The Shameful State. Sony Labou Tansi

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      IT ALL STARTED ONE MAY EVENING at the Alberto-Sanamatouff stadium. On a Tuesday, at that time of day when the sun begins to set, striping the hands of nature blood red, as the nocturnal concert of pulsating insect wings gets underway announcing Africa to the tourists in my colleague’s country across the way. At that hour when you found out, as we all did, that Lieutenant Proserdo Manuelio had killed his brother-in-law Jolanso Amelia as he lay in a hospital bed: “After all the blood and sweat I put into making you a lieutenant! So apparently you want to take power? Well here it is: in the barrel of a gun.”

      Mother of Lopez! He had summoned all my brothers and dear fellow countrymen to this first evening meeting (because there’s no time to waste: the nation’s business can’t wait), and so I’ll start by explaining, ah yes, because I need to provide some background and explain the real reasons that motivated my hernia to get involved in power. And no, no, and no, it was not a coup d’état! I rebelled against the central authorities because we couldn’t let you know who go on pissing on the fatherland, we couldn’t let him go on confusing the nation with the legs of his badly fucked mom, a real loser, uncultivated, a rogue like him. It wasn’t a coup d’état and he went ahead and pointed to a scar done by you know who, and then unbuttoned his fly and showed us another scar on the inner thigh, and several others as well, and then also his puckered ass and told us how, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, Abbey Perrionni the son of his mother injured him there on the day he was caught with the ex-virgin Gléza Dononso: “This is truly shameful, Captain (that was my rank in those days), shameful that you can’t find a real woman to throw your juices at when the streets are brimming with them, and it would be so much better than preying on those nice religious girls.” He showed us what you know who did to his hernia the day he surprised him in bed with his daughter and well, what can you say, we’re only human. I have to show you all these scars so that you can understand that being in power was not some kind of personal ambition of my hernia. Ah my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, I still haven’t shown you the full extent of the injuries I sustained on the day when National Lou- toulla caught me screwing his wife. . . . And so out came his male junk, ravaged by pock marks and blemishes, and please, don’t go thinking I’m crazy: this is where the nation begins.

      And that half-wit National Outranso who thinks this is all a big joke: I’m educating our people and all you can do is giggle from under Foni Sènso’s beret. You must take me for that ex-President Jlanso Zenno who used to throw himself in front of young girls, with joined hands and hernia: you’re a mulatto, mulatto girls drive me crazy. With Africa, clenched between their thighs. But let’s get back to the subject at hand and let’s not forget what a nasty world we live in: men, ah men! Always trying to conquer the world with their tools. But God rules, ah yes, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, if we can still breathe this evening as we’re breathing it’s because God is with us. Because, and the evidence is clear, at two o’clock tonight, you know who tried to seize power with the help of a dozen or so little mechanics and a handful of demons who work with those god-damn TVs, what bullshit; do you really think, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen that you can seize power with big plans? But in that gang there was also a woman ah! Mother! And by all accounts she’s as beautiful as the Queen of Sheba. And he started fondling his big greasy herniated balls, gently massaging them as we applauded, as our cries made their way to the heavens: Long live Lopez! Long live National Mom! He stroked his hernia in a premeditated fashion, “But before I fully expose them to your anger, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, children of my loins, let’s take stock of the situation: I’m no Gasparde Mansi who got his balls chopped off by some girl because he held sexual audiences in his office, I’m no Oustanno Ludia who killed people as one does a chicken, and I’m certainly no son-of- a-bitch Orenso Gemma whom you made a hero of the nation just because he left behind three hundred and twelve mulatto girls and seventy-five Black ones just like him; I am Lopez, National Mom’s son, five years at the helm, now tell me, who have I killed?” We all shouted out: “No one! Long live Lopez, long live National Mom, down with crocodiles.”

      He was in full flow by now and these occasions meant a lot to his hernia. The story of my hernia is linked to the history of the fatherland, but don’t worry, it’s not a sad story. I am the spiritual son of Alberto Sanamatouff . . . and the story lasted until three in the morning and my brothers and dear fellow countrymen you come on back now at eleven tomorrow so we can discuss the fate of the mutinous rebels and agree on appropriate sanctions. In the meantime, my hernia is tired. Before we headed home, we overheard him whisper to brother Carvanso: “I’m thirsty, it’s tough being a bachelor,” and Carvanso saying:

      “Mr. President, we have to watch out for the media.”

      “Ok.”

      He left on foot, shadowed by his aide Colonel Vauban, in charge of his personal security detail, and made his way up rue Felicio-Danarassi, avenue Panglos, past the Touré-Diakaté Market, then rue de la Pompe, Oreillidos Alley, and recounted the story of ex-Colonel Vadio who did what he did and no one did a damn thing about it, then the one about ex-National Loujango who got a long way in the science of looking the other way and what was done to him? When he reached the Corbanni-Suaze Bridge, he stood there for ten minutes watching the water running below: after all, I’m no Alvaro Diosso who for God’s sake managed to study for his thirteen diplomas while president. The people are stupid and will remain that way.

“Yes, Mr. President. But the shirt need not fear the hot water.”¹

      His heart filled with shadows, the heart of a prophet, the heart of a father, in the majesty of the human dream, from where you can contemplate our late General Also de Nonso donning his tiger-hunting gear, with full military stripes and plumes, gold tassels, exotic, magical medals heavy as gates, row upon row of military decorations across his chest because my people expect things to be eye-catching; ah Vauban, this is the country for people who are eye-catching. He starts telling Vauban the tragic story of our late brother Grabanizar during the shameful years of the Labinto regime that our people went and made a hero of the fatherland; we live in a nasty country and there ought to be a sign with gold-leaf lettering as you enter the port of Zouhando-Norta: Nasty country. That’s how it is Vauban, since there are no wars, our infantrymen wreak havoc. Havoc because we’re the world center for cowardice, the world capital for shame and sin, because we’re the masters of lying and maliciousness Mom. . . . As for Vauban, listening attentively to him, with his pale courage that tried to save the world, you can see how much he loves this land while National Lopez, kaki giant that he is, sporting the nation’s drama, the country slung over his shoulder, and that’s enough bullshit, up rue Nolavinto, rue Fantar, past the café Les Rate-Bonheurs, over to the other side of the Place de la Patrie, to the sound of Plazzinni Delaroux’s music, you’d think that Delaroux guy was French but he’s actually the product of racial mixing: French face, American manners, walks like an Arab, but with a body typical of our region; today, he’s performing in the Oulanso-Mondia Gardens, in heavily accented French:

      Open your body

      To this fear

      Of the world

      The earth is a public good

      But your own turn is now

      So make sure you don’t miss it

      In life

      Accomplish your part

      In this flesh between heaven and earth

      For us the future is now

      Sing your nerves and dance your heart

      There aren’t that many ways

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