Sony Tansi - The Shameful State

“Did you hear me, I’m going to marry her?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

An eleven-gun salute was fired across the capital and the city rose as one and shouted: “Yes, Mr. President.” And then silence. “Quiet, National Daddy is loving his wife.” No music. No traffic. The streets were empty. This lasted two days.

“WHY ARE YOU CRYING MY SWEET ANGEL?Here, have some mango, drink a little. You are in the palace. Wear this dress. Would you like to dance?”… He lavished her with jewelry and glee, showed her every nook and cranny of my hernia: he danced in front of her, sang her the songs of his people, and “I promise you I’ll love you just as I would have if you still had your tongue, here, have some of this fruit, drink some of this drink.” But she kept on crying.

He describes her: full mouth, savage mouth, aching, I’ll recast you as a monument, mother of the fatherland. He throws himself at her feet, go ahead and walk all over me if you like. I may be the President but my blood rushes to you: you see? And he tells her how they’ll never have a better president in this wretched world; I’m not like that Trimitti Lopez who used to hang them like poultry, or that Luigui Lafundia who used to skin them, and I’m not like Manuelio Samba who used to feed them to the leopards. He told her of the shameful day when Adamonso Liguas became a Pharaoh, but that, never, over my dead hernia. He started showing off my body that you can see before you with all the scars from my war against Russia, made sure the door was double-locked so that Colonel Vauban wouldn’t interrupt our afternoon nap. The metal bars. The columns. Impregnable stone walls. Cannons, tanks, big ball launchers. All these “utensils” you can see…. He gets out his fallacious hernia divorced from the salt and drool of his bachelor nights but there’s no longer any question of this. He bathes in eggplant, spices, roots, and leaves; they say it helps soothe hernias. He unloaded his father-of-the-nation juices on her, rotten juices that won’t give him a son: I don’t understand. He tells her all about Jacqueline Daras that the French sent to chop off his hernia but I forgave them. He explained how, and with whose support, my ex-right-hand man National Yallama attempted a coup d’état, but serves him right: he came up against the people. While he gives her the juices from my mother he explains how the Amerindians tried to throw power into the hands of the late Colonel Vanzio Pablo and my dear girl be good be goooooood. But she kept on crying. For three days and three nights he’s tried to console her with his cries and his juices.

“Hold on a second, I need to see National Mom or she’ll be worried.”

And Mom, here’s your child. He gives her a kiss and she starts crying. Don’t cry Mom, I’m safe. They aren’t going to harm me.

“Well they’re not plotting for nothing.”

“You know, Mom, I’m a good president. I was elected by the dead and the living, with 99.9 percent of the vote. Please Mom, no more tears. I’m in a hurry Carvanso, come and console her.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He rushes back to her, tells her all about the national historic Colonel Fetranso, child of the nation, hero of the people, but the Germans really did a job on him, and ex-Colonel Fetranso almost became my wife, but you must be familiar with Vauban’s proverb: Live by herniated balls, die by herniated balls . I beg you, show me your teeth. As enchanting as a campfire. Show me your legs. Show me your heart. My God, you’re so beautiful. He tells her all about my first wife who cheated on me with everyone and I sent her on her way yes I did: I forgive everything except for indiscretions of the hernia. One evening I came home from the office and found her with Barbara Janco. “What are you doing here, Barbara Janco?” He turned around and I put six bullets in his hernia. He coughed up his traitor of the fatherland’s blood. But what about her, what am I to do with her? I’m out of bullets. I grabbed her neck and squeezed it, kept on squeezing, it was revolting and she puked up her dog’s life. Her corpse even crapped a big hot turd. But you, you’re a real hot one: let’s talk about your body, let’s talk about your teeth, let’s talk about that passionate throat of yours that unravels the world. He rushes over to the national radio station and announces his decision — I’m going to marry her—, he takes care of the invitations himself: France, the British Isles, the Russian president, those Flemishythings, the Pope. His guest list includes thirty-seven heads of state while my people start building the village of my hernia, I can’t get married in this great big shameful palace in which Tatarasho betrayed the nation by slaughtering all those people from my Ghozis ethnic group. He transfers seventy million to the newspapers and let’s talk about this event in historic terms. He signs an order proclaiming July 7th my official wedding day so that it is recorded that way in the archives, and then he comes back toward you my paradise, my heaven and my earth.

“You were there and no one wanted you. But now that I’ve chosen you, they will all want you.”

He tells her about Bamba Outificanso who betrayed me with a guitar player. And Léo Levourto who betrayed me with my cook. What is it you women are after? He told her how ex-Captain Canza had gotten the woman he loved like I love you pregnant. And do you know how I found out? One evening, when I felt like comforting her, I asked her to show me her breasts. I started fondling them and a white liquid came oozing out of her nipples. Aha! What are you going to name the child? Son of a bitch , what kind of a moron does she take me for? How did this happen, how: I haven’t seen you for thirteen months and now you’re pregnant. I was just back from my war against the communists. How did this happen?

“What are you talking about?”

My anger took over: I cut open her belly and showed her the umbilical cord.

“You women are all the same, that’s the truth; you don’t want us to confuse you with men. Do you know ex-Colonel Miguel Tournanso? What’s up with you, Carvanso, why do you come barging in like that unannounced?”

“Colonel, the nation is in danger: Ayelé Ayoko Tite has risen up and is bearing down on the capital.”

“How many men does he have with him?”

“No one really knows, Colonel.”

“Bring it on! My hernia is waiting for them. What’s a bunch of upstarts straight out of a shithole like Galzarra think they’re going do? Let them come.” Then he set off across the capital on his big white horse, dressed in the way Vauban dresses, his head held high, a hand held proudly across the chest. We prayed he would be killed during this military campaign and that our virgins would finally be safe from his hernia. Candles were now scarce in Zamba-Town: the people had exhausted the supplies. Cardinal Dorzibanso made a fortune from all the extra confessions he heard. I’m remembering all those huamani we burnt at night at all the crossroads, poor plant! We stopped eating meat on Fridays: “Let him die.” But he wasn’t going to die that easily.

He summoned ex-Colonel Carvanso to make it clear that he wanted the Zamba-Town — Maha railway line cleared for his big balls the week of the wedding; he called Cardinal Dorzibanso to inform him first-hand that you’ll be the one to marry us; he sent for his brother same father same mother to remind him to let the authorities know that highways 1, 2, 3, and 4 should be open for my hernia to use, let the Italians know while you’re at it that the Three-Continents Hotel should be at my disposal, as well as the beach at Valtaza-Diego; he instructed the Minister of Dough to give National Mom three hundred and twelve million for the catering and to set aside the same amount again for the wedding attire and consorts.