The Shameful State Read Free Page A

my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, I still haven’t shown you the full extent of the injuries I sustained on the day when National Lou- toulla caught me screwing his wife. . . . And so out came his male junk, ravaged by pock marks and blemishes, and please, don’t go thinking I’m crazy: this is where the nation begins.
    And that half-wit National Outranso who thinks this is all a big joke: I’m educating our people and all you can do is giggle from under Foni Sènso’s beret. You must take me for that ex-President Jlanso Zenno who used to throw himself in front of young girls, with joined hands and hernia: you’re a mulatto, mulatto girls drive me crazy. With Africa, clenched between their thighs. But let’s get back to the subject at hand and let’s not forget what a nasty world we live in: men, ah men! Always trying to conquer the world with their tools. But God rules, ah yes, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, if we can still breathe this evening as we’re breathing it’s because God is with us. Because, and the evidence is clear, at two o’clock tonight,
you know who
tried to seize power with the help of a dozen or so little mechanics and a handful of demons who work with those god-damn TVs, what bullshit; do you really think, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen that you can seize power with big plans? But in that gang there was also a woman ah! Mother! And by all accounts she’s as beautiful as the Queenof Sheba. And he started fondling his big greasy herniated balls, gently massaging them as we applauded, as our cries made their way to the heavens: Long live Lopez! Long live National Mom! He stroked his hernia in a premeditated fashion, “But before I fully expose them to your anger, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, children of my loins, let’s take stock of the situation: I’m no Gasparde Mansi who got his balls chopped off by some girl because he held sexual audiences in his office, I’m no Oustanno Ludia who killed people as one does a chicken, and I’m certainly no son-of- a-bitch Orenso Gemma whom you made a hero of the nation just because he left behind three hundred and twelve mulatto girls and seventy-five Black ones just like him; I am Lopez, National Mom’s son, five years at the helm, now tell me, who have I killed?” We all shouted out: “No one! Long live Lopez, long live National Mom, down with crocodiles.”
    He was in full flow by now and these occasions meant a lot to his hernia. The story of my hernia is linked to the history of the fatherland, but don’t worry, it’s not a sad story. I am the spiritual son of Alberto Sanamatouff . . . and the story lasted until three in the morning and my brothers and dear fellow countrymen you come on back now at eleven tomorrow so we can discuss the fate of the mutinous rebels and agree on appropriate sanctions. In the meantime, my hernia is tired. Before we headed home, we overheard him whisper to brother Carvanso: “I’m thirsty, it’s tough being a bachelor,” and Carvanso saying:
    â€œMr. President, we have to watch out for the media.”
    â€œOk.”
    He left on foot, shadowed by his aide Colonel Vauban, in charge of his personal security detail, and made his way up rue Felicio-Danarassi, avenue Panglos, past the Touré-Diakaté Market, then rue de la Pompe, Oreillidos Alley, and recounted the story of ex-Colonel Vadio who did what he did and no one did a damn thing about it, then the one about ex-National Loujango who got a long way in the science of looking the other way and what was done to him? When he reached the Corbanni-Suaze Bridge, he stood there for tenminutes watching the water running below: after all, I’m no Alvaro Diosso who for God’s sake managed to study for his thirteen diplomas while president. The people are stupid and will remain that way.
    â€œYes, Mr. President. But