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Fool on the Hill
by Jake da Motta
Dearest Uncle Arthur
It is now six months since I sent my last somewhat gloomy missive
tinged as it was with fears for our future in this strange land of
the Lusakas, and at that time I was less than optimistic of our
chances of survival. You will be happy to hear that we are still, by
the grace of God, yet extant and hale of heart. It was with great
regret that I learned of the Deluge visited upon you earlier this
year and your subsequent struggles to lift yourselves out of the mud
and slime. With prayer and the good will of the insurers it seems
you have restored yourselves to order and though I personally never
believed that this event was a biblical punishment for sins
committed in the community the underwriting scribes appear to think
that it was in fact an Act of God and therefore I am sure that one
of the many churches will claim responsibility and be happy to make
up whatever shortfall your insurers cannot.
Nothing could have prepared us for the cost of subsistence in this
burg where every time one leaves the house it seems that the very
air of the place sucks money from ones breeches. We have tried to
make ends meet by continuing with the nurturing of vegetables for
barter with the locals and these are grown without recourse to
neither modern potions nor the evils of organo-phospates. And yet we
have been hoisted by our own petard since by the time we have daily
delivered the meagre produce throughout the ville we have returned
enough pollutants to the atmosphere as if we had crop sprayed the
entire neighbourhood with a Roundup and DDT cocktail. Indeed pound
for pound our carrots consume more fossil fuel than a V6 Range Rover
despite being more aerodynamic. Delivery by donkey cart would make
more eco-sense but would scupper my plans for a small-scale salami
production unit to be funded by the Italian Government.
We have been lucky enough to enrol our firstborn at the AISHouse
Academy for next year by the simple expedient of selling both of our
dogs and our second born son to a Chinaman. We have yet to make a
plan for year two’s fees but your good niece has graciously agreed
to give pole dancing lessons to a member of the Board which may yet
win us favour. Our hopes have been dashed, that the child’s ability
to read and write, his willingness to supply his own crayons plus
his congenital inability to participate in any sport would earn us
some discount. The second child will complete his indentured
apprenticeship at the Fu King Restaurant & Bear Gall Factory in time
to join his brother in IB1 we hope; the dogs may not be so
fortunate.
We have endeavoured to integrate with the rest of the community and
have attended many meetings and gatherings, breaking bread and
taking refreshment with a wide variety of folk. Many are lawyers and
as such are bound by sacred oath to attempt to sell us land and
second hand polo ponies. Others are bankers who wish us to lend them
our money free of interest and maintain that this is doing us
a favour. Still more we have met are consultants who spend their
days trying to account for the money their masters have given the
government to spend and the lack of any tangible benefits from this,
other than to pay themselves sufficient salary to keep the lawyers’
sales booming. All in all they are most hospitable and kind, though
in their company I have developed a fearful ague accompanied by
halitosis, nausea, dreadful headaches and vomiting which is visited
upon me almost every Saturday and Sunday morning.
Our employees continue to delight us, coming up with evermore
inventive reasons to borrow money, widening the interpretation of
phrases like “medical assistance” to include a television on which
to watch Grays Anatomy. We are however delighted to do our bit for
food security in paying them to grow, in addition to a cash crop of
a leek and four radishes, a forest of cabbages and tomatoes that
appear and disappear constantly without ever seeing the inside of
the SPAR where I daily spend half a million Kwacha whilst waiting
for a cheque for the twenty eight ngwee they have owed me since
February.
Soon the road past our farm is to be tarmaccadamed which will
increase the volume and speed of the traffic and help fulfil the
plans for my next venture; a drive through Mexican Restaurant,
Cemetery & Crematorium named “House of the Flame Grilled Bury-to”.
With Crazy Golf, Nshima-ball range, Celtel sponsored naked petting
zoo and ornamental lettuce gardens I believe we will have found a
niche market hitherto undiscovered even by Sandy’s Creations. Wish
me luck dear Uncle and please remember to feed the goldfish, though
… not to the cat as you did the last time.
Your Loving Nephew.
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July
2007