Sony Tansi - The Shameful State

“What do you think, Jescani?”

Brother Jescani shakes his head and says that Mr. President sir, you’re a good president.

“Fine, but what good is that, you still take advantage of me and go waving your male utensils in my face. Now things will be different and I’m going to fire into this mayhem and tough luck for those who perish.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He adjusts his hernia and heads out in the direction of Yambi-City where I had a villa built for my little French lady, a nice White woman who’s turning out to be as good as two real Black ones in the business of my hernia. He sets out without any god-damn escort and go ahead and kill me if you so please, I’ve had enough enough enough! We’re not going to run the fatherland as you’d operate a dick. What’s wrong with this country in which people refuse to understand that they’re not the president? From now on I’ll treat you as you deserve to be treated. He spent three days and three nights over at Evelyne Ollayat’s place, French woman of my entrails, as spicy as they come; ah Jescani, if only you’d have gotten a chance to taste her. Ah, Mom’s Vauban, if you’d been able to taste her, old rusted Vauban who prefers men, what a load of bullshit that is! He tells them the story everyone’s heard before, long before my hernia, when a loser like Berthanio became a Pharaoh, and when he made up his mind in the full light of day that the national flag would be kaki. Ah dear Mom, this country has come a long way.

“Mr. President, we found poop in your bed; looks like Laure and the Panther was behind this.”

He rushes over to see. Mother of Mom! And there, right there for all to see, on top of the photo of the girl, right in the very middle of the bed, lay a steaming blood-stained turd, with undigested stems of wild fruits protruding everywhere. He stares at this odious turd, studded with peanuts and peppers.

“Am I dreaming?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. What you see there is Laure and the Panther’s shit.”

“And what the fuck are the infantry guards up to? What in God’s name are they doing? Ah, this time I’ve really had it. And he summoned us all before him: the whole Council of Ministers of my hernia, the female representatives of the national unions for women, youth representatives, the representatives of the High Command of my hernia may God curse all of you. He summoned us all before this anger that’s eating me up, diplomats, the Apostolic Nuncio, representatives from the police as well as the gendarmerie, writers, musicians, painters, and no question of leaving anyone out, he summoned us before his kaki heart, and hurry up, the Companions of the People’s Action Committee, as well as representatives from friendly countries, along with the entire Supreme Committee for National Democracy. And he checks:

“Who’s missing?”

“Everyone’s here, Your Excellency.”

“Good. Now go ahead and take your damn power. I’m going back to the village to grow macaronis.”

He grabbed his eleven pairs of kaki pants, his eleven pairs of slippers, his other pair of work boots and his thirteen Phrygian caps; he picked up all thirteen hundred medals won fighting the communists, the machete Mao Zedong had personally given him and loaded it all into his small truck himself because I see how much you envy the President, he takes his gas lantern, his two mattresses that we had to keep in the palace library; he picks up National Mom’s mortars, I can see how envious you all are, the pestles, a millstone, his flask, a gas can, go ahead and take your damn power! He tied up his sheep, chickens, rabbits, hummingbirds, his parrot, his three ducks, go ahead and take your damn power, as he takes down the photos of the girl and those of Mom, he gathers his brooms, he tears up the official document from his oath of office! He tears up the decree that placed him at the head of this chaos of chaos, he tears down the portraits of all your mothers hanging all over the palace walls, he tears out all the pages signed by your mothers in the presidential guestbook. This is when we realized he really meant it, that this wasn’t a joke like when National Louvendo threatened to leave, and we threw ourselves at his feet, joined our hands together, and started begging him:

“Mr. President, Your Excellency, please don’t leave. You’re a good president. You’re the country’s honor and peace. We started licking his big fat greasy acetylene-drenched herniated balls. Mr. President, please don’t go. Please don’t go, Colonel.”

“Give me one reason why I should stay.”

“Yes, Mr. President. It has been said that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

And that’s when we caught a glimpse of him again, with Vauban right behind him, at daybreak, making his way down what we called Ofmybigballs Hill, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush for sure. We saw him again, Vauban right behind him, Vauban who still loved Africa in spite of his skin color, jogging along now, his fly unbuttoned, we watched him open the letter in which the new head diplomat from my colleague’s country across the way presented his credentials and you see Vauban they can’t do without us. He reappeared at Alberto Stadium, his fly unbuttoned, electrocuting the crowd and making his presentation with his hernia: “The earth will no longer be the earth; it’s up to us to get by and figure out how to live on it.” He started dancing the dance of my people, eating the people’s food, and no more bullshit: I’ll drink what they drink. And with brother National Robondia, the Minister of Zippers, shadowing him, we caught sight of him making his way over to District 45 and bringing down those shacks in which women were sprawled out on mats selling their wares. And you should all join me in this task; instead of selling yourselves on the black market, you should make an effort to ensure that men grant you a more honorable place on earth than in these brothels. But you can’t help yourselves, so much so that we all saw what we saw when my hernia decided the first time around to close down these shameful houses where you were all busy selling your butts. By will or by force I’ll make sure you end up where you belong on this earth. No no and no again: you are not politeness utensils, you are not mere items for consumption: the heart of the earth lies in your entrails, and so, throughout the sovereign territory of my hernia, no more giving women the meaning they give to their bodies.

He gives ex-brother Carlos as a striking example, who gave his life the meaning of his gonads and, well, you all know how he ended up. And he gave the striking example of ex-Cardinal Jullianno Moussa whose privates gave meaning to his life and, well, you saw how far that got him. And there’s also the example of my colleague in the country across the way who went and gave his queen gonorrhea and, well, let’s not get into that, and you all know how they took revenge…

It was at this time that we spotted several trucks heading toward Vatney, the seat of power. We assumed they were carrying weapons and ammunition from Amerindia. But nothing could have been further from the truth. They were in fact transporting mustard supplies. It took us quite a bit of time and science to figure this out: jars of mustard with his portrait on them, made by my new mother-in-law’s very own family in Haute-Savoie, because they’re going to poison me if I’m not careful. He had just taken Mom’s decision that henceforth I would only eat this mustard, I’m done with the dishes my people eat, done with those drinks your mothers prepare and with which you tried to get me.

I GAVE THE ORDERS TO THE FIRING SQUADthat executed brother Esperancio. We had to get out of town. He was speaking. I didn’t want to listen to him, but I still overheard what he was saying. I can still hear those words. He started by saying: “God is not serious.” Then he repeated it over and over. Almost as if he was trying to convince me.