The Shameful State Read Free

juicy White one.”
    â€œYes, Mr. President.”
    For five years he managed the nation and the borders and damn those Mihilis who had risen up in the western region. Carvanso will teach them the lesson of my hernia; as for the Bhas who refuse to pay a tax offering, go dish out my big greasy balls, and those Bhozos rising up in the south, go put a curse on them Carvanso! Yes, Mr. President sir! And to relax he had his griot National Thanassi come over, who recounts the famous story of our brother Louhaza who loved his own mother so much and gave her twelve children including Talanso Manuel, National Mom’s great-grandfather, a descendant of National Lakensi, founder of the fatherland, and tells the story of Lukenso Douma, founder of a vast kingdom that encompassed the Congo, Zaire, and Angola, and also how Manuelo Otha had founded Tamalassi . . . as well as the story of ex-Colonel Youhakini Konga, now that one’s a long story, but I very much want it to be handed down from father to son for eternity, exactly in the way I heard it from my grandmother, the late Gasparde Luna. As he listened, his eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of his head: my God, our ancestors were truly great.
    â€œYes, Mr. President.”
    â€œThey were born to shake things up.”
    â€œYes, Mr. President.”
    â€œThere aren’t a thousand ways of being in this world. We’ll muddle through somehow. Twenty percent Flemish blood running in our veins, not quite Black enough to be negroes, not quite White enough to be whites, but I’ll find a way to shake things up too. . . . There aren’t a thousand ways of being in this world.”
    â€œYes, Mr. President.”

I T ALL STARTED ONE M AY EVENING at the Alberto-Sanamatouff stadium. On a Tuesday, at that time of day when the sun begins to set, striping the hands of nature blood red, as the nocturnal concert of pulsating insect wings gets underway announcing Africa to the tourists in my colleague’s country across the way. At that hour when you found out, as we all did, that Lieutenant Proserdo Manuelio had killed his brother-in-law Jolanso Amelia as he lay in a hospital bed: “After all the blood and sweat I put into making you a lieutenant! So apparently you want to take power? Well here it is: in the barrel of a gun.”
    Mother of Lopez! He had summoned all my brothers and dear fellow countrymen to this first evening meeting (because there’s no time to waste: the nation’s business can’t wait), and so I’ll start by explaining, ah yes, because I need to provide some background and explain the real reasons that motivated my hernia to get involved in power. And no, no, and no, it was not a coup d’état! I rebelled against the central authorities because we couldn’t let
you know who
go on pissing on the fatherland, we couldn’t let him go on confusing the nation with the legs of his badly fucked mom, a real loser, uncultivated, a rogue like him. It wasn’t a coup d’état and he went ahead and pointed to a scar done by
you know who
, and then unbuttoned his fly and showed us another scar on the inner thigh, and several others as well,and then also his puckered ass and told us how, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, Abbey Perrionni the son of his mother injured him there on the day he was caught with the ex-virgin Gléza Dononso: “This is truly shameful, Captain (that was my rank in those days), shameful that you can’t find a real woman to throw your juices at when the streets are brimming with them, and it would be so much better than preying on those nice religious girls.” He showed us what
you know who
did to his hernia the day he surprised him in bed with his daughter and well, what can you say, we’re only human. I have to show you all these scars so that you can understand that being in power was not some kind of personal ambition of my hernia. Ah