Dear Bisa: Award winning frequent flyer

Dear Bisa,

I admit. I have uncharacteristically been very quiet in recent weeks.

Some naive chaps have even suggested the Machete wielding miscreants from you know who made a social call on me and straightened me out with choice words and a baseball butt that has put me to silence as a lamb. I have also heard that other non believers even suggested that I was persuaded with a bang from the shopping one’s knock-around chaps.

There are not even degrees of truth in all that. I am still here Bisa. Alive and well.  I just do not even have a half good excuse for being away so I will use the very excuse that everyone else in the village is using for everything these days.

“I did not have the essential liquid. So I was unable to write you”.

I stayed home Bisa. Played Golf. Worked on my handicap. I watched Anita’s stunning upper cut and swinging jabs on the poor Afro turf on Tele. Saw George make a nuisance of himself with his cheap suits and bent and intimidating leadership in the conclave. I also had time to embrace Chivas Regal and Captain Morgan was revealed to me.

I know it doesn’t make sense why I was away Bisa. It doesn’t have to. Nothing makes sense anymore in this village. You are a big boy Bisa. Go figure out the disconnect between my excuse and the essential liquid. Somewhere along the way it will become sensible.It has been a few weeks of annoyance anyway young man.

I blew my fuse Bisa. Once again. My blood boiled. My anger management and anti desk banging lessons are not working. I just wanted to kill something. Again. I wanted to strangle my shrink. Trust me I have done it so many times in my imagination.

Off course the silly villagers are causing me the stress again Bisa. I endured severe flak from these ungrateful ones again.

This time the envious lot were yammering about my otherwise very successful “frequent flyer” program and the now boring same old jazz about the essential liquid. Aren’t you tired of it all Bisa? Honestly I find the whole thing boring now. I worry its ruining my youth and my Golf.

Lets talk the liquid first, Bisa.

Bisa, these dumb villagers through their clichés want me to come up with some statement and that PR charade on the scarce liquid and how am going to find it for them. They are only falling short of demanding an apology because they at least are wise enough to know they will never get one. Never. They, in short, short want me to embarrass myself. To pee in my pants.

A statement? For what? Do they really want me to be brutally frank about this boring matter? Do these villagers really want the truth? They cannot handle the truth Bisa. They are too young, naive and dumb to understand the truth. Just in the same way science cannot figure out religion. By the way Bisa, I think the early church was only right to lynch those arrogant scientists who dared question it. May be I should replicate that in the villagers.

If I dare say the truth, these villagers would snap and would end up draping themselves in those stupid red garments and get a bullet in the groin on the street. I care so much for the villagers Bisa so I keep quiet to protect them. Protect them from the brutal truth and from getting shot in the groin.

Too much truth never helps anyone. Bisa, you cannot tell your wife that she is ugly can you? Neither can you say her cooking is terrible or her dressing tragic like a Sangoma. Bisa, the rules of engagement in my world say that you ‘sugar coat’ everything to be a successful bearer of unpleasant news. You tell her that she alone is the prettiest woman living. That’s why she is living in your house.

Even if she is vile, foul mouthed or ali ndi matewe or her disgusting nostrils look like nothing but two misplaced holes, you still have a duty to tell her that she looks like Beyonce and that you would, without any remorse, make an excellent business decision of trading in your mother and sister to have her around. It is called having a heart and a soul. I have a heart and a soul Bisa and damn, am good at it.

When I was a boy in the tea plantations, my old man taught me one valuable lesson Bisa. These villagers especially Wandale, JKK, Wanapo and his silly neck ties and injunctions, John the whistle, Raqif and there are two more irritating photo opportunistic chaps in Mphatso the trespasser and Ben the loud mouthed gawky youth who could have learn something from the old man. The old man said ask no questions and you will be told no lies. I live by that.

I ask no questions Bisa. That is why I have never asked my wives who the father or fathers of their (yes, I call them my wives’children because it is the only thing I can prove) children are. I have never at any point asked them to issue a statement on paternity issues. Neither on Mothers Day or Christmas day. So no one should ask me kuti ndiwalankhule za mafuta. It is completely out of order Bisa.

Asking no questions has got me this far so am not abandoning words that I live by through making a silly statement. It may glorify this boring nonsense from the villagers. And I may tell a lie. That’s the doctor’s calling to the village.

I understand they want me “to say something” about mafuta at Christmas. I will not Bisa. If these idiots so bad want to listen to something let them try Christmas carols.

Christmas is not the time for that Bisa. We say mass at Christmas. I will be at mass. Just like Chindere Zazu and Ambuye Ziyaye.

Besides Bisa, I will be away anyway at Christmas. You will be on the queue with this whole bunch of losers and I will be in Rio working on Thai Chilli sause marinated chicken bones. Playing golf on the finest course. My 35 foot putt at golf is getting better, Bisa.

Jack and Hennesy will be there too. What else does a good leader need? Certainly not the pointlessness of making a dreary and monotonous commentary and explaining oneself on national television to a bunch of drunk villagers on a pointless issue that will not be solved by what you say. It will only even itself out is the end.

Occasionally I will watch on the Tele my new hobby. Horse racing. Watching guys in tight shorts, silly boots, colorful hats and sticks on a bunch of horses going round and round a bit of grass then stopping! Isn’t that exciting? Better than Formula One where the only exciting thing is the occasional crash to wake me up.

Looking at it closely, I blame the villagers for being thick upstairs. I think 2 years of yoyo times in this liquid thing, they should get the message that we are not getting out of it anytime soon. Intentional or unintentional. It is not quantum physics to figure that out. Might as well get used to it and live with it. Aren’t they all able to see that we don’t have a clue on how to sort that one out?

And Bisa, who is the idiot who told these villagers that we want to end the essential liquid scarcity issue anyway? I did not issue a statement on that. Neither did my doctor responsible for denying things, half truths, deception, avoidance and lies nor P the one with the over powdered nose and large red lips.

In a nutshell, Bisa, I say hell no! I am not issuing the silly statement. Akudziwa yankho.My Chewa people call what the villagers are asking for “Kufwefwentha ku nkhuti”.

Bisa, they say a good and visionary leader sees opportunity in every adversity. In my undoubted stroke of genius , I saw opportunity in the missing essential liquid matter. I, their beloved leader, saw opportunity to build my beloved people together. To unite a village. Not through their silly red T-shirts but through queues. Long nice queues.

You may think I am insane but you have to see the genius in this Bisa. These long (both length and time) queues encourage interaction, bonding and sharing of ideas among villagers. Some of our problems as a village are because we don’t take time to talk and share ideas as a people. To hatch plans to develop ourselves and our nation. This is opportunity to talk.

The lying doctor and P the make-up chick have assured me Bisa, that a lot of my villagers have secured business opportunities on the queue. We must maintain this thing.

Instead of seeing the bigger picture, my genius and my visionary, the villagers are sadly still complaining and scheming against me their beloved leader. For what gain, I ask? Nothing as far as I am concerned. That’s fine with me. Haters and schemers Bisa, keep me motivated. Besides, they gain nothing from their ill will.

Maybe it is still alright that they complain Bisa. Here is my logic. If people don’t complain or disagree with you, it means you haven’t done anything worthwhile. Worth celebrating. History and time teaches you that. And has given you so many examples. Have faith Bisa and die for it. Like Thomas Moore.

Bisa it is all coming into place. Its all logical now. Its remarkable how traits of genius and insanity coincide. I am a genius. By the book. A good and beloved selfless leader. The annointed one. Like my clowns say, am a leader with ‘wise and dynamic leadership’. I am meant to be criticized for my genius. That is before these villagers name their streets, children, cats and dogs after me when am gone. It is my destiny.

Let me have Jack first….

You see Bisa, I am rather surprised the villagers are mad with my “air miles” program where I fly to different villages for what they think are not so relevant conferences of dictators where we compare our wives and clothing.

Leave me alone you jealousy lot! What is wrong with an old man having a hobby. We can all have our hobbies. It’s a free village.Some of you (well, most of you) like to queue, some of you love your beer, beat the crap out of defence ministers, beat the crap out of your wives and husbands, hunt ducks, hunt for forex, fornicate in car parks, embezzling church funds, smoking yourselves to death in public buildings, philandering in motels etc. Do you see me poking my nose in any of your business? I don’t. Because every man has his vices.

Bisa, since these villagers want me to declare everything, I hereby declare my hobbies, wines:, whiskys, golf, brandys, masacheti, spy machines, boats, chicken bones and air miles. You have to love flying. I log all my travels, Bisa. I compile the miles I fly. I can say, am doing quite well with the air miles. I am thinking of making up conferences to attend in Alaska to improve my air mile numbers. Like one on eradication of yellow gills in tropical fish, one on nuclear non proliferation treaty (in Guatamala) or eradication of land mines treaty (Hanoi, Vietnam). These are important issues for my village requiring my travels and air miles.

The villagers should just leave me alone on air miles. Its better being away than hearing the depressing ghost stories of guys who decide to die while wearing red tshirts in the village.
My point my dear Bisa is that I really like sex but you don’t see me shagging in your offices do you? it’s a free village. Do your stuff. I do mine.

And when I decided to let the little one earn a few air miles, it was as if someone had shot the pope. What is wrong with a man grooming the next leadership? If I don’t teach the chap the ropes who will? I feel I have the responsibility to show him how to make forex disappear, shoot chaps in red tshirts and all other Black belt in Leadership lessons. A man has to take care of his own. I have a soul.
I had a dream Bisa.

We were at an African Union heads of State summit in Bujumbura.You were there too. So was Wandale, Ben Zachi, Wandale, JKK and Raqif. Wanapo, fresh from court where he had just successfully applied for an injunction restraining himself from restraining C to restrain Anita the Boxer from wearing colourful red hats at the conclave (I still cant figure out who really restrained who or what actions or no actions must be taken and by who), later walked in. He had another silly neck tie and a tight wig on his head. He had that silly grin. I suspected he knew what was to happen.
I had just won an award at the summit. Not for ending hunger but for my selfless contribution in the accumulation of air miles by Africa’s leaders. It was the prestigious “Frequent Flyer” Award for leaders.

Finaly. Recognition. When it was announced I had won, they called out that I be handed my prize.
It was Bob ‘the disappearing’ who came forward with the prize.

He had the award in his left hand and a machete in his right.
I passed out.
So long,

Ralph Mawera's published cartoon under 'My Point of Order' in The Nation newspaper

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