Sony Tansi - The Shameful State

Now hurry up with the preparations. He paraded his hernia up and down the hallways of the presidential palace to check that everyone was hard at work. Hurry up now will you! Ha, if I was Darbanso I’d have you shot at the first opportunity! And what if I were like Manuel Lansio who took the precaution of having two cooked as a way to ensure the third was giving his all! But I’m a good president and you take advantage of that to climb in my pants. Where the fuck is Razo Fansa?

“Right here Mr. President sir.”

“I’ve never quite understood why that parking facility of yours never has the right number of cars available for my hernia to use, but if you stumble this time, you’re a dead man.”

He has a word with his cousin Martillimi Lavouza who’ll never fully understand why he isn’t president yet, but if you mess up this time I’ll shove the PA system down your throat. He has a word with the Minister of Audiovisuals and National Mom because I’m begging you Mom none of your mommy handmade official invitations, this is how you hold a fork, and the knife this way, the drinking glass like this, hold your napkin in this way and I’m begging you Mom no stuffing your face like a pig, and no grazing like a cow at the table: just remember you’re the President’s mom.

He drops in on Simone des Bruyères, my babe from Vauban’s country, to explain to her why I’m getting married but my heart is still with you I won’t stop loving you with an irreproachable love, you are as beautiful as the sun and as copper.

“I want to hear you say I am even more beautiful.”

“You are as beautiful as the papaya fruit in my garden.”

“Even more beautiful.”

“You are as beautiful as the day I was born.”

Mother from Vauban’s country. Who knows how she came into the world. Love me in the way people love in your country. He buries his face in her bosom and laps up the droplets that have started running. Show me that the world over is still in the world. Be good. And he plants his fallacious hernia in her.

“Gently now, Mr. President.”

“You can’t make love properly by being gentle. Be strong. Don’t be fragile like they are in my colleague’s country. I’m handling you in the way we do around here. You see, you see?”

He goes and has a few words with Colonel Isidro who spends the nation’s money like he sprays his juices about. He reviews his calendar: Thursday night: rue de la Buomba; Saturday night: Payadiso; Sunday night: the Arcades…. He goes to say good night to his little Indian babe you should have tasted her Isidro, sober as you are, you would have given up looking for other women: she handles you like no other. That Senegalese girl Sey is a good fuck too, if only you’d tried her…. He has a shot of sowassi to give him a little boost. This wedding’s the chance to get drunk like my people do. He eats and then vomits. Tell me what my people are saying, Comrade Carvanso, anything.

“They say you’re a good president. But you’re marrying the one who tried to kill you.”

“That’s true, Carvanso: she’s beautiful in a way no other woman has ever been. She’s the Queen of Sheba. Have you seen the hips on her?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I’ll take her thrusts anytime.”

He turned away from Carvanso and took a nice long piss in a flower vase just like my people do, splashing urine on his kaki legs, fermented urine.

“You know, Carvanso, I don’t see how the consumption of pussy can possibly interfere with the smooth running of the affairs of the state.”

“You’re right, Mr. President.”

“You must have heard about Louis XIV, and you know Vauban — well, those guys had all kinds of mistresses, and I’m telling you, Carvanso, screwing is the next heart of humanity.”

“Yes, Mr….”

This god-damn country where the president is expected to do everything himself. He heads over to see National Thoulouse, also known as Vauban, head of personal security:

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Since no one is currently engaged in anti-national activities, I head out to the districts to see my people. Without an escort: Vauban though isn’t far behind, but don’t let anyone see you. And he disguises himself as a peasant so that he won’t be recognized and to see what the people are saying about him. He mingles with a group of construction workers and shuffles along with them, trampling the mud and dirt under foot. No one takes any notice of him. He overhears them bickering, singing, and speaking badly about his hernia, saying awful things about National Mom for giving us such a shameful son, National Mom who’s still fornicating at her age; they talk about that bastard Colonel Carvanso, of his brother who stashed the National finances away over in Switzerland as if we had no need for money; they speak badly of the infantrymen who have no shame or modesty pissing on the nation the way they do…. Blending in with the masses, he just goes along with them, joins in the singing. He’s surrounded himself with a bunch of rascals. Nevertheless he sings:

If I were a little little mouse

I’d go digging in his big greasy hernia

If I were a little little cat

I’d go hunting in his hernia

If I were a little little flea

I’d choose his hernia…

He sings the chorus with them. His denims are now covered in mud, his heavy artillery dangling about to the pace and rhythm of the tune; those who come over to fetch the mud for the hut they’re building are picking up the tune.

“My people are beautiful when they sing.”

And he starts singing louder than the rest, introducing words from the national anthem. One guy bawls him out, because who the hell gets the mortar ready with work boots on. But he keeps on singing and steps on the guy who then hurls mud at him. He’s got mud all over him, in his nostrils, his ears, his hair.

“Who the hell told you to get the mortar ready with your boots?”

A big muscular guy knocks him down in the mud and they all laugh at him.

“What’s the deal with this guy, he’s dumber than a woman’s backside!”

And only then do they catch a glimpse of his hernia and they’re mortified.

“It’s… it’s the President!”

They see themselves at the gallows, facing the firing squad, the infantrymen on their knees with their rifles to the ready waiting for the order.

“It’s… it’s the President!”

That was enough to send them scurrying off in different directions shouting, “It’s the President!” Those who couldn’t run away threw themselves before him, on their knees, shaking, licking his big greasy herniated balls; they’re in tears, begging for mercy.

“This won’t happen again. It’s Larso Laura’s fault for misleading us, it was his song mercy mercy mercy for the sake of our children; it’s Larso Laura who’s against you…”

“You have nothing to fear, I’m the forgiving kind. Because I’m a good president. I’m not like Alto Maniana who used to hang you like monkeys. And anyway, that song is beautiful. And in any case, you can’t stage a coup d’état with clay. You can’t seize power with songs.”

And he massages his hernia.

“I’m not like Sadrosso Banda who put stuff in the eggplant. Nor am I like that Manuelo de Salamatar who drank your blood to make him feel like he was in the world. Almost a gallon of blood every night.”

They’re singing, but in his honor this time. He shuffles along with them until lunchtime. Then he heads back to his jeep, drenched in mud, and no way I’m washing it off, I’ll get married as you see me now. That’s my gift from the people. Where the hell are you, Colonel Thoulouse, oil-rubbed bronze, gray eyes, blonde hair, 5 feet 9 inches tall, lasting symbol of my long and tumultuous cooperation with Europe, 210 pounds of brain and muscle at my disposal, a pederast (every country has its own monuments), and goes home to give National Mom a kiss, you see Mom how the people love me. He teaches her the words to the beautiful song they sang in his honor. The heavens have not been good to him: but they did let him hold on to a lovely national male voice, the beautiful eyes of a wild animal, and his shiny white teeth and goatee. Then, without undressing, his boots still on, grubby, he pounced on his presidential bed and fell like a lion into a deep sleep, sleeping on his seventy-five medals from the war on communism, his hands tightly clenched, fly unbuttoned, a real muddy caiman crocodile, teeth poking out, right hand on his gun, stinking of eggplant beer, snoring.