Laugh at your own risk

A man in eastern Zimbabwe, near the belly of our explosive diamonds, is drinking a few quaffs of his frothy beer. It is President Robert Mugabe’s birthday. And the 2012 presidential birthday party is in the provincial capital, Mutare. The man, humorously stubborn as is the traditional personality of that region, does not go to the stadium where the party is being held. He has probably attended many past ones where he painfully came to the conclusion that standing in the queue for hours for a small cup of his favourite drink was not to his liking.

So, the SaManyika goes to his favourite bar which happens to screen the festivities live on national TV. As if to torture him further, there is no alternative TV channel to watch. The birthday cake is a crocodile-like monster of a sugary thing, weighing 88 kgs, one for each year outside the womb. A massive affair, with 88 candles, fully lit and the flames flapping in the wind like tiny butterflies. Plus 88 balloons.

SaManyika, relaxed and trusting, chats with a stranger sitting next to him: ‘At the age of 88, where does this old man have the breath to blow out 88 candles? Did he ask for some assistance?’ the boozer jokes, but the hearer’s face is stale, no laughter, no smile.

In a short while, the humorous man is under arrest. The joke undermines the authority and office of the president. A short journey, from laughter to a police cell. The court trial about a pub joke lasts weeks and weeks, and people all over the country sympathize with the ‘offender.’ They feel inspired to make more jokes about the president despite the risks.

In Zimbabwe, joking about the president is a serious crime, and many a citizen has lost their freedoms for daring to laugh at the president. If the South African artist who painted President Zuma’s privates had been a Zimbabwean, he would probably have ceased to exist in a matter of days, languishing in a maximum security prison alongside murderers and traitors.

But one man went too far. He supports Mugabe’s party for giving him free T-shirts every now and then. Unfortunately, he does not like the presidential portrait on the front of the T-shirt. One day he laboriously erases the portrait with white paint, and when the secret police see him, they ask him what he has done with the presidential portrait.

Honest as the people from that part of the country are known to be, he declared, ‘I removed the face of Mugabe. I like the ruling party, but I don’t like the leader of the party,’ the man says, not knowing what he is throwing himself into: the mouth of a lion of a magistrate who sentences him to many hours of humiliating community service.

The commandment: thou shalt not deface the picture of the president on your party T-shirt.

In the extreme south of the country, near the border with South Africa, an agitated man speaks to himself in a bar. He is annoyed that as well-educated as he is, a job is hard to come by. So he blames Mugabe for ruining the economy and forcing him into destitution.

And soon, he is in a police cell for the common crime – now called ‘insulting’ by the police who, when they arrest a journalist, tell him that he is in a police cell for ‘the crime of the pen.’

Those employed to get angry on behalf of the president seem to be getting angrier the more the president ages! Zimbabweans fight in many different ways for their freedom, including the fight of the giggle or even the suppressed laughter. But the law instructs otherwise in the area of what or who not to laugh at.

In another incident, a man is walking home in broad daylight. He comes across a herd boy taking care of the animals in the open valley near the village. The boy is wearing an over-size T-shirt with the portrait of the president. The man is annoyed. He calls the child to come to him.

‘Why are you wearing a T-shirt with the face of this old man with a wrinkled face? Take it off!’ And the man breaks a small tree branch, whips the boy soundly and lets him go.

The following day, the man is in front of a vicious magistrate, a fanatical supporter of the president. The practical joker is sentenced to a year, with labour. The offender is not charged for whipping an innocent boy. It is the presidential ‘wrinkles’ for which he is he is charged.

But then the area is renowned for the potency of the powers of the local medicine-men and women. Mysterious things always come from the area, including the ability to create and attack enemies with lightning bolts.

Lawyers stream there to defend the culprit for free so they can make a good legal reputation for themselves. While the case is still in the court, the magistrate collapses and dies right in his court.

More laughter, and the law: Never use sorcery against the president of the republic. No one knows if the offender is still tending his rural farm or has had to emigrate.

The new magistrate, in utter fear, decides to fine the culprit a few dollars, just in case his magical powers could be summoned with more potent and fatal force….

And one thing to learn from Zimbabwean public transport is never to mention the name of the president in an argument. Two brothers learnt the hard way. In their argument about domestic issues, on a bus in Harare, the elder brother, rather fed-up with the younger one’s stubbornness, shouts, ‘Don’t be as hard-headed as Mugabe, young man.’

In no time, the bus takes a new route and stops at a police station. One passenger points at the joker and says, ‘That one, he insulted the president.’

Soon, the whole country knows the president is ‘hard-headed’ as they laugh secretly – in the toilets or in isolated places.

While technology is the new miracle in human relations, it can cause much heartache. A Zimbabwean woman messaged a friend a picture of Mugabe in the nude. She was soon to realize the gravity of her offensive joke when her friend appeared with a whole troop of police officers to effect an arrest. Poor woman, subjected to long hours in the courts, might have been already swallowed by the doors to a dirty prison cell.

The law: thou shall never imagine the president naked under any circumstances, including in bed with his young wife, or even in the shower.

Insulting the president can simply mean complaining about the way the man has ruined the country, politically, economically, culturally, and academically, or in all sorts of ways.

I had a share of it myself when a secret agent asked me what I thought about the president’s academic achievements, ‘Seven academic degrees’, he said. When I said I was neither impressed nor amused, the agent was burning with fury. ‘Why?’ he shouted, spraying my face with his hot saliva.

‘They are all undergraduate degrees. Didn’t someone tell him to advance to a master’s degree?’ my tongue ventured. And the man warned me with the possibility of disappearance: ‘We will not arrest you. That will make you more famous. We have other ways, disappearance, accidents, many more,’ he warned.

Cruel, beloved homeland, deprived of the permanence of laughter, but allowed only to cry with wrinkled faces of sadness, or dance with commandeered joy. To avoid the crime of insulting, maybe all border posts and road junctions should have a huge billboard: Laugh At Your Own Risk. – Chenjerai Hove is a Zimbabwean poet and novelist.