The Shameful State. Sony Labou Tansi
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You must take me for that ex-President Jlanso Zenno who used to throw himself in front of young girls, with joined hands and hernia: you’re a mulatto, mulatto girls drive me crazy. With Africa, clenched between their thighs. But let’s get back to the subject at hand and let’s not forget what a nasty world we live in: men, ah men! Always trying to conquer the world with their tools. But God rules, ah yes, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, if we can still breathe this evening as we’re breathing it’s because God is with us. Because, and the evidence is clear, at two o’clock tonight, you know who tried to seize power with the help of a dozen or so little mechanics and a handful of demons who work with those god-damn TVs, what bullshit; do you really think, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen that you can seize power with big plans? But in that gang there was also a woman ah! Mother! And by all accounts she’s as beautiful as the Queen of Sheba. And he started fondling his big greasy herniated balls, gently massaging them as we applauded, as our cries made their way to the heavens: Long live Lopez! Long live National Mom! He stroked his hernia in a premeditated fashion, “But before I fully expose them to your anger, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, children of my loins, let’s take stock of the situation: I’m no Gasparde Mansi who got his balls chopped off by some girl because he held sexual audiences in his office, I’m no Oustanno Ludia who killed people as one does a chicken, and I’m certainly no son-of- a-bitch Orenso Gemma whom you made a hero of the nation just because he left behind three hundred and twelve mulatto girls and seventy-five Black ones just like him; I am Lopez, National Mom’s son, five years at the helm, now tell me, who have I killed?” We all shouted out: “No one! Long live Lopez, long live National Mom, down with crocodiles.”
He was in full flow by now and these occasions meant a lot to his hernia. The story of my hernia is linked to the history of the fatherland, but don’t worry, it’s not a sad story. I am the spiritual son of Alberto Sanamatouff . . . and the story lasted until three in the morning and my brothers and dear fellow countrymen you come on back now at eleven tomorrow so we can discuss the fate of the mutinous rebels and agree on appropriate sanctions. In the meantime, my hernia is tired. Before we headed home, we overheard him whisper to brother Carvanso: “I’m thirsty, it’s tough being a bachelor,” and Carvanso saying:
“Mr. President, we have to watch out for the media.”
“Ok.”
He left on foot, shadowed by his aide Colonel Vauban, in charge of his personal security detail, and made his way up rue Felicio-Danarassi, avenue Panglos, past the Touré-Diakaté Market, then rue de la Pompe, Oreillidos Alley, and recounted the story of ex-Colonel Vadio who did what he did and no one did a damn thing about it, then the one about ex-National Loujango who got a long way in the science of looking the other way and what was done to him? When he reached the Corbanni-Suaze Bridge, he stood there for ten minutes watching the water running below: after all, I’m no Alvaro Diosso who for God’s sake managed to study for his thirteen diplomas while president. The people are stupid and will remain that way.
“Yes, Mr. President. But the shirt need not fear the hot water.”1
His heart filled with shadows, the heart of a prophet, the heart of a father, in the majesty of the human dream, from where you can contemplate our late General Also de Nonso donning his tiger-hunting gear, with full military stripes and plumes, gold tassels, exotic, magical medals heavy as gates, row upon row of military decorations across his chest because my people expect things to be eye-catching; ah Vauban, this is the country for people who are eye-catching. He starts telling Vauban the tragic story of our late brother Grabanizar during the shameful years of the Labinto regime that our people went and made a hero of the fatherland; we live in a nasty country and there ought to be a sign with gold-leaf lettering as you enter the port of Zouhando-Norta: Nasty country. That’s how it is Vauban, since there are no wars, our infantrymen wreak havoc. Havoc because we’re the world center for cowardice, the world capital for shame and sin, because we’re the masters of lying and maliciousness Mom. . . . As for Vauban, listening attentively to him, with his pale courage that tried to save the world, you can see how much he loves this land while National Lopez, kaki giant that he is, sporting the nation’s drama, the country slung over his shoulder, and that’s enough bullshit, up rue Nolavinto, rue Fantar, past the café Les Rate-Bonheurs, over to the other side of the Place de la Patrie, to the sound of Plazzinni Delaroux’s music, you’d think that Delaroux guy was French but he’s actually the product of racial mixing: French face, American manners, walks like an Arab, but with a body typical of our region; today, he’s performing in the Oulanso-Mondia Gardens, in heavily accented French:
Open your body
To this fear
Of the world
The earth is a public good
But your own turn is now
So make sure you don’t miss it
In life
Accomplish your part
In this flesh between heaven and earth
For us the future is now
Sing your nerves and dance your heart
There aren’t that many ways
Of being alive
Long live you and so long live me
“My people are so beautiful when they dance to my poems!”
“They are, Mr. President.”
Rue Fortio, rue Amela, rue Fontaine, this city, ah this city, rue Foreman, boulevard ex-Duchaillu. . . . He reaches the banks of the “Rouviera Verta” and God damn it this city’s stunning at this time of day! He then starts telling the story of how that pig Oxbanso, on the very day I appointed him Minister of Imports, tried to sleep with National Mom, but I didn’t kill him for that. You see Vauban, this is Satan’s village, only he whom you love can betray you. . . . His slippers are covered in mud. A dead dog has been abandoned in the middle of the road; doesn’t anyone work around here: he moves the dead dog out of the way. Zamba-Town, a city in the south, even hotter at midnight than at noon, with its muddy swamps, breeding grounds for mosquitoes, where those who’ve managed to escape the stifling heat of their hut make love out in the open which is why you can hear the darkness groaning panting weeping and coughing. Zamba-Town, its symbolic hand extended out in peace, rue Gaza and the lingering signs of the latest curfew (now lasting sixteen months). And on the opposite bank of Lake Oufa: the Cité-du-Pouvoir, as exquisite as a love dream, oh how beautiful my hernia is, a monument built to them: thirty-five million dollars and now a patrimony of the state, a valued possession for them to enjoy today and in the future when my hernia has passed away. Well done to the nation!
It’s still not quite that hour when the loudspeakers left behind by our late Colonel Pouranta Ponto start pouring my speeches into my people’s ears; this innovation is hardly new, it was National Laountia’s in fact, and Manuelo Sanka kept it up. Entire districts yelling because people have the shameful habit of changing stations when I speak, I ask Colonel Minister of Borders to install loudspeakers in every district, and to make sure they’re all functioning properly while my hernia is at work, because it would be utterly shameful for a people not to listen to their president’s speeches; make sure they’re installed, Carvanso, and blasting so that they can hear me in their shameful wild animal sleep, so that they can hear me as they mount their wives, curse me and plot against me, as they insult me; at least make sure they can still hear me and let my voice deflower them, if they won’t love me at least they can fear me, know me, smell me.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Rue des Toudonides, rue Whitman, rue Delaronzo: Eckerd Drugs, open till Midnight . . . his skeletal face starts to look like a mummy, he’s scouring the different districts, he can feel a tickle tickle in his hernia, hang in there Vauban and I’ll show you this country, fuck yeah: isn’t it great here! A light rain had started to fall, wetting his denim uniform, he shrugged his shoulders: ever since I got a taste of that White woman that’s all I want now, but tell me, old moldy dick Vauban: Why do you prefer men? And he launches into the anecdote about my war against Russia: eleven months in the rotten