The Shameful State

by Sony Labou Tansi

  Under a sun that had become unhinged, in this very same Alberto-Sanamatouff Stadium, National Alberto Sanamatouff that the “Flemish” had incessantly pecked at, God rest his soul! Pecked to death through their local “Flemishings,” poor old Alberto, the former conqueror of regimes, Martillimi’s former father-in-law, former police chief of his hernia, proud member of the national bureau of hernia sufferers, former Special Representative of his very own hernia to the United Nations, the late-lamented Alberto Sanamatouff, national hero with no other heroism than his “herotic” capacities which, if truth be told, were closer to gushings, and the rumor goes around and around: what a horny devil! With his hellish aptitude for squirting, national tomcat known to all the country’s bitches and as you know, as we all well know: shameful lover of National Mom . . .

  And he repeats the refrain: just how is it, that such a simple body, such a complete body, with the proportions of an angel, so physically blessed, a body that in the end is frightening because, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, one can’t really tell where it begins and where it ends. He cradles his privates that are beginning to stir: easy now, we’re talking politics: you can’t chase after two sets of big balls at the same time. Check out that fine-looking ass won’t you, it’s as enchanting as a campfire. My brothers, such beauty is making me restless. He stuck his enormous hand into his pants and stroked his kaki sack: easy now, we’re talking politics. But “they” ignore their master’s instruction, and begin to undulate, trickle, to emit a smell because of this ready-made nudity before my eyes. And this is how far Cataeno Pablo has driven the nation: he wanted to turn our girls into weapons, “Over my dead hernia!” Ours is a land of peace and love, we’re a people made of love: don’t let them sell the skin from our hernias without having killed them first, and he cradles his hernia the same way he had on the day he asked Europe’s Cubans that are the British to go back to their small island of misfortune because you have become humanity’s biggest mark of shame, more so even than the Jews and the Armenians: you add fuel to the fire of my people. He stuck his hand back in his pants and unconsciously sniffed his fingers openly and for the whole 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.

  “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.

  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 h
ow 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.