The Farce of the Labourers

If Karl Marx could be resurrected from the dead he would probably want to go back once he realises his dream of revolution and the workers finally taking control, was never realised. I suppose it is safe to say that in the battle of ideologies, Capitalism came up trumps against Communism or any left leaning ideologies for that matter. Indeed capitalism is so much taken for granted today that it is almost hard to imagine that at one point the two ideologies had loyalties split right down the middle among nations of the world. But then that was then. Then Russia was part of the USSR and North Korea could claim to be more than a small irritating despotic country annoyingly trying to garner as much attention as a child trying to distract its parent from the phone.

 I have a feeling the great German thinker together with his disciples like Frederick Engels did not fully appreciate the fact that it is human nature to create elites out of even the most modest of groups.And by "modest" groups I include even those whose professed objective is not elitist. Look no further than the election of The Pope for evidence. I do not think this is wrong and merely accept it as human nature.  Communism's main failing therefore is not in the merit of the ideology or its proponents it is simply because it starkly goes against man's natural tendency towards selfishness.

 That being the case, a revolution by the workers as Marx so desperately longed for, would simply end up creating the same structures that were so abhorrent in the previous scheme of things. No where perhaps is this fact of human existence so aptly captured than in George Orwel's classic "Animal Farm", which book I have read countless times.

You will understand therefore when I say I found the whole Labour day procession farcical. I was among the few (I would later discover lucky) individuals selected by my organisation to participate in commemorating this year's Labour Day. I arrived at the Civic Centre with Meka on my mind. You know, the guy in Ferdniand Oyono's "The Old Man and the Medal" who was invited to be presented with a medal by the colonialists, only for him to endure a nightmare on account of his tightly fitting shoes, the urge to evacuate his bowels and of course the never-ending speeches.

For my part I quite liked the charcoal grey suit, deep green tie and white shirt, all catered for by my organisation. The sight of other "labourers" in different regalia from suits to slogan bearing T-shirts made for a convivial atmosphere.

But it is the same every year. The workers parade and march past a tired looking head of state I should add that this time with a scowl permanently etched on his face. Before that hours upon hours of waiting. The brass band whose sound had been melodious at the beginning, starting to sound irritatingly noisy. And all along independence avenue from the Civic Centre to the Freedom statue row upon row of tired looking disinterested employees. Only picking up a certain vitality to their marching once they are in close proximity to the president.

Men and women of all professions, some tired of waiting reluctantly spread their banners and sit on them. The more macho remain standing, trying very hard with varying degrees of success not to break wind. Meanwhile the ice-cream sellers are having a field day. No its not too cold for ice-cream. Anything to while away the time. The pesky cameramen are no longer as irritating after two hours of begging you to take a picture. Actually some of those photos look good. I will have two, no make it three. I want one where I am standing alone, then with the guys and finally the whole group.

Finally the queue gets moving. We all scramble to our feet, wait the banner is upside down. Shoulder high, I hear someone shout, swing your arms, another one shouts. I walk shutting out all the voices already plotting my next move. I am sure not hanging around to endure the speeches.

Shoulder high!

The master of ceremonies is screaming my company's name with all the familiarity of someone trying very hard to be amusing, some are amused but I am not. A fellow in a dark suit shouts at me, "march!, dont just walk". I turn to him and have enough time to hit back.

" If I had wanted a career in marching, I would have joined the police or army" I blurt out and get immense satisfaction from watching his startled face.

 We march in front of the president. He looks even more indifferent. Its clear he has better and bigger things on his mind.Wonder how many of these he has had to endure in his political career, I suspect too many for his liking.  He has had a long career in politics after all. His minister of labour is whispering something in his ear, I hope it is not about my marching, because I am not marching for no one.

Left right.. left..

In the cacophony I fail to fully take in the Marjorrettes as they yank and throw their buttons while swinging their little hips wildly to the beat of the brass band. I wonder why they are called Marjorrettes, must have been discovered by some French lady called Marjory. Who cares. Are there any male Marjorrettes? I wonder what they would be called. I begin to think how much all of this is a waste of time.

At length the union representatives will speak. Themselves part of the elite side of the workers. They will make the same tired complaints, the same tired requests. Their speeches having been written for them months ago, edited by the intelligence, re-written, re-edited.... The minister will stand, speak briefly, then introduce the president. He will crack a few jokes, some in bad taste, but he doesn't care. He is the president and everyone is supposed to laugh. Didn't Chinua Achebe say a rich man's fart does not smell? well there you go.

The 'copy and paste' journalists will rush for a copy (no pun intended), reproduce it in the morning. Their counter-parts on TV will be debating its finer points. Perhaps an expert will be brought on, he will try to explain at length, giving statistics and other evidence. It is all in a day's work.

A thought for the ad and PR agencies. Business must have been good for the last couple of weeks what with everyone printing banners, arranging for media coverage and so on. I am just in time to see a familiar face from UNZA days. Oh, there is another one. But where does one sit in this sea of people. This sea of suits, ties, overalls, T-shirts, bright coloured shirts, skirts, skinny jeans and all manner of clothing in between. I see some people have come out to view the parade. Who leaves their cosy home to stand in the windy and dusty streets to see people wield banners and pretend to march.

The workers are conversing loudly. Some laughing at the theatrics as the Levy Mwanawasa Hospital truck joins the parade having on it a mimicry of a casualty ward. A nurse frantically makes stitching movements while holding the "blood" stained head of the "patient", the same truck has a bed on which a doctor attempts to resuscitate an "unconscious" man, while a woman holds her head and makes other gesticulations of grief. I remember a conversation I had three hours ago with someone from the same hospital. She told me they had no vehicles and relied on those from Chainana. Wonder where they found the truck. Must have been sourced just for the labour Day play. I give up!The ZESCO truck follows, carrying with it a transformer and a miniature power plant.

All the banners are displaying the theme. I can imagine the ones who came up with the same theme. "Make it general and obfuscating enough to require no accountability" I can hear them think, "but make it catchy enough to offer hope to anyone interested." No word about how last year's theme was implemented. Is anyone responsible, well the theme is discarded at the end of the day together with the banners on which it is written.

I don't bother to even read. Lets get this over with. I would rather be at home immersed in some Jeffrey Archer or John Grisham.

"You are becoming cynical", my mind tells me.

"Call it what you will" I answer back.

There she is. I have been trying to call her. Good to see her after a while. We catch up, we talk we laugh. The best thing to have happened in 2012.

"Safe trip to Japan my friend, I am so happy for you" I keep saying. Indeed I am happy for her.

So Labour day was not in vain after all. Well most of it was. It is time to go home.