The Shameful State by Sony Labou Tansi

Author:Sony Labou Tansi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Indiana University Press
Published: 2016-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

Poor Colonel Martillimi Lopez: he invites them all in to show them the big turd I found in my special mug, and he has them all take a sniff; that’s the smell of the fatherland, inhale, inhale!

“Colonel, said National Torezo, Minister of Raw Materials, I also found a turd in one of my mugs.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Shut up!”

National Loyejo said: “Mr. President, I found a turd in my bed.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Lajao found a turd in his caviar.

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Can’t you just shut up. You’re deafening me with your nonsense. Find those responsible; find them.”

National Vouna found a turd in his noodles—how revolting. Find those responsible; find them. Vangadio found a turd in his jacket pocket—find them; Mahoungou spotted a turd right in the middle of the dish his cook was about to serve his guests—find them instead of busting my eardrums. He asked Vauban to play his flute to calm me down. And National Vauban, excellent charmer of hernias that he was, played some tunes from the foggy country. One by one the members of the government withdrew, in silence. Only little Glemabar stayed behind, young and timid as he was he didn’t want to offend Mr. President, Glemabar the Minister of Rocks; my poor child you can go ahead and follow the others. But Vauban jumped on him to satiate his twisted balls that preferred men.

“Help, Mr. President, help!”

“What’s gotten into you, Vauban? Get out of here and go and court him in your quarters.”

But Vauban is deaf to the president’s call; he’s already off rutting. What are you doing? He grabs him by his pony-tail: and our brother Glemabar’s complaining in some kind of technical jargon: stop, Vauban, stop.

“Every country has its own monuments.”

“That may be so, but not this one.”

Glemabar comes out covered with bite marks from your dog who’s not ashamed to bite and I swear to you, Mr. President, sir, that one day I, Glemabar, son of my mother, I’ll make sure he curses his mother. Lopez laughed his big fatherly laugh. What, my old friend, can we do to Vauban? He’s not like us who have no other monument but our shit. Vauban is Vauban. The science of guns runs in his veins. Don’t waste your time, Glemabar: he’ll kill you. But Mr. President, I’ll have him curse his father’s juices. Ok: but if you kill him, I know my colleague won’t come asking me to settle things all because of some sexual misunderstanding.

“Now you choose to show up, National Zabouni?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He grabbed hold of his ears in the ancient manner. I think it’s your racism that pushes you to do these kinds of things, but I’m telling you that 20 percent Portuguese blood hardly makes you a full-fledged Whitey. And come to think of it, what stops me from being racist too: I’ve got 11 percent “Flemantation” running in my veins.

There’s a termite mound of fecal matter on his bed. All over his bathtub and in every room in the palace. Find those responsible, for God’s sake, find them.

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