Inside the State House... Mudede makes his case

THE brown mantel clock, gracefully placed on a corner of the queen-size bed headboard, struck two in the morning, and on the saggy mattress of the expansive bed below it, the First Couple slept in tranquility. Of course, the audible noise the wheels & gears of the clock made were drowned out by the snoring the old man made—and, by the other sounds that sometimes issued from his gapping mouth when he spoke to himself in his wild dreams.

His wife, that paragon of a modern shopper, had taken to wearing ear-mufflers to keep out the snores of the old man, her husband, whom she had already bore many children for. Suddenly, the old man kicked away the imported Chinese silk sheets that covered the duo and sat up straight on the comfy bed, panting and coughing. The wife woke up instantly, a little annoyed.

“What on earth are you doing?” she fumed at him. “It’s the middle of the night for Christ sake!” The old man wiped his drool with the back of his hand.

“I had a nightmare Mai Chatunga,” the old man said in a quivery voice. He yawned, stretched his aching limps and added: “Give me some water.” The wife did his bidding, retrieving a bottle of imported mountain water from the small bedroom fridge. The old man gulped down the water quickly, reached out for his glasses on the sideboard and said: “Bad dream. I dreamt Chief Justice Chidyausiku swearing in Tsvangirai as the new president of the country!” he told the indifferent wife, gesturing with his hands in a show of utter discomfort. In the old man’s mind, Tsvangirai could never be president while he was alive, never! Inconceivable!

“It’s just a dream, let’s go back and sleep,” the wife tried to allay the simmering fears of her husband. Of late, these nightmares were visiting the old man’s enfeebled mind relentlessly, tormenting it, fatiguing it, making it unattainable for them to have a quiet and peaceful and serene night. So much so that only the previous week before his birthday, he had dragged her to visit his long-time witch-doctor, Ambuya Jena. The old man always made it a point to visit her in times of crisis…uncertainty, when his mind was being assailed by gory images and nightmares. Nothing is known about that meeting since the dealings between Ambuya Jena and her clients is confidential. “Don’t forget it will be your birthday this weekend, I won’t bake your favorite cake if you refuse to come to bed,” she tried to inveigle him.

“Okay, okay, you win. I will come to bed. But, let me call Mudede first,” the old man said refusing to heed his wife’s pleas and agreeing with her in one sentence. “I have to know what concrete modalities he has put in place so that I’m a guaranteed victory in the elections.” With that, the old man started dialing a number on the wireless handset while the wife went back to bed making feeble protests…

The two, Mudede and his female assistant, had been sitting on the leather couches in the waiting room at State House for almost an hour now, twenty hours since the president had had that terrible dream. Dressed in his usual brown suit and those over-sized glasses, Mudede known affectionately as the RG in party circles, kept asking Ms. Chipo to go over the plan they will put to the president any time now.

“Are you sure you are ready?” the RG asked her nervously for the umpteenth time, seeking reassurance from her. On her part, Ms Chipo seemed calm and composed, playing with the mouse of the Dell laptop that was set in front of her on a coffee table—for its officers, the RG ‘s office keeps up with technology, while for everything else it prefers older technologies, like wooden boxes as opposed to transparent boxes.

The RG himself had come out in EXPOSITOR, the government daily, claiming: “Our wooden ballot boxes are quite credible and there is nothing wrong with them. We don’t want to spend money unnecessarily…We have abundant forests for wood in the Eastern Highlands. We can make the ballot boxes ourselves. We should be proud of our own products.”

“It’s okay uncle, everything is set,” Ms Chipo told him, curling her thick lips in a grin, exposing a nice set of clean teeth. She was an epitome of Zezuru womanhood, with brown skin that shone like polished ivory, very beautiful with well proportioned limps—the RG only worked with the most of alluring women.

As they spoke, the president’s secretary burst through into the waiting room. He promptly apologized for the long wait the duo had had to endure, told them the president was ready to meet with them in his office and as they walked in the corridors toward the presidential office, the secretary said in passing: “You are very fortunate Mr. RG, some people are kept waiting to see the president for upwards of an hour. Ask Mbeki, he knows it.”

When the RG & Ms Chipo were ushered into the office, they found the old man pacing about, adjusting his official portrait on the wall on one side of the large office.

“Oh, Tobaiwa!” the president exclaimed with unadulterated delight, shaking his hands with genuine compassion. “I’m so glad to see you. Please do sit down,” he said and sent his secretary away to bring some refreshments. As they usually did, the two men’s discourse lapsed into pleasantries and the weather etc. There was a mild touch of tension in the air with Mudede unsure and guessing if the president would be impressed by his plans for the election.

“I’m sure you are surprised to see me in the office wearing a tracksuit?” the old man said, watching the RG minutely.

“Uh-huh…yeah, I do,” the RG was frank and the old man burst out giggling like a post-puberty girl on her first date.

“Well, behind that door,” he pointed to a screened door on one side of the office with a tremulous finger, “there is a small weight room for me. While the two of you were waiting, I was busy working on my yoga.” The old then man proceeded to elucidate the benefits of yoga, saying to Ms. Chipo at one point: “Yoga is very beneficial especially for you a lady…it allows for extreme flexibility of the limbs, an asset for a woman.”

At last the old man took his seat behind the large mahogany desk that smelled of vanish polish and spoke directly to the RG.

“Tell me Tobaiwa, what measures have you put in place for the election? You know very well that I can’t afford to lose. Never!” The smile on Mudede’s face vanished momentarily. He cleared his throat and said, choosing his words carefully: “I’m very aware of that fact, sir,” he paused and hastily added: “You fought for this country from the British, it is yours to rule. No other candidate, except you, can win any election administered by me. Under my watch, you are the only winner!” The old man was giddy with happiness. “I will let Ms Chipo explain the measures we have put in place.” With that, Ms Chipo composed herself and began describing the plan in detail. She was very eloquent and her English was flawless, something the old man found fascinating.

“This year, we have decided to fight with the opposition from start to finish,” Ms Chipo said, consulting her computer. “First, we have expertly engineered the voters’ roll, filling it up with dead…non-existent voters. As of now, this voter’s roll has over five million registered voters.”

“I see, but how does that help me?” the old man asked, his hands stroking his clean shaved square chin in a naked gesture of mild skepticism. “I want real guarantees; otherwise I will follow and punish you Tobaiwa, even to the gates of hell themselves!”

The RG saw the old man’s rising doubts and quickly intervened, saying: “Ah, by increasing the number of people registered, it means that other measures that will be taken subsequent to this are…foul proof. Take it like, say for Harare Central, if the voter’s roll claims that there are five hundred thousand people registered to vote, when the actual number is two hundred thousand, it means that I will stuff the boxes with a further three hundred thousand ballots…ah, all for your benefit of course!”

“I see. That is more like it. Ha, you bring good tidings for me, that is good. You have helped me win elections in the past, and I trust you.”  Mudede was glad, happy that the president was finally slowly recognizing his shrewdness.

“We have had lots of practice in the past,” Ms Chipo pointed out the obvious. “In addition, working with ZEC, we have demarcated the constituency boundaries to maximize your votes, this of course you already know, Mr. President.”

“Yeah, I’m very aware of that, the Col. Bonyongwe briefed me,” the old man answered.

“On the day of elections, we will flood the rural areas with polling stations, so that the villagers would just have to walk less than four kilometers to vote. However, in the cities and towns, we will put in very few polling stations, forcing the voters to walk ten or so kilometers to vote.”

“Well put Ms Chipo,” Mudede intervened again. He turned his gaze to the old man and continued: “What this does is that as many voters as possible in the rural areas cast their votes, dwarfing those in the cities where we know there is opposition to your party. By doing that, we guarantee that you not only win the election but you win it with a large majority, removing the need for a run-off election and…eh, silence your critics in the west & private media.”

“Well done Tobaiwa. Is this all you will do?” Knowing that his victory was guaranteed, the old man was pushing for the duo to finish their presentation.

“No,” Ms Chipo answered his question. “We have also put in place the usual measures, like using wooden boxes in lieu of transparent ones, affording us an opportunity to stuff the boxes with ballots filled out by our agents.” She spoke at length about other measures and a last the old man was getting tired of them. These days, the president of the country, due to his advanced age, he can’t spend more than two hours concentrating.

“You have made your case Tobaiwa, and I’m happy to say you are doing good work. Thank you. I’m tired now and I want to take my noon nap.” With that, the president dismissed the RG and Ms Chipo from his office in State House. On his part, Mudede was very happy. Nothing made him more content than the ability to serve his master, to please and make him happy. “Now that we have made the promise to the president, we must not go back on our word,” the RG told Ms Chido as they were driven away from the State House.

*Trymore Magomana is the author of the novels 'Ill at Ease' and 'Crossing the Border'. He can be contacted at macvivo@gmail.com