The Shameful State. Sony Labou Tansi
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crowd to see, come closer my girl: my dear sweet girl, in the name of the Revolution, in the name of the fatherland, in the name of all our mothers, you’re going to ask for the nation’s forgiveness. For the forgiveness of the earth that has given you everything, the forgiveness of martyrs and their families, of the Constitution and don’t let me forget a special forgiveness for France who helped us capture you, forgiveness also for Amerindia and for Poland, come closer to the mic because you’re going to ask for forgiveness as our ancestors did, your hands folded across your chest, your forehead touching the ground, I’m listening, and speak up so that Mom’s international news agencies who always misrepresent the events of my hernia can hear you loud and clear . . .
“But Colonel, she can’t speak.”
“What? Why not?”
“We cut off her tongue because that’s what the rebels do to us.”
“You’re teasing my hernia . . .”
“They cut off Colonel Touvanso Dieu’s, they cut off ex-Captain Honse’s, they cut off ex-Colonel Fouga’s mother’s tongue, they cut off the tongue of every soldier in Colonel Letanso’s battalion. And one day they’ll cut off National Mom’s.”
“My hernia’s blazing . . .”
“They cut off . . .”
“Shut the fuck up, Outranso . . .”
He flew into such a rage, just like he had last year when France celebrated July 14th right here and Mom’s my witness it’s the French who drove me to taking ex-comrade Armando Mundi! The same rage on November 11th when to my great shame the Germans slept with National Mom.
“I don’t understand the people around here: they all think they’re the President! Let me remind you: the President, that’s me. No no and no again: everyone behaves as if everyone were me, but why, why is that? Can’t you take the trouble to consult with me first?”
And he goes over to her: “Don’t worry, my dear girl, this earth is cannibalistic,” and he drapes his kaki jacket over her to conceal the nudity they’ve ruined but don’t worry I will take revenge. He tears up the supposed depositions made by your mothers; fear not, I will take revenge. He tears up your mothers’ official reports and the emblem of your mothers’ nation, and to hell with the support they’ve thrown out the window, I will take revenge. He rips up your mothers’ beret; I’m going to be a civilian again; he tears off his military stripes, plumes, and tassels, and Colonel Outranso where the fuck are you: present.
“You gave the order to cut off her tongue, I’m going to cut yours off too.”
“It wasn’t me, it was Darcanio.”
“Ah! Well, where’s Darcanio?”
“It wasn’t me, it was Lafondia.”
“Well, where the fuck’s Lafondia?”
“It wasn’t me it wasn’t me it wasn’t me ah ah ah!”
He began to strangle him. His eyes bulged bulged bulged. Then silence. Ever since everyone at the High Command thinks he became President . . . and now, what are you going to say to the foreign press, what are you going to say to the Pope and all those diplomats? What will you say to them? You’re going to, ah what a load of bullshit! He leaps at him again with that rage that pushes me to turn over power to civilians, he stamps on his testicles because you can’t be president after all and make those kind of decisions without my input and isn’t it those filthy beasts filling your head with these ideas, with your shameful business schemes but I’ll show you, you need people on this earth who know that a president, well, that a president can get angry too. . . . For God’s sake you should at least know what your male utensils are good for, at the very least, hold on I’m going to cut them off. But Colonel Carvanso steps in now, take it easy Mr. President sir.
“Ok, fine, I’m going to calm down but not before I’ve shown him how . . .”
He gently caresses his hernia. Soothes him. Hands him sugared almonds and he gobbles them down. Spoon feeds him a couple of scoops of mustard; easy now Mr. President.
“Ok Carvanso, I’m going to calm down.”
His chinchilla is brought in, he places it on his right shoulder and its tail sweeps the ground on the same spot where Lafondia drooled. They fetch his parrot Narka who is able to convert the rest of the speech into birdsong: “I oyo o io yo!” keeping the reference to his hernia in Mom’s mother tongue. In this same Alberto-Sanamatouff national stadium that the “Flemish” had pecked away at, still full to capacity, under the same broiling sun, the crowd still restless in that one section and the police should be doing their job rather than counting my big herniated balls before they hatch, with all those god-damn TVs aimed at his bitter writings, the sun warming his hernia my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, offering up for the mercy of my people this body the infantrymen ruined. Tears running down his cheeks. And we cry along with him because we know those tears.
“This flesh they have blinded.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“This body made of prime cuts of meat.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“It must be said that the world is a very nasty place.”
“Indeed, Mr. President.”
“But I’ll recast you as a monument . . . my dear tender girl, birthed into this world of the world, intoxicating girl who arouses my kaki juices. I’ll recast you woman, a place of worship, radiant flesh: that’s the decision of my hernia, you’ll be my wife. The bachelor life is over! The crowd at the stadium erupted in applause, but she started crying.
“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.
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