Sony Tansi - The Shameful State

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Lajao found a turd in his caviar.

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Can’t you just shut up. You’re deafening me with your nonsense. Find those responsible; find them.”

National Vouna found a turd in his noodles — how revolting. Find those responsible; find them. Vangadio found a turd in his jacket pocket — find them; Mahoungou spotted a turd right in the middle of the dish his cook was about to serve his guests — find them instead of busting my eardrums. He asked Vauban to play his flute to calm me down. And National Vauban, excellent charmer of hernias that he was, played some tunes from the foggy country. One by one the members of the government withdrew, in silence. Only little Glemabar stayed behind, young and timid as he was he didn’t want to offend Mr. President, Glemabar the Minister of Rocks; my poor child you can go ahead and follow the others. But Vauban jumped on him to satiate his twisted balls that preferred men.

“Help, Mr. President, help!”

“What’s gotten into you, Vauban? Get out of here and go and court him in your quarters.”

But Vauban is deaf to the president’s call; he’s already off rutting. What are you doing? He grabs him by his pony-tail: and our brother Glemabar’s complaining in some kind of technical jargon: stop, Vauban, stop.

“Every country has its own monuments.”

“That may be so, but not this one.”

Glemabar comes out covered with bite marks from your dog who’s not ashamed to bite and I swear to you, Mr. President, sir, that one day I, Glemabar, son of my mother, I’ll make sure he curses his mother. Lopez laughed his big fatherly laugh. What, my old friend, can we do to Vauban? He’s not like us who have no other monument but our shit. Vauban is Vauban. The science of guns runs in his veins. Don’t waste your time, Glemabar: he’ll kill you. But Mr. President, I’ll have him curse his father’s juices. Ok: but if you kill him, I know my colleague won’t come asking me to settle things all because of some sexual misunderstanding.

“Now you choose to show up, National Zabouni?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He grabbed hold of his ears in the ancient manner. I think it’s your racism that pushes you to do these kinds of things, but I’m telling you that 20 percent Portuguese blood hardly makes you a full-fledged Whitey. And come to think of it, what stops me from being racist too: I’ve got 11 percent “Flemantation” running in my veins.

There’s a termite mound of fecal matter on his bed. All over his bathtub and in every room in the palace. Find those responsible, for God’s sake, find them. For six months the town is invaded with your mothers’ shit but don’t worry I will take revenge. And still every indication is that Laure and her mother were behind this, but don’t worry, I will take revenge. Cardinal Zino.

“Present.”

“Please, come here before my hernia, and look at what your church has been up to. And in a country in which 80 percent of the population are Catholic? People turning our temple to shit. How can this be?”

And so, for nine months, every morning and every evening, he found his share of shit in every room in the palace. Find those responsible, find them. One morning, Jescani showed up with some scrawny kid, fifteen years old, in his birthday suit.”

“What does he want?”

“Mr. President, it’s him!”

“What do you mean it’s him?”

“Laure and the Panther: the crapper.”

“No way!”

He claps his hands and bangs his feet to try and scare the kid. The boy’s shaking like a leaf. He’s afraid, really afraid. The president smiles at him to reassure him. He hands him some candy, some cookies. Lets him stroke his big greasy herniated balls. Maman, this child is beautiful. He gives him some jam. He’s really enjoying all this food.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“So you do know I’m the President?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Now tell me: where do you get all this raw material from?”

“What raw material?”

“Where do you get all the shit from?”

“But what shit, Mr. President?”

“All the shit you’ve been sending us.”

“I really don’t understand what you’re saying, Mr. President. This is the first time I’ve ever been to this town.”

“At least tell me your name is Laure?”

“Laure and the Panther. I chose that nickname because it had a good ring to it.”

“What do you want me to do,” brother Jescani asks.

“Kill the child: but you’ll see, Laure will still be there.”

They hanged the kid, but the following day there was more shit than ever before all over town.

“That’s what I was saying: stop killing people for no reason.”

“Mr. President, we’ll bend over backward to…”

“Yes, but while all this has been going on, where exactly have you been bending over? Forget it, it’s too damn late now.”

He summons Cardinal Nola so that he can see things firsthand and tell his God that now, it’s too late. And you my colleague from the country across the way rolling in medals won ferreting around up young girls’ skirts, he summons Mr. La Huenta, Global Special Representative for Peace, and Cardinal Rabougla. And let’s hope this is the last time we have to discuss this. First you told me that it was my ex-brother, same hernia, so I had him shot on the spot, right in front of you, then that it was ex-Major Mourtani Diaz, and I had him hanged right in front of you. I slit National Darsano’s throat because apparently he was Laure and the Panther, and now you’re telling me you’ll bend over backwards: well it’s too late you’ve let the shit take over and so here’s my response. He pulls back the curtain to reveal one thousand two hundred and sixteen place settings with napkins in the fatherland’s colors. He shows them the spoons, the bread, and the forks, roaring, “Hurray for the fatherland.”

“Minister of Energy: please start. Let us make love, because hatred is far too expensive!”

The phone rings. Hello! My hernia is listening. Mr. President, Laure and the Panther has just blown up our colleague’s embassy. He remains speechless for a while. His hernia trembles with anger and shame. He smokes a whole cigar before reacting. Shit! He’s concentrating his efforts. Mom!

“Did you at least recover the body of the chief diplomat?”

“Mr. President, the chief diplomat is alive.”

“Ah, it’s better when they’re alive. Send him over immediately.”

He gets up as a way of showing compassion when Jean from my colleague’s country arrives. My condolences. But you need to know that you’re partially responsible: when I’ve asked for money in the past to improve security you’ve always been stingy with us. The phone rang again at that moment: Mr. President, Laure and the Panther just wasted all of your National Aunt’s family.

“What the fuck are the infantrymen doing? What in God’s name are they doing?” I get it: instead of watching over the fatherland, they’re busy mounting women. Now you’ll consume me in the state you’ve put me in, because he’s just found his dog Daorfa in the kitchen with a bullet in the ear. He fell into a fit of rage. “This time the fire. Tough shit for you: no more the Lopez you can sing to, dance to, and love. Now it’s Lopez in Greek sauce who’s off to my colleague’s country to learn to fly, smoked Lopez who returns to the country and summons the Minister of Ammunition: I’m demoting you from Colonel to Sergeant.” He proclaims the country’s flag kaki like his dick, makes arrangements for my beloved dog’s funeral, dead for the fatherland, gun in paw. “National Icuezo, what set of big balls have gotten you all in a huff?”