, , , , ,

In which our hero’s afternoon Guinness is interrupted by the arrival of a surprise visitor. It is a little four-year-old girl.

  • How did you get all the way to Kyaliwajjala from Kireka? I thought the traveling range for little kids like you is greatly limited by factors such as the severe shortness of your legs and your lack of jobs that provide taxi fare.
  • Baz, where there is a will and a mind as brilliant as mine, there is a way. 
  • What is your will, then, Lizzie? Did everyone and not just me move out of Kireka? Is there no one left to annoy? Do you, therefore, have to travel this far in search of prey?
  • Ah, Bazzie, still as cute as ever. I can’t wait until I am tall enough to pinch your cheeks. Don’t let the fact that I hardly ever thought about you convince you that I did not miss you. You have always been very dear to me. How is work? Munange, these days I just see you in the papers.
  • Well, work is…
  • …And enough small talk. Baz, I am here to ask for your help as a media professional. My mother is standing for elected office, you see.
  • You have a mother? I could have sworn you were the byproduct of careless toxic waste disposal.
  • Hah. Yes. Cute, as I said. Anyway, my mother got it into her head that she should stand for the Local Council. I love her dearly, of course, but she isn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. She is very impressionable. The Obama thing got to her. Her campaign slogan, for example, is: “Indeed, we are capable of it.”
  • No offense, but your mother is not the sharpest knife in the ninja-belt. 
  • The issues on her campaign are very radical. The other day she was railing about how the white man stole our African brothers from the motherland to be slaves and how heinous that was. She says that the white man should bring them all the hell back. I think she has one particular African brother in mind. The other day she asked me whether I would be willing to take on my stepfather’s name. I don’t have a stepfather, I replied. She said, “You will if all goes according to plan.” She then asked me how I feel about being Lizzie Obama.
  • First of all, and I am tired of having to say this, the didn’t steal the slaves. They bought them. Why are Africans so insistent on denying their complicity in this crime? Why don’t we want to take responsibility for our part in this?
  • And enough about you, Baz. As I was saying, my mother is really working hard in this campaign…
  • Besides, Obama is not the descendant of a slave.
  • Did you miss the part where I suggested that my mother is stupid by saying she is not the sharpest tooth in the chicken-grinder? 
  • So she has a crush on Obama and so she is trying to get into political office and to pressure the white man to repatriate the descendants of slaves in the hope that Obama will be sent to Kireka, where he will meet her and marry her? 
  • You see my problem.
  • I don’t see how I can do anything about this except laugh until my ears pop, of course.
  • There is. The media has greatly underplayed the criticisms against Obama, almost to the point of absolutely ignoring them. I believe that it is your duty to publicise these criticisms and, in doing so, kill my mother’s crush and let life get back to normal. Well, as normal as life can be when you are a brilliant genius child with a mother who cannot be described as the spangliest tutu in the closet.
  • Hmm. I’ll see what I can do. But I cannot promise anything. Many people are tired of hearing about him.
  • They are tired of hearing the sloppy slop-slop sounds of the media’s wet lips on his backside. Publish the criticisms. You know us, the public. We love to build someone up and then tear them down.
  • Okay. Let me get to work on his illegitimate children and his drug addiction and his latent homosexuality.
  • Brilliant.