EXCERPTED FROM Adventures in Zambian Politics: A Story in Black and White Guy Scott Copyright © 2019 ISBN: 978-1-62637-759-2 hc 1800 30th Street, Suite 314 Boulder, CO 80301 USA telephone 303.444.6684 fax 303.444.0824 This excerpt was downloaded from the Lynne Rienner Publishers website www.rienner.com Contents List of Photographs Foreword, ix AcknowledgMmielenst s Larmer xi xvii 1 Prologue 1 2 The Plucky Little Devil 17 3 “Northern Rhodesians” 31 4 Sounds in the Forest 41 5 Young Michael Heads for Town 53 6 The First Wind 59 7 Chimwela: The Second Wind 79 8 The Reign of King Fred 95 9 Elements of Fudge 111 vii viii Contents 10 X Y Years in the Wilderness, Days in Jail 123 11 Inside Looking Out 141 12 Daily Business 155 13 Double Dutch Syndrome 165 14 Chinese Whispers 181 15 Good Neighborliness 193 16 The Not-So-Rough Guide 205 17 Slow Death 217 18 Epilogue: A Quick Presidency, and After 229 Bibliography Index 253 About the Book 255 259 2 Prologue WE HAD JUST COME BLOODIED FROM A PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION THAT saw us whimpering in seventh place, clutching only 3.4 percent of the valid votes cast. In the parliamentary election run simultaneously, we came up with one seat in remotest Bembaland, won by a once-upon- a-time agricultural officer whose name we didn’t know. This single seat was all we had against 149 seats belonging to our enemies, spat - tered in big smudges on the national map in a sort of tribally tinged action painting. Michael Chilufya Sata was unimpressed. “Rigging!” he declared. “The vehicle sent to rig our only seat must have broken the clutch plate and failed to make it to the polling center. Remember the trouble we had with that road? We will spend a lot of money on fixing roads.” Could things get much worse? As soon as the election was over, I went in for a medical check-up in South Africa. There were no electrocardiogram machines around Lusaka in those days, and the Zambian response to such problems is to do noth - ing and change the diagnosis. It nonetheless was becoming obvious to my wife, Charlotte, that I was prone to angina and a heavy smoker and that the two facts might be connected. She put me on a plane to Johan - nesburg. Two days later I lay recovering from a triple coronary artery bypass graft (a CABG nicknamed “Cabbage” by the cognoscenti). I was nursing a vile temper but there was compensation in the attentions of nurses moving among us in the intensive care unit. I did not get to see or even hear from Michael —“Candidate Num - ber Seven” —for four weeks; this was when I was dispatched back to 1 2 Adventures in Zambian Politics “Africa,” the new, politically correct name among South Africans for what used to be called the Black North. On arrival, in a wheelchair on the apron, I heard that Michael was in jail, awaiting trial for “car theft.” It was not possible in Zambia in those days, way back in 2002, to obtain bail while awaiting trial for car theft, the reason being as follows. The first post–one-party-state president, Frederick Chiluba, slayer of the long-standing incumbent Kenneth Kaunda, champion of democracy (we shall dig up some better stuff in due course), became incensed with his own inability to jail one Archie Macatribuoy, a used car salesman, on the basis of extant law. So he sent a bill to parliament, which declared that the mere allegation of car theft should be non-bailable. (He could have declared a State of Emergency and locked up Archie even without an excuse, but that would have been over the top even for a jilted president.) Archie’s alleged crime was that he was rumored to be the lover of Vera Chiluba, a large, cuddly woman who had found herself first lady of Zambia. As soon as parliament passed the no-bail law, Archie was accused of stealing a string of sec - ondhand motors and disappeaafrfeadir ein side. Has anyone heard of him since? Unfortunately, once the Archie was over, nobody remembered to restore the law to a less ass-like tendency, and it duly misfired, result - ing with Michael in jail. Michael had kept two ministerial vehicles and used them for the election campaign. I recall that one was a Japanese 4 x 4, almost brand new, in which we spent endless hours touring thousands of miles of very poor dirt roads up and down the country. Obviously, because he had to resign his position in government to campaign for the presidency as bona fide “opposition,” he should have returned all govern - ment property, and his use of the cars could be construed as theft to some degree. One of his many less-than-deadly but more-than-mere-irritant opponents was appointed minister of transport in the new government. He was not slow to make use of the ability to throw Michael into jail, under the Archie law, as a putative car thief. And so it happened that the now mythical grand reunion of the two leaders of the Patriotic Front —Michael and me —had to take place dur - ing visiting hours in the Kamwala Remand Prison. The prison officers were most helpful to me with my chair, and remarkably sympathetic about the cushion I carried everywhere. This was an aid that helped stop my chest from hurting whenever I laughed. After greetings, I proudly handed over to my boss an automatic blood pressure measuring machine that his wife, Christine (a pediatric surgeon), had somehow procured from the University Teaching Hospi - tal. He had earlier expressed concern about his “BP.” I strapped his Prologue 3 upper arm according to the instruction pamphlet and turned it on. Within a minute it declared his blood pressure (high and low) to be 120:80, with two green lights to match. That’s very good, perfect in fact, we shouted in unison, for a man in his sixties. Then it was my turn: 120:80. Just out of hospital and fine-tuned! It did not blink at Char - lotte’s perfect score either, nor at the doctor’s, nor the gigantic murderer being prepared for release after twenty years of “life” and who had begged to be assigned to Michael as his bodyguard and had in turn been assigned to bring us hot water for tea. “The machine is giving us a blessing in the coming battle,” our leader pronounced. “Michael,” I said, “it is broken. It is not capable of making up any other numbers. If you strap up one of these rats here and manage to avoid squeezing it to death, it will tell you its blood pressure is 120:80.” “Let’s catch one and see!” “Nonsense,” I said. He responded sarcastically: “That’s what you need a white man for in your political party, to tell you what the numbers mean. Let me tell you something about numbers: the only good number is one that is dead or at least wounded. “In fact I am going to remove three zeroes from the currency. I want a strong kwacha.” “Well, please don’t try it on your blood pressure.” And so we continued until I was looking too exhausted for Char - lotte’s liking. I stumbled to the car in acute pain, chortling. Michael of course remained behind but we were one in resolve: Is it not passing brave to be a king, And ride in triumph through Persepolis? (You don’t often get Marlowe in African narrative but it is a plus when the opportunity occurs.) kasaTlaimngea passed and then one morning they picked up Michael in the (a truck that ferries prisoners) and, after visiting all the pris - ons in search of accused persons, took him to court. His fellow defen - dants sang for him as the truck, an old 15-ton cattle transporter, bore him to yet another session of the unassailable state versus the unbailable former minister. What anyone expected I do not know, but suddenly an unexpected, hitherto unseen little man popped up in the witness box. In retrospect he looked for all the world like those small mammals on guard duty over a burrow, such as are used for advertising cornflakes 4 Adventures in Zambian Politics the world over. The small mammal gave it as God’s truth, and nothing but the truth, that Michael had been authorized to take the “borrowed” campaign vehicles on account of his being a “Friend of the System.” Without a sign of thought, the magistrate wielded his ancient splin - tered hammer and struck the cracked colonial-era hardwood block, after which the accused and the friends and followers of the acquitted uttered a deep sigh and left the courtroom. Michael clicked his fingers for some money and commenced peeling off 10,000 kwacha nokteass a(ltaon gbae . “rebased” in due course) for his fellow passengers in the After leaving the court we drove in my car through the town center as pedestrians and motorists alike waved to us in a friendly way. Everyone knew Michael but they could not see quite yet the added zero that would pump our votes from 3 to 30 percent. But we were not in a skep - tical mood. We told ourselves that 3 percent is a good start. “What on earth,” I asked, “is ‘the System’ and how do you qualify as its friend, Mr. Opposition candidate?” “Ssshhh, do you ask a mongoose that has come to rescue you, where it came from?” “A mongoose? Is that a Bemba saying? How long were you in the slammer?” “Forty days,” he answered, “Forty days and forty nights.