The Shameful State

by Sony Labou Tansi

  “Yes, I was expecting someone to ask that question. I give to Vauban’s country to show that I too have hands. The hand is a machine for politeness as opposed to the heart and the prick that are political utensils. The hand does not think: it gestures.”

  Then he took off to repair the potholes, drain the backwaters, pick up the dead chickens, while waiting for Jesus Christ’s father-of-the-nation to arrive.

  But on the day the Pope arrived in our capital, at dinner time, as he was dancing with the Christian’s father-of-the-nation and was teaching him some local moves no not like that Monsignor, like this, with your butt in the air and your thighs unintelligible, as he laughed his big historical laugh because, Monsignor, you’re stubborn your rump should be lighter, brother Carvanso, right at the very moment when the service was offered to His Holiness, lifted the national flag that had been draped over the banquet table to reveal a roast. The guests all jumped to their feet and screamed: Oh my God!

  Right there on the large plateau were National Mom’s legs and head. The legs were crossed and two big red peppers had been placed into the empty eye sockets, and in red ink, on a piece of cardboard, you could read: He who uses his big herniated balls will perish by them. Lopez read the words and started crying.

  “Death is so shameful.”

  Rivers of tears started arriving from every corner of the country, measured in cubic feet, dear Mom if only you could have seen, I wish you could have seen how your people love you, death is so shameful. His three-piece denim suit, stained with the people’s mud, was now soaked with snot, and his eyes all bloodshot. Don’t go bothering me with your crocodile tears. He toppled over the twenty-eight thousand six hundred and forty cubic feet container holding all the tears contributed by the people of the fatherland, the one thousand and forty-nine contributed by friendly countries, the two thousand six hundred and forty-eight contributed by the ambassadors and consorts, the five hundred and twenty-nine from the women, now don’t go bothering me with your crocodile tears, he gave a great big kick to the saintly amount contributed by the Pope, toppled over the sixteen barrels gifted by my tribe. She loved you all and look how you go about thanking her. Dressed in that anger we had seen him in back at that time when he had crossed the rue Tarvanso saying out loud: Your Cataeno Pablo, I proclaim him a hero of the nation, your Vermoz Diaz, I proclaim him a hero of the nation, your Yambo-Yambi, I appoint him Minister of the People, just like with your Jango Sunn, Mr. President sir give him the Ministry of Finance as well; ok, fine, why not Justice too, and while you’re at it Defense, now those are stories you can run! Defense belongs to Vauban. He cuts off his right hand and gouges out his left eye as an outward expression of grief. Now we’ll see what kind of a monster I shall become. And too bad for you: you’ll waste me just like you fucked me.

  THE SUN IS SETTING OVER MY OFFICIAL VILLAGE, a light rain is falling, deliciously moistening the raincoats the infantry guard are wearing, these guys are the real deal, they know how to protect me, they’ve often died for me, and thanks to the late Raondo Hugo ex-major of my hernia, child of the fatherland, national hero, who died taking fifteen bullets meant for me. Thanks also to the late Taranos Pourtanso, child of the nation, Commander in the Order of my prick, killed by flying shards of glass from a bomb that was meant for me. Thanks to my late uncle who absorbed the blast from a grenade that was thrown at my hernia, may God rest their souls, may God rest the soul of my sweet little Polish girl Potiask . . . Mom! I have no idea how to pronounce their barbarian Polish words. But Carvanso comes to remind him that Mr. President the traitor Sarmazo Yarmouna’s hearing will be held today, the man who threw pamphlets at your hernia, yes, today, a closed hearing in the palace’s courtroom, but he says no Carvanso, I’ve changed my decision, because of Mom’s journalists who don’t seem to be able to understand the aspirations of my hernia, things will no longer be done behind closed doors this is the century of starkness, we are the black and white generation, no closed doors in my hernia, we will hear him tomorrow before the eyes and the ears of the journalists, before the eyes and the ears of the television, because this is the century of enlightenment, and he parades his hernia about deliciously, turning it over lifting it up stroking it up and down gently, releasing that noxious odor into the air, with that love for the people that is stuck deep inside me, that squeezes my gut, National Carvanso says: Mr. President, you must be prudent, Sarmazo is insolent, he will do all he can to ridicule us, he will take advantage of your kindness and throw his meat at you, he’ll do it, and if he gets a chance to speak, even for five minutes, he’ll blow up the nation, he’ll get people to take to the streets, let’s not take that risk Mr. President; but Carvanso, my son, power thrives on risk, let him speak, in the name of democracy, because you can’t have a country brother Carvanso where people shut up, summon the Nation’s Council, summon the ambassadors, summon the journalists, all for eight o’clock and good night Carvanso, it’s time for me to have my daily portion of mustard. As usual, he takes his mustard with plenty of spices, he drinks his daily eggplant ration, says his short prayer which is really little more than a sigh: “Dear God, was it you that made me kaki” and he leaps onto my little one from my colleague’s country, kisses her with the only real hand he has left, stares at her ravaged body with the only real eye he has left, before serving up “the thick yoke of my big herniated balls” in the midst of the thrashings of this tempestuous flesh that becomes tumultuous, with the smell of my presidential sweat mixed in with the odors of the local nights, he serves her the yoke of his tropical heart deep in this love that you know my girl, my child, my little White girl who alas will never be equal to two Black ones when it comes to these things, because around here testicles are built starting in childhood, they’re anticipated, and while the mothers in my colleague’s country are busy flattening out their daughters, our mothers are rounding them out, encircling them, that’s why my dear those White girls are so flat whereas the Black ones are rounded. His face disappears into the hair of my girl oh be good for daddy, be tender, soft, foaming, be “picassoesque,” don’t be like those filia da puta who go fishing for coustranis in my hernia, and he tells her the old story about his prick, he tells her about ex-so-and-so that you must have heard of, he tells her about the late Magloire de Lantana that I found one day deep in my hernia, I asked how he made such a filthy mistake, and he said: “Mr. President, I apologize if I have offended you.” But there are no sorrys when it comes to the business of zippers: to each his own pair; he sees himself again body and hernia before the full Nation’s Council; take every historical example sleeping deep in my hernia, before listening to this scoundrel who doesn’t understand that I’m not like that Jancio Marti who blew half the Public Treasury on parties and Carvanso I’m going to appear on television to explain to my people why I cannot let Darvanzo Manuel whistle at the nation, but National Carvanso tells him that Mr. President sir that’s not prudent. Maybe you’re right Carvanso, but I’m a good president and I must do what my people want, that’s my duty, that’s my life, and he parades it about in that delicious manner, brother Carvanso, we must teach our enemies a lesson, a lesson in freedom, a lesson in understanding, we can’t be like Luis de Lamoundia who mistook the nation for his mother’s legs, and, in front of the national press, in front of the international press who have never stopped blowing me, he parades it on his desire to teach the world a lesson in democracy, he parades it in front of those god-damn TVs, in that special way, while it emits that noxious ammonia smell and oozes sticky sap; brother National Carvanso come and read the indictment because he needs to be judged in the way we judge traitors around here, you need to roast him in the way we roast traitors around here, and stand up Sarmazo and repeat after me: “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” But Sarmazo just stands there smiling. Now here’s one who’s going to clash with my hernia if he’s not careful. But Sarmazo continues to smile, dignified, and he’s wat
ching him, whispers to the representative from my colleague’s country: You see how awful people are around here? He winked at the defense counsel, and whispered to my brother whom I like to call Vauban that the real tragedy here is that these people confuse the president with their mother, because how else can you explain, my dear friend, that some guy who started chewing on your hernia can start laughing when you come to settle the score. Sarmazo says, “Mr. President, it’s time to grow up,” he looks over to the diplomats, now gentlemen, it’s time to grow up, he tells the journalists, now gentlemen, it’s time to grow up, he is greeted with a series of standing ovations in every district, uncontrollable crowds have gathered and stormed the nation’s palace where the hearings are being held, and everyone’s chanting: gentlemen it’s time to grow up, and he thinks this is the end of my hernia. For three days and three nights they laid siege to the nation’s palace chanting gentlemen it’s time to grow up, a significant branch of the army has joined up with these losers who show no regard for our institutions or the rule of law, who are making my hernia boil, but, Mr. President, it’s time to grow up, he speaks to them from the podium, he appeals for restraint and good sense, to the secular traditions of our people, but, Mr. President, it’s time to grow up, he calls my colleague: my hernia is in danger, the rule of law is in danger, and my colleague, same hernia, sends him some green berets, nourished with the cadavers of these scavengers who mocked the rule of law, a good week of cadavers, and then things were calm once again and my people must understand why I’m hanging Sarmazo, international opinion does not understand our efforts to safeguard unity, civil harmony and peace, what are you supposed to do with a man who mistook the nation for his mother, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, Sarmazo is a ferocious beast, even his mother asked us to hang him, his children asked us to hang him, his wife asked us to hang him, because he brought down the nation, what would you have wanted us to do with such a man? And he heard the unanimous clamor from the multitude gathered in the stadium: “Hang him!” Yes my people, you sure know how to appreciate the simple things in life, you are a people made of iron not of lead, and you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m not anything like that Mario Lafundia who buggered off to Europe with the National Treasury, I’m National Lopez, Lopez the loved one, praised by all the people, the son of National Mom who is just as loved and praised by all the people, we are the children of forgiveness, but you can’t forgive someone like Sarmazo, national vagabond who crisscrossed my hernia in every direction, a Sarmazo like you see him there, right in front of you, an ape of the state, standing naked before you, and the whole stadium shouts out, except for that section that always asks questions, “Hang him!” I hear you my people, but hanging is for barbarians, I can’t stand the sight of blood, I hate death, so no death penalty throughout the sovereign territory of the fatherland, we shall only have the “penalty of the hernia.” He climbs down from the podium, takes the knife a virgin hands him on a gold platter, places the knife on another gold platter, takes the gloves, ex-Monsignor Lamizo blesses the knife, then he approaches the prisoner and tells him that in the name of the Revolution and in my own name I’m chopping off your weenie. He severed it with one sharp downward blow, right at the base, taking a few hairs off at the same time, and blood squirts in his face, madre de dios, what a filthy brand of male you are, you are a brothel, your blood is spicy, he washed his face in a basin one of the virgins was holding wearing red like the others are. He brings the ceremony to a close and parades it around a little to make it clear that the death penalty is for women, what men need is the penalty of my hernia, because it is their shameful male function that is at the origin of all things, it is their hernias that drive them to betray the nation. The death penalty is abolished for all men throughout the sovereign territory of my prick, I’m replacing it with this national penalty. And since then, once a month, he returns to the always packed National Alberto Stadium to hand down the penalty of my hernia to all the apes covered in hair; sometimes there are as many as ten, twenty, thirty, one hundred of them, and he hands them out to them, in front of the eleven virgins who are there to watch the ceremony swallowing their saliva and the old girls who pity all these weenies that are being wasted in this shameful manner, and some of the women hang around until the stadium has emptied out and pick up two or three of them as keepsakes, immersing them in formaldehyde, drying them out, or smoking them.

  “My God, you’re beautiful!”

  For three days and three night he served up the most exquisite versions of his prick and national juices. My God how beautiful you are! He opens her up and closes her again. He gets lost in her hair from here, climbs onto her knees to admire her big eyes and My God how beautiful you are! He shows her the seven hundred and twelve scars on his big herniated balls from fighting the rebels and from the war against the tsarists. He lifts her up onto his shoulders and sets off into the streets, singing her local songs and the national anthem. He also sings the Marseillaise and La brabançonne, songs from my childhood. He runs off the list of nicknames the kids have given his hernia: Alpine Sea Holly, National Almond, Louise the Fat One, National Anselmo, Little Eggplant, Stinky Blue Goulande, She-National. . . . He tells her how they killed his national parrot because he kept repeating the code name for a secret plot against me. He declared for everyone to hear that I’m giving myself over to you body and hernia. You’re beautiful, white hot, you will move to my country and you will be matriarch of the nation. But how can I reveal my heart to you, all my heart in just one word? And they head off down the street, with her up on his shoulders, him walking and singing the Marseillaise and our songs from back home. Paris, ah Paris. Down the avenue Foch, then the Champs-Elysées, past the Clemenceau metro station, over to the Place de la Concorde, through the Tuileries Gardens, along the Seine River, into the twelfth arrondissement and back along the boulevard Raspail all the way to Montparnasse, and on to Saint-Michel, Paris, ah Paris! The Seine River again, the quai des Orfèvres, Notre Dame Cathedral. They’re all choked up. But he keeps walking because you are more beautiful than anyone has ever been, and you’re a hot one too, and he starts singing his hernia’s anthem in which for the first time, and I mean the very first time, the White woman can bark about being equal to two Black ones. And he contemplates this miracle of concrete and fire, Paris by night, unsuspected navel of the world. A night made up of names and signs, witchcraft names from the world over, Vincennes, the eighth arrondissement, boulevard Masséna all the way to the Porte d’Italie, and these grape bunches of crazy names, salacious names, who reveal their sex thing to him, Gentilly, but the real Paris is in my hernia: he gives her some juices from back home to drink. Paris-Ceinture. Adolphe Pinard. Porte de Versailles, the Seine of Roosevelt, Saint-Cloud, Boulogne, Neuilly, people turn their heads to observe this monster armored with military decorations and covered in mud singing and carrying this very beautiful girl with big green eyes, blonde hair, hazelnut skin, and oval-shaped face on his shoulders; some whisper that this is the return of Jeanne d’Arc, what a striking mount she has chosen! Won’t you stop bothering me with all your media utensils: the real living here are the names, and the normal blood of Paris is the Seine. Stop bothering me with all your nonsense, dragging life along by the hair, well I don’t believe in your third sex. He pushes aside these male names and these female names: Garibaldi, Sèvres-Babylone, Emile Zola, that name stinks like those hernias from back home, Volontaires, Passy, Trocadéro, République, Nation, Bonne-Nouvelle, Michel-Ange-Molitor, Richelieu-Drouot, my hernia is right: the real living in Paris are the names; meanwhile all the passengers in the metro stare wide-eyed:

  “Who on earth is this quarter of a White man carrying this blonde?”

  “Er, gentlemen, I’ve got the same rape utensils as you do.”

  They head back to the Crillon, the hotel I always stay in, and a telegram from Carvanso was waiting for them: “Mr. President (Stop) country is in danger (Stop).” He pounds on the table and it breaks in half; terrified, the
young girl runs off wearing only her underwear. But where are you going, my love? She ran down the stairs as fast as she could, blushing from fear and shame, but where are you going, my sweet love? He chases after her in his pajamas, brandishing his inseparable suitcase used for transporting cash. Where are you going, my liquid? He threads his way between the cars and all the insults from people calling out the names of Mom’s privates. “Come back. Come back!” They make it to the flower market and just when he’s about to catch up with her he trips over and now there’s this vixen standing in his way because Mister you’re going to pay me for those! He opens his suitcase and shoves a big bill right between her rotten teeth. He wants to try and catch up with her, but Mister you’re going to pay me for those again and again.