Back and Forth

There is a certain belligerence that pervades election season. I am not sure how to dissect the forces at play but much like the penchant for hip-hop artists to tend towards deviant nick-names, it seems to me a veritable presence of something spurring towards violence or social deviation is always in close attendance where one or two cadres are gathered together. This should be in the cadres Bible, “where two or three cadres are gathered together, violence and insolence are in close attendance”. 

Ever wondered why anyone would want to be called “Nasty D, Slap D, Dandy Crazy, Dirty Old Bastard or Big Punisher”? 

There is probably a certain satisfaction that purveyors of such names derive, either from being perceived to be the epitome of social deviance or to carry on a certain edge to them which I would assume they would have carefully thought through before settling on a specific moniker. The nick-name being the vehicle on which their chosen character is conveyed to all who come into contact with them.

I too have been part of one of these mindless swelling masses of ubiquitous anger, aimed at no one in particular but directed at everyone. There were days in university when deprived of entertainment, we stood on balconies and cynically angrily sniggered at everyone who passed below; those brave enough would shout back at us, most would pretend they didn’t see us; choosing to walk on, minding their own business, pushing our wagging, swearing tongues to the very periphery of oblivion. We would be a vision of bloodshot eyes, frothing at the mouths like tiny red beer pots, a mixture of phlegm and saliva sticking to our lips, a rather poignant reminder of just how small the gap between sobriety and insanity is.

There were those bold enough to take on the somewhat hazardous and needless job of being custodians of morality, the sort who would walk around like a compass pointing towards the “path of light”.

“This is not you, I know you better than this”, they would say in that self-righteous tone.

A cord would momentarily twang deep down our hearts and much like a convicted sinner in church a thousand vows and pledges would be made to never to succumb again. Three days later, the ring of the words of reproach now a distant memory, we would be back at it, finding even more creative ways to dish out all manner of insolence.

There were shades of that in the flag waving obscenity muttering mob that “greeted” me on my way to Mpika. I use the word “greet” with great reluctance and hesitation and should hasten to add that there was nothing friendly or benign in the obscene gestures they made towards our vehicle in their attempt to succeed in a mission that I can only deduce had intimidation as its main aim.

Whatever it was, in the end it was a cacophony of auto-tune seemingly omnipresent through those larger than life speakers, mounted on either side of a pick-up truck like barrels of oil or a local brew. I struggle to call these sounds music; that would be an insult to all musicians who dedicate time and effort to their craft. You could describe it as sound that you can move your body to, throw in a thumping beat, teeth cracking pitched auto-tune and of course a heavy sprinkling of a politician’s name and you are set.

Most of the time what passes for campaigning is a gathering together of several women with bleached skin and throwing a smattering of campaign material at them. I found them in Mpulungu and Mbala, flashing sad smiles, their faces as red as a chimpanzee’s bottom from their daily application of skin lightening creams from Tanzania and Congo. Most of these cheap cosmetics were being peddled openly in the streets. Their feet and arms still bore evidence of their former skin colour, a rich shiny black in some cases, a rich brownish black in others. They always cower when you look them in the eye, their self esteem, the light that would sparkle in their eye sacrificed a long time ago. In its place a dull timid nothingness that treasures everything foreign while at the same time despising self to the extent of hating their own bodies. The place is plastered with pictures of light-skinned women, wearing long wavy hair and smiling like they have no care in the world.  

They think I am better than them, they think everyone is better than them.

They will go looking for votes from the red-faced market women, the matted haired call-boys, the listless youths looking for something to do other than spend their days swearing at anything animate or inanimate. They might gather them in groups of thirty, or twenty or whatever number, as long as they are groups. They will scamper on top of pick-up trucks, others will be stashed inside buses like loaves of bread all to the sound track of some auto-tune.

In the end, there are sightings of a number of “Mr Matero” clones, wearing ripped party t-shirts, their barrel chests dancing like they are harbouring fluttering pigeons. A small wry woman walks in their midst brandishing a party symbol, a boastful smirk breaking on her face every once in a while as if to say “have you seen my security?”. Of course we have seen it.

Who would miss those eyes, as they bore into each one of us as if daring us into a cruel game of brinksmanship, whose penalty is death? But then many of these locals died a long time ago, the day they decided they were not good enough. They died the day they concluded nothing good could ever come from within them and that the world others aspired to did not exist at all.

“Does it even matter who you vote for”?, they ask me.

I don’t know, I gave up on politicians ages ago. I see them, I hear them talk, I know what they want, but I just choose not to be moved by politics or political rhetoric. I am better off going to watch the Chipoma waterfalls or reading a very good book.