The Shameful State

by Sony Labou Tansi

  “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.

  “I want to get married in this outfit.”

  National Carvanso tries to convince him otherwise:

  “But Mr. President sir, the Whites will mock you. They’ll mock you for sure. Reporters will take advantage of this.”

  “But Carvanso, the Whites can mock me as much as they like: their very own Louis XIV only washed a handful of times and that was the life of Louis XIV, and then there’s Vauban, and Frederic II. He fell into his historian’s laughter to describe Catherine of Russia who . . .”

  “But Mr. President, I’m convinced they’ll mock you, it’s in your nostrils, all over your ears.”

  “It’s the mud of the people. Let them mock me. Africa must remain Africa. Yes, Africa must give the world back to the world.”

  And so, covered in mud, he walked the route past the invited delegations and their representatives. Everyone applauded. He shakes hands with His Majesty of the Flemish and embraces him in the way of the ancestors, leaving some historic mud on him; then the han
d of Her Majesty the Princess of Denmark in the way of the ancestors, leaving some historic mud on the back of her royal costume; he embraced all the friends of the people in the way of the people and with the gift of his historic mud. Hey, it’s you, my colleague from the neighboring country, and he lets him have some of the people’s mud. You can see a faint smile on the face of the people with all these illustrious guests getting a dose of his hernia and local mud on them, on this historic day when I’m marrying the most beautiful girl on earth. And then the delegation makes its way to the exact site where National Mom buried my placenta and no bullshit: this is now a place of worship; then from there on to visit the cathedral my hernia erected thanks to the Good Lord. Next they boarded a plane and headed four hundred and thirty-five miles north of my hernia to see where I will be buried. . . .

  Cardinal Dorzibanzo, who’s refusing to marry me, is brought in. “Untie him and let him get to work!”

  “Mr. President, Dorzibanso says he can’t.”

  “Why the heck not?”

  With his torn cassock, bloody eyes, hands tied, his mitre all wrinkled, they bring him before his hernia.

  “I’ll cut your dick off if you fail me on this.”

  Ex-Cardinal Dorzibanso asks if, for better, for worse, his hernia wants to take this girl.

  “But Dorzibanso, the worst has already happened since the infantrymen cut off her speech utensil; they cut off her kissing instrument.”

  He gives him his yes, his historic yes and here’s her yes, yes for me and yes for her.

  “Historic Colonel, Your Excellency, I can’t bless this union.”

  “Watch out Dorzibanso, my hernia is about to explode.”

  He looked at him with astonishment and said it again: I can’t do this.

  “You’re going to come up against my hernia. And believe me, it won’t be like banging on butter, so you’d better watch out: my intestines are growling. You’re stirring my kaki nerves and the shame I feel in front of the Whites who’ll think I’m no longer the supreme master in my own house. Now just get on with it and bless this union or be prepared to die from this national anger that I can feel swelling. Show some respect for my meat stick that’s bowing here before your God.”

  “Mr. President, I can’t bless this union, not with this girl here who’s crying when she should be smiling. The Church would be ashamed, our Lord would die a second time of shame. Because, Mr. President, Christ is watching me and I can’t go pounding shit into the scars left by the nails; I can’t give him piss instead of water.”

  “Dorzibanso, don’t go remaking the Lord in your image. No no and no again: there’s no trifling with the bites of a hernia.”

  He kneels down as he would before the Lord, and begs him: “Dorzibanso, my cheek held out for you, for the love of thy neighbor, if you don’t want to chow down on my herniated balls in seven sessions,” and then he switches his tone: “You can’t do this to me; remember how you became a cardinal with the support of dick, ah, my hernia is sad! We’ve always been good friends, friends and brothers, try and understand.”

  But there was nothing to be done, this leech won’t go along with him, he mimics the voice, he says things in National Mom’s mother tongue and amen! The people answer, amen. Folks didn’t seem aware this was a hoax. He paraded his hernia around, his chest tinkling with the medals he had won fighting Russia who came to sell my hernia ideas rather than feeding my people. Ha, my people: we have here the proverbial truth of that The voice don’t make the man.

  Dorzibanso was locked away after the church ceremony to make sure no one would find out the secret of the Mass said in Mom’s mother tongue. Then came the big night and the gala where he danced with Princess Honglanni leaving behind his trail of strong sweat and smearing her with mud. He also danced with Colonel Domingo Pinto’s ex-wife and smeared the people’s mud on her too, as he did with the mayor of Zamba-Town’s ex-wife, and Her Majesty the Queen of the Flemish; he danced with all those invited by my hernia and smeared them all with the people’s mud.

  “This earth will accompany me to the grave.”

  He also offered General de Laborderie, my first wife’s father, the people’s mud. As he danced the dance of my people, he distributed mud to all the men. By three in the morning, his hernia really started to reek. Truly nauseating vapors. Enough to make you puke. Stomach-churning. The scales on his sweltering herniated balls secreted a revolting stench. Stale juices. As he danced the dance of my people, a loincloth fastened around the waist, his hernia began to stink in that historic way, giving off a rotten nitrous odor. His brochette of medals chimed away. He sang in honor of my colleague whose country came later than ours. After the big feast and binge drinking where he got loaded the way the people do, he collapsed in an armchair right there in the middle of the party, both hands gripping his hernia.

  “Don’t disturb him.”

  In shirtsleeves, buttons in the wrong hole, holding his socks, National Carvanso comes to let him know that Mr. President sir your new spouse has hanged herself.

  “What do you mean hanged?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, she has hanged herself.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand. What language are you speaking, Carvanso?”

  “She killed herself.”

  “My herniated balls have dropped.”

  He thinks aloud just how magical last night was. As enchanting as a campfire. We danced together. I listened to her heart beating against my chest. Ha, that tempestuous shape of a body. Tender and made in the likeness of a goddess. With lips that incite fear and lunacy. There she stood, well-calculated, designed in the very image of my hernia. With her milk-filled breath, child of my own knotted breath. What do you mean hanged? Is what you’re saying there true? He sheds real tears the way we do, and it was clear he loved her. He’s been bawling for the past six days, drowning in tears and snot, hasn’t touched his food, his eyes are covered because I can still feel but I would never dare look at her corpse. Three times now he’s tried to kill himself over your body that’s punishing me. Each time our brother Carvanso got there just in time. Colonel that I like to call Vauban consoles him. National Mom consoles him.

  “I let her have the very best copy I had of my soul.”

  While the infantrymen were busy handing out black armbands to the people at three hundred coustrani each for the period of mourning, ah National Mom I’m inconsolable: he sets off to Italy, France, and Gainesville on a journey of mourning, ah good God I’m inconsolable! He accompanies her glass hearse all the way to the foot of Mount Fuji. . . . Ah! Then he heads to Tahiti.

  “What do you mean, but what do you mean hanged? I gave her everything: my hernia, the nation, my heart, my strength . . . I gave her everything, and I mean everything. I even threw myself at her feet like a big mistake.”

  When he returned home, brother Carvanso brought Camizo Diaz before him, who along with thirty-six mutinous infantrymen revolted, such incredible cowardice. To attempt to take power when I’m away, you see how the mice play here? And who’s at the head of this mousetrap, no other than that Camizo Diaz whom I personally went and found at the other end of the fatherland, who didn’t have the slightest idea in those days as to how to eat a sausage. I promoted him to Sergeant, then raised him to Captain then to Colonel just like everyone else, and this is the thanks I get. And just look at him standing there all naked my brothers and dear fellow countrymen. What more does he have than my hernia?

  That section of the crowd that always makes things harder than they need to be shouted out: “The hernia,” and Mom’s Lopez burst out laughing: “That’s it, I’m better now.” And he orders Carvanso to cut off Colonel Camino Diaz’s speech instrument, go ahead and preserve him in formaldehyde, and have him put up on the wall in my bedroom next to the portrait of Mom, just below the portrait of my late wife Atélu-Léa, who died for the fatherland, hanged by those fucking idiots who wanted me to believe that she hanged herself but what do you mean hanged? Now please, let’s get the
investigation underway.

  WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE if I’d been like Yao Tananso, who would call the Nation’s Council to an urgent meeting for just about any bullshit reason like when my cousin Zozo Portes Luna “slept” my other cousin Argento Comma’s wife? I’m not like Dimitri Lamonso who moved the capital to his mother’s village. I’m Lopez, National Mom’s son, nothing like Lazo Lorenzo who stuffed three cases of pre-filled ballots down the villagers of Yam-Yako to teach them how to vote. What I offer you is the only country in the world where democracy still means something. You get to ask all the questions, and I get to give you the answers; after all, you’ve had your Lan Domingo who hid the public treasury under Mom’s bed, and that faggot Cornez Caracho who gave all the ministers syphilis. Barça Baldi was the one who started all the financial crimes around here, and didn’t you go and make him a national hero? And I’m not like that Valso Paraison who took fifteen years in power to take hold of power. The soccer match opposing Juven National and Anzcox will take place right after the speech, or none of you shitheads would have come to the meeting. You love sport and that’s how I got you, and that’s enough bullshit for Christ’s sake! Then he makes his way back to the palace, on foot, to show everyone that the people have never been against him. Trailed by Vauban, a personal gift from my colleague, in charge of the investigation into the murder of my wife and head of security. He laughs at the thought of poor old Vauban who prefers men even though the whole country is swarming with women who want nothing more than my juices, Vauban with his worn-out backside, he laughs, never, I’ll never be like him. And he explains that if the Amerindians became what they are, it’s first and foremost because they knew how to handle women.

  “What’s the latest with the investigation?”

  “We arrested a certain Laure and the Panther.”

  “Good.”

  “But it would seem, Mr. President, that your life is in danger.”

  “I want to see the prisoners.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”