‘We Are All Comrades Now’

Descend from your throne,

Step out of your gated mansion, remove your designer shoes

And feel the red dust sink into your feet.

You are no better than I,

Communism made us all comrades.

We bow to a common goal.

Comrade Poet Laureate Petros Manhanga (January, 2022)

‘Hullo.’

‘Well, aren’t you going to thank me?’

‘For what?’ Petros could hear her sharp intake of breath. She was clearly offended. Then, silence. She was probably going to scold him for five minutes, and then complain about how nobody appreciated her, especially him. He was glad he’d disabled Skype and video-calling on his android landline. It was going to be a long telephone conversation. He was about to provide an appropriate, seemingly sincere, apology that would soothe her when the housemaid, Chipo, entered.

‘Comrade baas. The security man is on the video intercom…’

‘Chipo, how many times have I told you that you don’t have to tell me about the intercom? Just give me the message.’

‘Yes, comrade baas. The video intercom says there’s a big box for you at the gate. Should he let the van driver into the yard?’ Chipo stood with her arms folded in front of her.

‘A van? I’m not expecting any deliveries.’

‘Oooh, your gift has arrived,’ his mother squealed over the telephone loud enough for even the housemaid to hear. His mother was still on loudspeaker and Petros had forgotten to place the call on hold.

‘I forgive you,’ his mother said. ‘Don’t open it. I will be there in thirty minutes.’

‘It’s not my birthday…’ But she’d already ended the call. Chipo was still standing in front of him, waiting for answer.

‘Yes, tell him to let the van in,’ Petros told the housemaid, looking past her. He dreaded what his mother had bought him this time. He was still trying to figure out how to return her last present, the house he was living in which she had bought for him when he became Poet Laureate.

Despite the fact that he already had a property of his own, she had insisted he sell it and move into the one she had purchased. His mother’s time as government minister had given her a taste for luxury and she’d ensured that even after leaving politics her children reaped the benefits of her extravagant tastes. It was no secret how she financed her classy lifestyle: like other ministers in her time, when the government seized the rights to mine the Marange fields, she managed to obtain a steady supply of diamonds that she sold on. She never apologised for her actions but often said, ‘In politics, you either eat what is put before you or you go hunting. If you hunt, you might not catch anything so you’ll starve. I ate what was put before me.’

The Oasis Bar and Grill echoed with the incessant arguments of wealthy men showing off their latest gadgets. Thanks to the newly installed ceiling fans and brighter lights, it was easier to see which shoes, suit or latest accessory a man had without straining one’s eyes in the dense cigarette smoke.

‘This was made in Japan,’ the Minister of Finance, Comrade Steven boasted. He waved his arm at a man standing arms-length behind him.

‘Who needs human bodyguards when there are guys like this to be had? He’s made of chrome.’

All eyes turned towards the minister’s table and the bolder men, including the bartender, moved closer. Comrade Steven paused, glanced around him carefully, and gently pushed his chair back. He flicked some invisible dust from the right lapel of his Armani suit, opened his arms wide in a welcoming gesture and rose to stand beside the man he’d indicated. Comrade Steven had everyone’s attention and he knew it. He smiled, an easy self-assured grin straight out of a Hollywood orthodontist’s catalogue.

‘He looks real, doesn’t he? But he’s pure chrome underneath all this artificial skin. He only responds to my voice. He has face recognition technology so he only allows my family members close to me and other individuals whose photos I have entered into his database. Solar-powered so no need to worry when there is a power-cut. He walks, talks, fights, shoots, and plays chess but does not drink, eat, sleep, back-chat, ask me for a raise or sneak into my wife’s bed.’

Sycophantic laughter swelled to the ceiling and fell silent as soon as Comrade Steven raised his left hand.

‘I’m serious. Isn’t this the problem our forefathers had? Garden boys and security guards stealing their wives, their daughters? The scandal, the shame, the unnecessary death of a hardworking employee, the need to look for another wife,’ he shook his head. ‘Those were sorrowful times but that era does not need to haunt us now. We don’t have to repeat our forefathers’ mistakes. The future is here, now, in our chrome cousin. He comes with a lifetime guarantee and for those with deep pockets, you can have him custom-made in platinum with gold trimmings and diamonds.’

The men clapped, whistled and those who had been sitting stood up knocking over chairs and drinks. You’d be forgiven for thinking Comrade Steven had just delivered a speech on how to end the dry season and bring an abundance of rain. The bartender and three waiters all lifted the finance minister onto their shoulders. Our Chrome Cousin did not move, obviously their photographs were in his database. Comrade Steven was known to spend more hours at the bar than in his office or at home. He himself claimed that most of his ideas started life as scribbles on an Oasis Bar napkin, before they became finance policies influencing the lives of every citizen.

‘What about unemployment Steven?’ The man spoke softly but everyone heard him.

Comrade Steven frowned, the voice was familiar but he could not quite place it. The crowd of business men parted and the bar staff carried the finance minister, still on their shoulders, to the man who had spoken. He was sitting in a chair by the door and wore a large-brimmed safari hat that hid his face. The man didn’t look up when Comrade Steven stood beside him. Our Chrome Cousin waited arm’s length behind his master.

‘What about unemployment?’ The finance minister asked. His tone was not friendly.

‘If you purchase more of these tin men, what jobs will be left for the unemployed?’

The finance minister shrugged his lean shoulders and unbuttoned his Armani jacket. Comrade Steven was well known for starting fights and inciting mobs to violence. During his time as a young veteran in the Youth Militia, he had managed to hospitalise seven men, one of whom was his own brother. Blood relations meant nothing to the finance minister when a political advantage was to be gained. Comrade Steven gently eased himself into the chair opposite the man who had spoken to him. He casually leaned forward, took the man’s glass of wine and poured out the drink on the floor beside him.

‘Unemployment is a careless word to throw around in a nation as prosperous as ours. Only foolish philosophers speak of such things and eventually they die.’ Comrade Steven threw the wine glass over the man’s head and it smashed on the wall just behind him. The man in the safari hat did not flinch. Comrade Steven stood up quickly buttoned his jacket, turned to his audience with his Hollywood smile and once again opened his arms in a welcoming gesture.

‘Bartender, give every man a drink. This round is on me.’

A cheer rose up into the rafters and all the men moved quickly to the bar shouting out their orders. Comrade Steven leaned in close to the man who had challenged him, ‘By the way my bodyguard is not made out of tin but chrome and it’s Comrade Steven to you.’

The man in the safari hat grabbed Comrade Steven’s hand, gripped it tightly and twisted slowly. Comrade Steven winced in pain but Our Chrome Cousin did not move.

‘I will bear that in mind. Your tin-man can’t protect you from me! I am already in his database. Remember that, Comrade.’

The man let go and pushed the finance minister so suddenly that he stumbled backwards to the floor. The man walked out quietly, unchallenged. Everybody else in the bar was so busy enjoying a free drink that they did not notice Comrade Steven lying on the floor while Our Chrome Cousin remained standing at arm’s length behind him.