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!’

Dr Kapupushi

[This piece was first published on 17^th August 2000, just after President Chiluba had returned from Malawi with his new honorary doctorate]

Dr Kapupushi

Tuesday

Dear Diary, I’ve been left all by myself again. This morning I was having breakfast with my dear littul Fleddie when he suddenly said ‘Pack my bag for me, will you dear?’

Oooh, the way he orders me about, you’d think I’m a member of his Cabinet. Who does he think I am, to be ordered about like this? Peter Machungwa?

But of course I didn’t say any of that. ‘Off again, dear?’ I said. ‘Have a nice time. Where is it this time?’

‘Off to Malawi to see my friend Muluzi.’

Ooh, Dear Diary, how I hate that big greasy polygamist! I never know what he and Fleddie get up to. Shouldn’t be surprised if my naughty littul Fleddie came back with another wife!

Wednesday

Dear Diary, I found out from this morning’s Post why my Fleddie has gone to Malawi. He’s gone to get a doctorate. He’s all show, nowadays, my Fleddie. He goes to London for his suits, Paris for his shirts, and Rome for his high heel shoes. It’s not fair. He never lets me wear high heels. I wonder why?

And now he wants a doctorate! Fancy getting his suits from Saville Row and his gold watches from Geneva, and then having to go to Malawi for a doctorate! Malawi, of all places! Doctorates are supposed to come from Harvard or Oxford! People go to Malawi for peanuts! Maybe my poor littul Fleddie is not tall enough to go to Oxford.

Thursday

Oooh, I’m so annoyed! Opened my Post this morning, and found they’d published bits from my Diary. I should never have trusted that Spectator Kalaki, who was round here yesterday, drinking my tea and nibbling my ear. Naughty man! He must be the one who tore out a couple of pages from you, Dear Diary, while I was in the kitchen making the tea.

Let him claim the cledit, what do I care! Nobody will believe I wrote such things about my husband. And anyway, if my little Fleddie can be an Honolaly Doctor, then I can be an Honolaly Writer!

But, Dear Diary, I think I know why he wants this doctorate. It’s not just vanity. It’s another of his name changes. If he changes his name to Doctor, he’ll be able to go for a third term!

But I don’t mind. When I pull off his gown and cap, there inside I shall find my same darling littul Fleddie. I love him so!

Friday

My little Fleddie came back late last night from Blantyre, still wearing his black cap and purple gown. I had to laugh. As he climbed down from his big motor car, his big floppy cap fell down over his eyes, causing him to trip over the front step. He landed flat on my lovely Persian rug which I bought from Kamwala Trading.

‘Dr Fleddie, I presume,’ I laughed, as I tried to help him up. But he couldn’t see the funny side of it, and went to bed in a huff. And also in his gown.

Saturday

Dear Diary, I think this silly Doctor Business has gone to his head. He came to breakfast still dressed in his new cap and gown.

‘Good morning Darling Fleddie,’ I giggled.

‘Doctor Fleddie to you,’ he said sternly. ‘You forget I’ve been born again as a Doctor.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘What did you do, dear, to get this doctorate? You haven’t read anything for years. That Vicious Malambo pleaded with you to read his report on Good Governance, but you wouldn’t even open it. And that nice big book by Muna Ndulo on the Rule of Law, you just sit on it so you can reach the table.’

‘What do you know about it, you Grade Four drop-out!’ he shouted at me in a most undoctorly way. ‘I have received this degree on behalf of everybody in Zambia! Other people have been reading, even if I haven’t!’

‘Then maybe we have all become doctors!’ I laughed. ‘That would be much more democratic! We can have Michael Shouter as Doctor of Expulsions, Dawdle Lupunga as Doctor of Swindles, Clueless Cluo as Doctor of Disasters, Grunting Tembo as Doctor of Growl ...’

But he wasn’t amused. Instead of reading The Post,

he just sat there reading his new certificate, and stroking the lovely soft fur on his gown.

Sunday

Oh Dear Diary,

I do try to respect my dear little husband, but I can stop laughing at his honololy doctorate. This morning at breakfast my Doctor Fleddie fell into a tellible fit, after his big doctoral cap fell off his little head, right into his pollidge.

‘Its too big for you dear,’ I said. ‘Didn’t they have a smaller size? You’d better stay at home today, while I give it a wash. Without that cap, people will think you’re just plain Mister.’

‘What do you know about it?’ he shouted. ‘Clothes maketh the woman, but doctorates maketh the man! I am the Doctor of Democracy! Everybody knows that! I’m the one who doctored democracy in Zambia!’

‘I know you did dear. And everybody admires the way you doctored the Constitution, to stop that Old Munshumfwa, the Mad Malawian Doctor, from...’

‘What’s wrong with Kapupushi?’ interrupted Fleddie, as our cat walked in through the French window. ‘He seems to be limping.’

‘He’s Doctor Kapupushi now,’ I laughed. ‘While you were away I had him doctored.’

Sugar Daddy

[This piece, first published in September 2008, looks at corruption during the previous election campaign]

Sugar Daddy

‘Come in and sit down,’ said Velvet Mango sternly, as Humpty Dumpty rolled through the door and came to rest in a vast armchair. Velvet remained at his desk with a severe expression on his ancient wrinkled face. ‘I’m thoroughly fed-up with you! I spent all last week coaching you on the Art of Politics, and then you go off to the Kateka Initiation Ceremony and make a complete hash of everything! You’ll never win an election like that!’

‘I’ve completely changed my political style,’ he laughed. ‘I went there as Humpty Dumpty, but I’ve come back as Sugar Daddy! Doesn’t that sound so much more attractive? So sweet and delicious! All the girls love a Sugar Daddy!’

‘Its not funny,’ growled Velvet Mango. ‘If you’re going to be a president, you’ve got to know how to behave, and what to wear. You even seem to have ignored everything I told you about choosing the right hat. On state occasions you should wear your Head of State hat, and behave accordingly. Others will be wearing their uniforms, robes, crowns and feathers, and make empty noble speeches about patriotism and national unity. By appearing as a dignified Head of State you can collect votes without even saying a word!’

‘I prefer a more informal style,’ chuckled Sugar Daddy, as he took a sweet out of his pocket.

‘You did the opposite of what you were told!’ shouted Velvet. ‘You stepped out of your official Head of State Jet wearing a shabby Political Party Hat and a loud chitenge shirt, and giving the party sign with both hands. You offended all the dignitaries who had lined up in their official robes to greet you.’

‘I like to appear as a man of the people,’ laughed Sugar Daddy.

‘You seem to be oblivious,’ sneered Velvet Mango, ‘to the rule that you’re not supposed to use official government transport for blatant electioneering.’

‘You’re just jealous that I’ve got so many hats to wear, whereas you’ve got nothing to cover your bald head!’ laughed Sugar Daddy, as his huge belly heaved with mirth. ‘But don’t worry, I soon took off my Political Party Hat, put on a Head of Government Hat, and began distributing sugar to the starving.’

‘Wrong again,’ groaned Velvet, putting his head in his hands. ‘Distributing relief food is an administrative job, not political. Before you left I made it very clear that you should put on your Government Hat to explain government policies, but not get involved in distributing gifts.’

‘Well you were wrong, because everybody loved me and called me their Sugar Daddy! The young girls all came to kiss me, and promised to vote for me. Even the photographer from The Boast came specially to take my picture!’

‘Of course he did!’ snarled Velvet Mango. ‘Bribing electors is specifically prohibited in the Electoral Code, and he caught you in the act! If we didn’t have the Electoral Commission in our pocket, you could easily be debarred!’

‘You’re just jealous of my popularity, you withered old has-been!’ cackled Sugar Daddy. ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that I took off my Government Hat when I went to the Girls Initiation Ceremony.’

‘Ah ha!’ said Velvet, ‘I hope you put on your Father of the Nation Hat, and advised the young people on their marital responsibilities.’

‘I considered that,’ laughed Sugar Daddy. ‘But my uncle offered me a Tribal Hat, beautifully made out of dead hyena. Wearing this hat signifies that a man is looking for another wife, and luckily enough I still had enough sugar left to offer a very attractive lobola. So, having improved my political standing by marrying the Paramount Chief’s youngest daughter, I instructed all my tribesmen to vote for me, and to chase any other candidates who had the insolence to step into my tribal territory.’

Just then the office was filled with a sensuous ring-tone taken from the Overture to the Karma Sutra Erotica. ‘Hello Sweetie,’ said Sugar Daddy, as he picked up his cell phone. ‘… Even me, Sweetie, I’m missing you … I’ll be home soon, Sweetie … Daddy’s bringing you a large lollipop … Bye bye Sweetie.’

Sugar Daddy looked round at Velvet, who had his head on his desk, and was moaning quietly. ‘Wake up, you crafty old lizard. I’m going to get elected on a manifesto of supplying the nation with sugar. Remember those good old days under the Unending National Interference Party, when there were only state shops, and they sold nothing but sugar! Anybody with a party card could eat as much as they liked! I shall re-establish the National Sugar Marketing Board, with jobs for everybody. Anybody who opposes me will be locked up! Happy days are here again!’

‘The way you’re going,’ Velvet sighed, ‘you’ll never win this election.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sugar Daddy. ‘Don’t you think so? Then what more can we do?’

‘The usual,’ groaned Velvet. ‘I’ll have to rig it!’

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.’