“Those
of us who have only ever known life in a democracy, however flawed, would find
it hard to imagine what living in a dictatorship and enduring the absolute loss
of freedom really means”
- Arundhati Roy (Not Again)
MY grandmother recently turned
90 and if I thought I will be free of her inquiries on why the myriad political
promises she has been hearing for nearly all her life-time have not come to
roost, I was very wrong. The old fellow
now seems to have a keen interest in the political happenings in Northern
Rhodesia. With every call, SMS I receive, I regret having bought a television
set for her. Now she wants a panga!
Strange, because out there
in Shangombo, she always tells me she is a citizen of Barotseland, and not
Northern Rhodesia.
This is how, the panga
demand came to be.
"Sonny! Please, come
quickly. I am in big trouble."
"What, Nana?" I
asked. My mind dancing around whether that third Baobab tree by the second bus
stop, near the first Baobab tree at the Shangombo market is still standing. Who
knows! Someone could have mistaken it for Mukula ornamental wood. Else, it will be a tall order to locate her
hamlet in the Barotse sands.
"Last night, there was
a big crowd at my shebeen. Was a busy, profitable night. They danced and
chanted some unknown psalms. I could not help, but join in the chanting as I
served them." She paused. I waited. Really, forgot I meet her mobile talk
time bill. And it is not cheap.
"Couldn't understand
what they were on about, as they were using their own local language."
Well, I could relate to that. Most Lozi speaking people can barely understand
each other, when the other uses his or her own local language. Lozi is a
national language, by the way.
"Imagine! I actually,
joined in the chanting, when suddenly they stopped. You should have heard their
heartbeats. Boom, boom, boo. Then, this elderly weasel that always drinks on
credit pointed at me, and shouted. 'That is the witch killing us with her paraffin
and battery acid laced seven days. Today, the witch will die. We need
development, the seven days is making us always vote for the opposition'."
A long pause again. Thick foul tobacco spittle must have hit the ground.
"Sonny! All this time
they were actually chanting, 'today the witch will die, today the witch will
die' meaning me. Please, bring a panga for me." And the phone cut.
Tried calling her back. But
that jealousy girl, I hate so much, answered my call.
"Sorry. You have
insufficient Jameson alcohol to make this call". My apologies, the tragic
tale of the dance for Nana must have made Jameson intrude in my thoughts.
Perhaps, I really don't need
to rush to Shangombo. My beloved grandmother is wise enough to know, you don't
just join in a dance and chant without first asking what it is all about.
In hindsight, I laughed
softly. Her world famous paraffin and battery acid laced seven days alcoholic
brew is a marvel!
Ingenious!
The brew actually removes
cobwebs that prevent the gray cells upstairs from communicating properly. Now
not surprised they believe she is a witch. Unfortunately, they need development
served on a sizzling platter of rats in sindambi[1]
soup. They surely must have heard someone saying, if you do not vote for the
party in government there will be no development in your area.
Sic! This fellow thinks he
uses money from his dear departed father’s hamlet. Anyway, that is a story for
another day.
The point is, the paraffin
and battery acid laced seven days always made them realize that tyranny is an
erotic temptation, when the delusion of power is one's eiderdown. They live apart from their sons rotting in
prison for simply asserting that Barotseland is a State within a State.
In voting for the opposition,
they were simply asserting that obedience of tyrannical rule is no different
from the obedience of corpses; throw them in an ox-cart; turn them roughly in
the morgue, chop them up in the guise of a post-mortem, not a protest will you
hear. And more so that, development served on a sizzling platter of rats in sindambi
soup only during an election is sophistry. After all, they have evidenced a
people being pulverize to pulp, so that they accept the tomorrow promise of
development!
Well, I am off to the
nearest hardware shop to buy a panga for my beloved grandmother. I really hope, I will not regret my decision.
Tomorrow, I head off to Shangombo, to deliver the panga. I am sure she will
proudly hang it under the Baobab tree in the centre of her hamlet, so that all
can now see her new political affiliation.
I really love my
grandmother. But, in the days to come, I am slowly seeing myself on fast twos, her
in an ungainly sprint behind me with panga raised. At 90, how will she easily differentiate
between her grandchildren and members of the opposition? Perhaps, I should tell
her that a panga is violence, and that violence, is the nemesis of democratic
rights?
Or that the law obligates a
State, the executive and legislature, to do something for the citizenry, not
just for those with a particular political affiliation? Hence that, the psalm
of development served on a platter of rats in sindambi soup, only when one has
a panga hanging outside their door is not right. It is immoral.
No. I will just have to seek
solace in the gecko on my wall, and deliver the panga. I hear in Shangombo they
still burn witches. Wouldn’t want that to happen to Nana.
But, before I hand it to
her, I will remind her that she once said,
"Being in authority or power,
or being close to authority or power, does not mean instruments of authority or
power are one's toilet tissue. Even if it became so, one has to be careful as
unwise use of toilet tissue can soil one's hand."
And further that,
"The denial and defense
of rule of lawlessness, is no different from wondering why everyone you seek to
greet refuses to touch your hand. It is simply because you soiled your hand
after number two, but you deny the smell".
I am sure my grandmother is
wise enough. Can’t wait. It surely cannot be a case of the Iron Age never really ending in some parts of
the world. Were pangas not first invented in the Iron Age?
Via, veritas, vita.
