Make me King!

This is not a short story to be published in your literary anthologies and later to be studied by drunk University students. Students who spend years being taught how to criticize what they will never be able to write. Neither is this a political manifesto, drafted by handsomely paid professors of political science, outlining five year plans on how to rob us the little we have. This is not a sermon either. It will not tell you to turn your left cheek when your right has been assaulted. It will not ask you to pay offerings to God when you cannot even afford salt for your soup. This is none of the above!
This is a reminder to you selfish and thankless fools. You ungrateful visitors who after eating to your fill, go ahead and shit in the plate with which I served you food. This your old prostitute’s wish – Make Me King!
You people are a very ungrateful lot. The other day your Minister for home affairs went to visit a sickling freedom fighter in the true spirit of patriotism. After giving the ailing hero ten thousand shillings, his speech followed as thus: You freedom fighters have been neglected, you live in paper bag houses while those who did not fight for freedom drive limousines to five star hotels to have shamefully expensive dinners. Immediately he stepped out of the freedom fighter’s paper bag house, smiling at flashing cameras, he jumped into his limousine and headed for a five star hotel to have a shamefully expensive dinner.
Is that the kind of thanks you want to accord me after I brought sanity back to this confused country of yours? You enjoy the fruits of my genius as you call me the old prostitute. Have you forgotten how I brought sanity back to this country? Oh … I see! It was such a long time ago wasn’t it? It was when my breasts were still pointed and my skin smooth and shiny in the sun. My breasts are now as flabby as empty wineskins and my skin as wrinkled as an elephant’s wizened buttocks. Age has caught up with me hasn’t it? It has also caught up with my heroism too, is that it?
Okay, I will tell you a story before I die. I will remind you of what age has wiped of your memories for I want you to honour my courage, I want you to Make Me King!
There was a time we had a President. This President was hardworking to a fault. He did all the jobs and left the rest of the country jobless. He believed in hard work, you see. He therefore was everything. He was farmer number one. Teacher number one. Footballer number one. Driver number one. He was commander in chief of all armed forces; headmaster of all nursery, primary and secondary schools; chancellor of all public and private universities; chairman of all political parties (where all means one because we only had one party). He appointed ministers but he was the minister of ministers. Minister of education; minister of health; minister of treason and rebellion punishment; minister for welcoming visitors; minister for political parties; minister for V.I.P salary increment; minister for everything!
Even natural jobs like fatherhood were left to him. He was father of the nation; father of all political parties; father of all schools, father of all hospitals; father of all churches; father of all children; father number one!
We were lucky to have a hard working President but people started having their doubts. The whole country was jobless while the President was extra-jobful. Those who wanted to become Presidents were told we already have a President. Those who wanted to become teachers were told we already have a teacher. Those who wanted to become fathers were told we already have a father. Those who wanted to become ministers were told we already have a minister. Those who wanted to become thieves were told we already have a thief. Those who wanted to become murderers were told we already have a murderer. Those who wanted to become Hitlers were told we already have a Hitler!
The people became helpless. They died of hunger and disease. Children died, women died, men died. The dogs, the cats , the cows –they all died. Hopes died, courage died and futures died.
On seeing so many deaths, the people resorted to weeping. They wept in towns, they wept in villages. They wept in jails. They wept at the hangman’s yard. They wept in detention camps. The people wept! The President saw another job opportunity that could be added to his curriculum vitae – weeping. He became weeper number one! He toured the whole country weeping with the people. Soon he was declared the father of weeping. He would weep on people’s behalf and no one was to be seen weeping.
When the drum is hit too hard, it tears! The people could take it no more. He killed them but they sang a new song – change! He tortured them but they still sang change. He bribed them but this song change would not go. Even the police with their batons and metal rubber-bullets could not stifle this song. Mr. President gave in and for the first time the people held an election.
His Excellency the new President was a man of the people. He believed in equality and embarked on drastic measures to make everyone equal. He argued that the country had enough resources to employ everyone. The secret was equality. He made a declaration, no one will have more than one job.
His Excellency was such a good man. He made a sacrifice no president has ever made the world over. He slashed his salary! He claimed that before he became a president, he used to earn three thousand shillings as a teacher and on becoming a president, he decided to earn six thousand shillings only! A one hundred per cent increment on his part. He thus saved the five hundred thousand he would have earned as a member of parliament. The hundreds he would have earned as commander in chief of all armed forces. He saved the one and a half million set aside for the president. He also saved the hundreds of thousands he would have received as chancellor of all universities. In general, he gave up over twenty salaries all amounting to over twenty million shillings.
His cabinet ministers were people who had been jobless graduates, doctors and professors in the past regime and they did not mind earning four thousand five hundred shillings each considering the fact that the president was earning six thousand only. If they would have been in the previous regime, they would have earned a record five million each.
Salaries were slashed everywhere. Members of parliament, permanent secretaries and government clerks all had their salaries slashed. All those who had excess it was taken from them and given to those who had none. We all found jobs. All those who had graduated found jobs in their respective fields. They became doctors, teachers, journalists, engineers as well as lecturers. Those who had not gone to school went to school. Primary education became free. I became a managing director in a parastatal. Those who had been idlers became clerks. Shoe polishers became civil servants. Mechanics became big company engineers. We would never have known that our country had enough resources to employ all of us were it not for his Excellency. We all earned a flat rate of two thousand five hundred shillings. Tax on goods was effectively collected and since we all had a salary, we paid promptly. The previous regime was wasting millions in excessive salaries, allowances, corruption and ineffective tax collection. His Excellency corrected all these. We were all equal, we were all brothers in his Excellency.
Then from nowhere, trouble erupted. Those who had cars could not have them repaired for there were no mechanics, they had become engineers. Those who wanted to board taxis got stranded for there were no drivers, they had become clerks. Those who wanted to have their torn shoes repaired were at a loss for there were no cobblers, they had become civil servants. Those whose wives were giving them headaches were wasted for there were no prostitutes, they had become secretaries.
The country was thrown into chaos. Every one had a decent job with a decent salary but crucial services were missing. Something had gone wrong. His Excellency had tried his best but this predicament caught him pants down. Something had gone wrong, people started murmuring. Economic analysts tried to explain what had gone wrong by conjuring dead economists’ theories. They drew curves on graphs to illustrate their theories. Criss-crossing curves, curves bulging like a pregnant woman’s belly and curves sagging like a young woman’s bottom. Political scientists were not left behind. They mentioned Karl Marx, Engels, Nyerere, Nkrumah. They talked of communistic capitalism and African socialism. Everybody talked. Everybody blamed. Everybody cursed.
And here I want you to read carefully for this is where I come in. All these people, the common man, the economist and the political scientist had taken a wrong path. Like the rest of Africa, they had started manufacturing theories on how their Excellencies have gone wrong. They started punching holes into his Excellency’s project. Africa went wrong a long time ago. This was when she sent the enemy away through the front door and welcomed him back through the backdoor. While people spend time fighting each other and punching holes into each other’s projects to redeem Africa, none of them mentions this enemy that is pulling the strings. Africa seems to have developed a new survival tactic. She has become the fool who after being pricked by a thorn in the leg, decides to move around on crutches instead if simply pulling out the thorn and letting the wound heal. His Excellency’s project was one such crutch. The rest of us clap and celebrate as the crutches are being purchased. Intellectuals, students and workers dance in celebration at the purchase. Religious leaders shout hallelujah in praise. The peasant in his shack is not left behind, he makes love to his tenth wife in celebration and the child born of this act will be named Foreign Aid Kujitawala!
I sat back and watched the economists and political scientists punching holes and none of them mentioned the enemy. None of them talked of the thorn in our flesh. In fact, they put the blame on the crutches. They said crutches are old fashioned. Why don’t we try a wheel chair instead, they suggested. After all we have money. Why pull out a thorn when we can afford the comfort of a million wheel chairs?
Africa knows the truth, I thought, but practice has made her live with falsity. Living a lie has become a reflex to her. At that time, I saw Africa behaving like the professor of Atheistology who was climbing the steps to a podium to lecture on how God does not exist. On his way up, he tripped on the stairs and cried ‘oh my God!’ Everybody was surprised – he was crying ‘oh my God’ when he believed there exists no God. ‘Oh my God?’ they wondered, oh ‘which’ God? The professor believed in his heart that there exists no God but practice had made him call God’s name when in trouble. It was reflex. The economists and their friends knew in their hearts who the real enemy was, but practice had made them point fingers in the opposite direction. It was reflex!
I therefore decided to donate them an automatically propelled wheelchair, the most expensive one in the market. Since they were not ready to pull out a mere thorn, let them have their wheel chairs. I made my move. Being a manager in his Excellency’s setup earned me two thousand five hundred. Everybody earned the same amount but vital services were lacking. There were no shoe shiners, no taxi drivers, no peasant workers and no casual labourers. I resigned my post as managing director and went back to my old profession. Since we were too busy protecting the enemy, we might as well survive with him in our flesh. I went back to prostitution. I became a freelance prostitute and business has never been good. I had customers hovering around my door and once a client stepped out others rushed for my door like hyenas fighting over a corpse. I started earning five thousand a day unlike the two thousand five hundred a month the managing director job earned me.
Everybody followed suit. People quit the civil service to become cobblers. They left their clerk positions to become taxi drivers. Women quit their secretary posts to become market sellers. They all quit thanks to my genius move. They all sang my name in bars as they drank themselves silly. Finally, his Excellency quit. A new Excellency came to power and things returned to ‘normal’. The President could once again earn his cool twenty million a month while the cobbler could once again walk home with five shillings a day. Things had returned to ‘normal’ thanks to me.
That was long ago. It was I who brought sanity back to this country. Then, you sang my name in bars. You even named your children after me. Time has wiped away the songs you sang in my honour. You have forgotten about me, about my genius. You now call me the old prostitute. I serve you food and after having your fill, you shit on my plates! I will not let this happen. My days have passed and my days are running out but I will not let you fools disgrace me. I am making a demand, I am making a wish, my death wish.
When I die, I want to have a portrait of my corpse taken while it lies on a mat. It should be enlarged and the least area it must cover should be three metres squared. The portrait should be hung at all national museums and below it should bear the words ‘Make Me King!’ Beside the picture should be a copy of this article you are just about to finish reading. So that all may see the truth. So that all may Make Me King!

©2008 Otiato Opali