LITMIR.BIZ

      THIS IS THE STORY OF COLONEL MARTILLIMI LOPEZ, son of National Mom, our very own matriarch of the nation, who came into the world holding his big greasy herniated balls and exited still holding onto them—National Lopez, younger brother of Lieutenant Colonel Gasparde Mansi. Oh dear! Poor old Gasparde Mansi, Supreme Commander of the Army, ex-President for life, ex-founder of the Rally for Democracy, ex-Commander-in-Chief of the Peoples’ Liberty, the late Gasparde Mansi, alas, just like Mom’s Lopez, born holding onto his hernia and still clinging to it in the same old filthy way when he died; such a pity!

      We set off from National Mom’s village and took him on his first ever trip to the capital. He was greeted by a lively crowd, chanting, and saluting cannons; there he was, perched on his white horse Moupourtanka, singing the national anthem. Because white is the color of frankness, and if nothing else, as we shall see my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, he was certainly frank. My brother from another mother, National Oupaka, was galloping along proudly behind him, sharing a horse with Mom, who would probably fall off if she were riding alone on such a beast. To his left, Carvanso, to the right, Vauban. The crowds followed him on foot. We were all convinced that this president was going to be a good one. We carried his kitchen utensils, old fishing nets, machetes, fishhooks, domestic birds, seventy-one sheep, three cases of gourmet Benedicta mustard, eleven Sloughi hounds, his Argand oil lamp, bicycle, fifteen watering cans, slop pail, three mattresses, Arquebus, sieves. . . . And when our brother Carvanso said to him: “Don’t worry, Mr. President,” he responded: “I’m not so sure; I won’t put up with people saying that I embezzled funds.” His big magnanimous father-of-the-nation smile extended from ear to ear.

      At first glance, you might have thought we were back in the age of caravans, because he’d refused to take an airplane, and so we had to walk, bent double under the weight of his belongings and you better make sure you don’t break anything. . . . We sang his praises. Spread our loincloths out in front of him. As he made his way in to the capital, an honor guard stretched out for over eight miles, almost three thousand feet of red berets, a hundred of green berets; he sidled up to brother Carvanso when he saw the soldiers and whispered: “What are they?”—“Infantrymen Colonel”—“Ah, Ok!”

      We made our way to the city center via route 15, and once across the Alberto-Icuezo Bridge, reached District 45. Folks were dancing at Delpanso’s and he wanted to watch since the dances were different from those he was accustomed to in his tribe. But Colonel Vasconni Moundiata approached the dance floor and bellowed: “Cut the crap, can’t you see that the President is here?” Colonel Vasconni Moundiata lost his temper and started kicking the dancers, and five infantrymen charged in and lashed out with rifle butts. We then noticed his father-of-the-nation frown as he motioned to National Carvanso. Carvanso steered his mount over to the white horse and listened attentively: “Shoot these idiots, they’re disturbing the people.” We applauded loudly: this was the first time a president had done such a thing in the name of the people. We walked over all the dead bodies. One man ran up to him, kissed his national legs and then killed himself, screaming just before taking a nose-dive: “Ah, Mr. President, what a beautiful gesture!” “Go ahead and grant him two national days of mourning,” Lopez instructed Colonel Carvanso.

      We took him all over the capital: up and down Valtaza, Dorbanso, and Corbanzo streets, to the Graci roundabout, the Opera. . . . Then on to Vatney, the seat of power. Later to city hall, to the Museum of the Nation, the military camps, the presidential port, the Place du 8 juin; we only made it back to the palace at dusk. We walked through all the rooms: the weapons hall, the diamond gallery, the corridor to the Companions of the Revolution, the presidential vault where only one of our eleven presidents had lain at rest because the other ten had been dumped in a mass grave for acts of high treason.

      “What’s that?”

      “That’s the map of the country, Mr. President sir.”

      “Aha! I see! But what are all those blue serpents?”

      “The rivers, Mr. President.”

      “Aha! I see! And these smaller serpents?”

      “The county roads, Mr. President.”

      “And those serpentlets?”

      “The borders, Mr. President.”

      This is when we first heard his big fatherly laugh, and holding on to his sides, he pointed out just how stupid we all were: You’ve gone and left parts of the nation over in that shameful state in which those “Flemish” left them, you’ve left parts of the nation as if the pale power was still here. How shameful dear Mom, and you’re such a bunch of fools! Hand me some red markers. And he set about redrawing the contours of the fatherland: put those infantrymen to work, and he proceeded to join together four straight lines, leaving areas of the sovereign territory over to our neighbors and taking over some of theirs because, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, that’s the sovereign decision of my hernia: the fatherland shall be square. How could you possibly expect us to live in a crater left behind by the colonizer! What kind of a people are we if we don’t even have the freedom to fabricate our own borders? He enlisted the support of the media for this decision of his hernia and that’s

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