kafupi doing on it?’ I asked Kabeji at breakfast, ‘to get it in such a state?’

‘I’m told he never slept much,’ he replied. ‘Often he would spend the whole night wrestling with weighty problems.’

‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to discuss your acceptance speech. Have a look through this draft, my dear, while you’re swallowing your pills. We need a strong message of reconciliation, all work together for the sake of the nation, that sort of thing.’

With a little encouragement from me, he made a first attempt to read it out loud. ‘My intention is to appoint some of my pop pop pop…’

‘Opponents,’ I said.

‘I know that,’ he shouted, stamping his foot. ‘My intention is to appoint some of my popponents to my new team…’

Then he stopped, look up and seemed to go into a trance. Finally he shouted at me ‘But if they oppose me, that is treason, they’ll be arrested, found guilty and sentenced to death!’

I wiped his brow with a white embroidered linen serviette, and got him to lie down on the sofa. ‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ I said gently, as I gave him his medicine. ‘We’ll have another try tomorrow.’

Friday

Dear Diary, I’m worried that this job may be too much for my husband. At breakfast he did manage to read the second sentence quite nicely. All about the members of his team being people of integrity and honesty, and above reproach, who will put the national interest above personal interest.

But having said this in a calm, magisterial and convincing voice, my husband put down the paper, and looked vacantly into the far distance. Then his face twisted into an ugly sneer, which strangely mirrored the picture of Kafupi hanging on the wall. ‘However,’ he snarled, clumsily spilling his tea all over the nicely printed speech, ‘it is also important that I repay my personal debt to my closest associates. These are the liars, dealers and crooks who gladly and willingly besmirched their reputations in order to devise the various dirty tricks that put me into this high office.’

‘Darling,’ I said, holding his hand and trying to calm him, ‘it would be better if you could just stick to the official text. We are aiming for something calm, diplomatic, reassuring, and statesmanlike. Under no circumstances should you actually say what is on your mind.

Saturday

I tried again with Kabeji at breakfast, but he was still in a terrible fit, as if he’d been tormented all night by one of the springs in Kafupi’s mattress. I got him to read another sentence, saying ‘All leaders must be humble and accept criticism, and work amicably with our co-operating partners.’

Then he fell onto the floor in a furious rage, shouting ‘I’m not having these donors criticising our election, or asking what has happened to their funding. What are they doing here anyway?’

And something very creepy, Dear Diary. He seemed to be looking up at the picture of Kafupi. And when I glanced up at it, I thought I saw the eyes move! Oh My God, am I living in a haunted house?

I was shaking with fear as I gave him some more pills, and laid him down quietly on the sofa.

Sunday

This morning I got up early to make breakfast, and discovered something really ghoulish and goose-pimply about this house. I found the Kafupi picture with empty holes where the eyes should be! But it had eyes yesterday! I got a torch, stood on a chair, and looked inside. A tunnel! I knew it! Kafupi is still here! He’s in the tunnels! Casting an evil spell over my husband!

So I arranged breakfast on the patio, away from the evil eye. And do you know, Dear Diary, Kabeji read the speech perfectly! No problems at all! Every successful man has a little woman right behind him!

Monday

Today is my big Kabeji’s big day before the cameras. So I buttoned up his shirt properly, straightened his tie, gave him a double dose of pills, and sent him on his way.

Oh Kabeji, your dear wife and the whole nation has so much hope invested in you! Please don’t disappoint us!

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.’