The art of insulting kings

In faraway places, popular Portuguese writer, Sousa Tavares, is in trouble with the law in his homeland. His crime: calling president Cavaco Silva ‘a clown.’ ‘We already have a clown. His name is Cavaco Silva,’ the author and journalist had said in an interview. Someone lost his temper on behalf of the president, and the writer might face up to three years in prison if tried and convicted for harming the’ honour’ of the President of the Republic.

So far, calling a president a domesticated bird is not an offence, but calling another president a human comedian is utterly offensive. The rules seem to take some kind of a pattern.

Old donkey

But then logic would assume that calling the president a domesticated animal is no offence. Recently, a youthful student-cum-politician allegedly called President Mugabe ‘an old donkey’ and languished in prison for it. Despite being the laziest domesticated bird, the cockerel is not an offence to the president. But the donkey, carrier of Jesus and centre of farming power in Africa, is an offence to him. Now I am confused!

I think Mugabe(89) is an old fox with old, rusty political tricks. I never seem to follow the consistency of his political views. So, I take the risk since I don’t know his attitude towards foxes, and age. Have I committed a crime or enhanced the presidential ego with a compliment? Neither do I know his attitude towards wrinkles.

It is well acknowledged wisdom that anyone who desires power but does not dare to accept the insults which come with it fails to understand human behaviour. If you don’t want to be insulted, then you should do absolutely nothing on earth, let alone aspire to lead in any way. Even the ancestors cannot escape insults if they don’t perform their duties.

One of the duties of the citizens, the so-called ‘voiceless’, is to praise those in power if they perform their duties commendably. But the other side of the same coin is to insult the rulers harshly if they bring shame to the kingdom. At all times, the powerful will be subjected to all sorts of ridicule as the pastime of the ruled. When the villagers have finished harvesting, they while up time with humour, dance, music and stories about everyone and everything under the sun, including their kings and presidents. The shapes of their heads, noses, ears and moustaches are ripe territory of all kinds of heavy and light-hearted humour. The ruler’s behaviour is the centre of discussion at all work and entertainment gatherings.

Vulgar insults

The higher the monkey climbs, the more it exposes its bottom. Vulgar presidential behaviour elicits vulgar insults from the citizenry.

Most traditional institutions of power included a resident poet, singer, joker. In southern Africa, the king had a court poet who was actually fully provided for by the king’s court. Food and clothing were provided for him. His task was ‘to compose’ for the king. ‘Composing’ is not the same as ‘praising’. In times of great achievements by the king and his ministers, the composer created beautiful poetry and song in praise of the king and his team. But in times of disastrous behaviour by the king or his ministers, the composer was as sharp-tongued as a scorpion’s sting.

But the king could hardly touch the poet. He knew the composer was reflecting the views of the whole kingdom about his rule and its likely consequences. Any king who dared touch the composer or imbongi was doomed to fall. And luckily, for most African societies that I know, there were no prisons where anyone could be locked up. The king had simply to endure the painful censure of poetry, music, song and dance. In case of royal ill-temper, the composer created stories of bad rulers ‘in faraway places’ who destroyed their kingdoms through abuse of power, greed for wealth, wife-stealing, land-grabbing, intolerance and drunken foolishness.

And if the king was not so intelligent, he would console himself by believing that the stories were about ‘a king in a faraway kingdom.’ When his advisers reminded him that the tragedy refers to him, he could only fume in anger but would not dare harm the composer. For, it was only a foolish king who revelled in flattery and sycophancy.

A foolish king

In Zimbabwe, the village head (sabhuku), responsible for the affairs of the whole community, has been subjected to so much insult that sometimes he is forced to abdicate. When he gives all the good land to his relatives and friends, soon the whole village is awash with poetry, music and dance against him and his family, including insults to his father, mother, wife, brothers and sisters. A popular song in many villages in Zimbabwe was composed decades ago by an aggrieved villager: ‘wakandinyima gombo, sabhuku, meso amai vako, sabhuku.’ (You denied me fertile land, sabhuku, your mother has ugly eyes), repeated by everyone of his subjects day and night until the village head changed his ways.

In the village where I spent my last country days, there was a composer named Mafiga. He had a sharp eye and ear for every little event which happened in the community. If he observed someone winking a mischievous eye at someone’s wife, the next dance will be about ‘two eyes winking at the breasts of Namashe’s mother/Oh, shameful eyes which know no respect.’ And the dancers would shake their bodies, point fingers at the possible offenders, and celebrate the dance while insulting the envious men of the village.

During my college days, I anxiously awaited Mafiga’s latest poetic-historical compositions during the August holidays when people danced to songs of insults, derision and mockery. He always carried with him his musical instrument, the mbira (finger piano). And his drummer and flute players always accompanied Mafiga to every beer party in case the master spontaneously composed a new piece which needed their accompaniment to enhance the new protest music.

African traditional societies did not have any physical policeman going around keeping order. The composers and their songs, dances, poetry and stories were the police officers of the community. For the fear of public censure, everyone, including the king or the village head, behaved themselves with respect, dignity and honour.

Profound joy

Like prostitution, the institution of insulting the king is an art which will never die whether the king or society likes or hates it. It is profound joy in that it celebrates the power of voice which the ordinary citizen has over those who have the power to access wealth and privilege. Even the children or the poorest of the poor had the pleasure of dancing to the music which insults a wayward king or leader. That prospect created more fear in the king’s heart than all the guns of the kingdom.

It so happened that the more the king became distastefully cruel, abusive and dishonourable, the more intense the insults became. All composers created new, beautiful insults day and night until the king repented and mended his ways. Victimization of the composers never stopped the compositions. For, the king, president or village leader, had no choice but to listen and endure.

If the citizens call their president ‘a clown’, ‘an old donkey’ ‘a monster’ or ‘a madman’, ‘an old fox’, it is time for that leader to critically examine himself. A person who tells you that your trousers are worn out at the back, exposing your bare buttocks, simply reminds you to go home and mend your trousers.

On being flooded with all those huge musical and artistic voices demanding Nelson Mandela’s release, the apartheid rulers had no choice but to produce Mandela alive and in good health.