“Yes, Mr….”
This god-damn country where the president is expected to do everything himself. He heads over to see National Thoulouse, also known as Vauban, head of personal security:
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Since no one is currently engaged in anti-national activities, I head out to the districts to see my people. Without an escort: Vauban though isn’t far behind, but don’t let anyone see you. And he disguises himself as a peasant so that he won’t be recognized and to see what the people are saying about him. He mingles with a group of construction workers and shuffles along with them, trampling the mud and dirt under foot. No one takes any notice of him. He overhears them bickering, singing, and speaking badly about his hernia, saying awful things about National Mom for giving us such a shameful son, National Mom who’s still fornicating at her age; they talk about that bastard Colonel Carvanso, of his brother who stashed the National finances away over in Switzerland as if we had no need for money; they speak badly of the infantrymen who have no shame or modesty pissing on the nation the way they do…. Blending in with the masses, he just goes along with them, joins in the singing. He’s surrounded himself with a bunch of rascals. Nevertheless he sings:
If I were a little little mouse
I’d go digging in his big greasy hernia
If I were a little little cat
I’d go hunting in his hernia
If I were a little little flea
I’d choose his hernia…
He sings the chorus with them. His denims are now covered in mud, his heavy artillery dangling about to the pace and rhythm of the tune; those who come over to fetch the mud for the hut they’re building are picking up the tune.
“My people are beautiful when they sing.”
And he starts singing louder than the rest, introducing words from the national anthem. One guy bawls him out, because who the hell gets the mortar ready with work boots on. But he keeps on singing and steps on the guy who then hurls mud at him. He’s got mud all over him, in his nostrils, his ears, his hair.
“Who the hell told you to get the mortar ready with your boots?”
A big muscular guy knocks him down in the mud and they all laugh at him.
“What’s the deal with this guy, he’s dumber than a woman’s backside!”
And only then do they catch a glimpse of his hernia and they’re mortified.
“It’s… it’s the President!”
They see themselves at the gallows, facing the firing squad, the infantrymen on their knees with their rifles to the ready waiting for the order.
“It’s… it’s the President!”
That was enough to send them scurrying off in different directions shouting, “It’s the President!” Those who couldn’t run away threw themselves before him, on their knees, shaking, licking his big greasy herniated balls; they’re in tears, begging for mercy.
“This won’t happen again. It’s Larso Laura’s fault for misleading us, it was his song mercy mercy mercy for the sake of our children; it’s Larso Laura who’s against you…”
“You have nothing to fear, I’m the forgiving kind. Because I’m a good president. I’m not like Alto Maniana who used to hang you like monkeys. And anyway, that song is beautiful. And in any case, you can’t stage a coup d’état with clay. You can’t seize power with songs.”
And he massages his hernia.
“I’m not like Sadrosso Banda who put stuff in the eggplant. Nor am I like that Manuelo de Salamatar who drank your blood to make him feel like he was in the world. Almost a gallon of blood every night.”
They’re singing, but in his honor this time. He shuffles along with them until lunchtime. Then he heads back to his jeep, drenched in mud, and no way I’m washing it off, I’ll get married as you see me now. That’s my gift from the people. Where the hell are you, Colonel Thoulouse, oil-rubbed bronze, gray eyes, blonde hair, 5 feet 9 inches tall, lasting symbol of my long and tumultuous cooperation with Europe, 210 pounds of brain and muscle at my disposal, a pederast (every country has its own monuments), and goes home to give National Mom a kiss, you see Mom how the people love me. He teaches her the words to the beautiful song they sang in his honor. The heavens have not been good to him: but they did let him hold on to a lovely national male voice, the beautiful eyes of a wild animal, and his shiny white teeth and goatee. Then, without undressing, his boots still on, grubby, he pounced on his presidential bed and fell like a lion into a deep sleep, sleeping on his seventy-five medals from the war on communism, his hands tightly clenched, fly unbuttoned, a real muddy caiman crocodile, teeth poking out, right hand on his gun, stinking of eggplant beer, snoring.
“I want to get married in this outfit.”
National Carvanso tries to convince him otherwise:
“But Mr. President sir, the Whites will mock you. They’ll mock you for sure. Reporters will take advantage of this.”
“But Carvanso, the Whites can mock me as much as they like: their very own Louis XIV only washed a handful of times and that was the life of Louis XIV, and then there’s Vauban, and Frederic II. He fell into his historian’s laughter to describe Catherine of Russia who…”
“But Mr. President, I’m convinced they’ll mock you, it’s in your nostrils, all over your ears.”
“It’s the mud of the people. Let them mock me. Africa must remain Africa. Yes, Africa must give the world back to the world.”
And so, covered in mud, he walked the route past the invited delegations and their representatives. Everyone applauded. He shakes hands with His Majesty of the Flemish and embraces him in the way of the ancestors, leaving some historic mud on him; then the hand of Her Majesty the Princess of Denmark in the way of the ancestors, leaving some historic mud on the back of her royal costume; he embraced all the friends of the people in the way of the people and with the gift of his historic mud. Hey, it’s you, my colleague from the neighboring country, and he lets him have some of the people’s mud. You can see a faint smile on the face of the people with all these illustrious guests getting a dose of his hernia and local mud on them, on this historic day when I’m marrying the most beautiful girl on earth. And then the delegation makes its way to the exact site where National Mom buried my placenta and no bullshit: this is now a place of worship; then from there on to visit the cathedral my hernia erected thanks to the Good Lord. Next they boarded a plane and headed four hundred and thirty-five miles north of my hernia to see where I will be buried….
Cardinal Dorzibanzo, who’s refusing to marry me, is brought in. “Untie him and let him get to work!”
“Mr. President, Dorzibanso says he can’t.”
“Why the heck not?”
With his torn cassock, bloody eyes, hands tied, his mitre all wrinkled, they bring him before his hernia.
“I’ll cut your dick off if you fail me on this.”
Ex-Cardinal Dorzibanso asks if, for better, for worse, his hernia wants to take this girl.
“But Dorzibanso, the worst has already happened since the infantrymen cut off her speech utensil; they cut off her kissing instrument.”
He gives him his yes, his historic yes and here’s her yes, yes for me and yes for her.
“Historic Colonel, Your Excellency, I can’t bless this union.”
“Watch out Dorzibanso, my hernia is about to explode.”
He looked at him with astonishment and said it again: I can’t do this.
“You’re going to come up against my hernia. And believe me, it won’t be like banging on butter, so you’d better watch out: my intestines are growling. You’re stirring my kaki nerves and the shame I feel in front of the Whites who’ll think I’m no longer the supreme master in my own house. Now just get on with it and bless this union or be prepared to die from this national anger that I can feel swelling. Show some respect for my meat stick that’s bowing here before your God.”