Short Tales from Africa
Micro-fiction
Enterprise
When I taught at the uni of Kisangani, one war had finished and another one had not started. I lived in a small but comfortable bungalow with extensive grounds, in a wild state but with a number of fruit trees.
The heat in the middle of the day was quite challenging, and when I had no classes, I would happily indulge in a siesta.
I had just nodded off one afternoon when there was a knock at the door. Grumpily I opened it and saw four grinning boys. I have never met more charming and gracious kids.
‘Mundele,’ someone ventured, ‘you have many fruit trees.’
‘With too many fruits,’ another boy added.
‘You’re not going to eat them all?’ enquired a third one.
‘True,’ I admitted.
‘Then let us collect some so we can sell them so we can get some pocket money.’
I gave them the green light, let them into the yard and went back to my siesta.
An hour later, there was some slight commotion, and I found my youngsters with a few bags of avocados.
‘Mundele,’ they chorused, ‘you buying?’
Polar Bears
Kisangani was full of artists. They carved little masterpieces with pocket knives or screw drivers, they painted on old flour bags or strips of plywood, with house paints or whatever they could lay their hands on, and had a captive clientele among the academics at the university. Kalumé seemed to me to be the most gifted of them all. I had bought three or four of his
pieces, market scenes or dug-out canoes on the Congo river, but I would have liked animal pictures too.
‘Animals?’ he pooh-poohed my notion, ‘who wants pictures of dogs, donkeys and lizards?’
‘No Kalumé, I mean wild animals, lions, elephants, gorillas?’
‘But monsieur, in Kisangani we never see wild animals, this is big city. I’ve never even seen an elephant.’
Luckily I had a Time-Life edition of Animals of the World handy, and showed it to him. He asked to borrow it.
Next time Kalumé called, he had a his latest masterpiece carefully wrapped in old newspapers.
‘You will love this one, monsieur,’ he said, delicately peeling off the wrapping, to reveal a lovely little hut with a talking drum in front of the open verandah, a yam pounder next to it, a palm tree on either side, and next to each, a white polar bear
.
Democracy at Work
The President is very keen to be perceived internationally as a democrat. After a dynamic campaign, and the imprisonment of the opposition and his critics, his advisers tell him that the latest opinion polls are predicting 96% landslide.
‘But I do not want to be the sole candidate.’ His advisers say there is no one to stand against him.
‘How about that trouble-maker poet?’
‘He is in prison, Excellency.’ He orders his release.
Next day the advisers inform him that the poet is unwilling to stand.
‘Then do the usual,’ he orders angrily. The secret police then torture the poet until he finally agrees. The opinion polls now give the president a 97% majority.
‘I don’t like it,’ he says.
‘We can stuff ballots in the boxes and make it 99%, your excellency.’ The President becomes angry.
‘We could make it 100% if that’s your wish.’ This time he becomes livid.
‘I told you, I don’t want to be the laughing stock of the world outside, I want a victory yes, but a credible one.’ The advisers nod.
‘That can be arranged too, Excellency, we can work out the rigging strategy. Would a 70%-30% poll be satisfactory?’
