One is beginning to get the hang of what United States President George W Bush is getting at when he warns the world that this is going to be “a different kind of war”.
“This is not going be like any other war you’ve ever seen,” says the prez. “This is going to be the first war of the 21st century. Our enemies should not mis
underestimate (sic) our resolve.”
Yesiree, Bob, we ain’t seen nothing yet.
No one is going to know when this war starts, when it ends, or what goes on in the middle. But here and there we get little hints.
How’s this scenario, for example: an old man whom no one has ever heard of comes blinking into the sunlight outside his quiet Italian retirement villa to find a phalanx of large, well-fed American congressmen, their bodyguards and the cream of the world’s paparazzi waiting noisily to speak with him.
“What’s all this about, gentlemen?” the old man asks, wiping a nervous film of sweat from his bald cranium.
“You are the King of Afghanistan,” one of the congressmen informs him.
“Afghanistan?” the old man says. “Where the hell is that?”
“We’re not quite sure at the moment,” another congressman butts in, “but we’ve got people working on it back at the State Department as we speak.”
“And who are you?” the old man asks.
“We’re working on that as well,” a third congressman tells him with a jovial smile, “but the point is this: we have reliable information that you are the King of Afghanistan. Is this true or not?”
“I am an Italian citizen,” the old man retorts. “I refuse to answer any questions unless my lawyer is present.”
“Listen, Pops,” a fourth congressman interrupts, “we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. We’d prefer to do it without anyone getting hurt, but we also know that you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. The eggs that you have to break are outside the omelette. The eggs that you don’t have to break are already inside. It’s up to you: are you inside or outside the omelette?”
“Omelette?” the old man mutters, becoming more baffled by the minute.
“Or whatever,” two other congressmen reply. They are all talking at the same time by now, frustrated at the old man’s failure to grasp the urgency of their mission.
“Pizza, spaghetti, pita bread, naan: name your poison.”
“Say, we’ve taken a lot of trouble and spent a lot of taxpayers’ money to get over here,” another congressional voice is yelling from the back of the crowd. “We’re giving you the chance to be the spearhead in the war for Infinite Justice in Afghanistan, and you’re telling us you don’t even know where Afghanistan is? Don’t you watch the television? How un-American are you, anyway?”
The old man is beginning to lose his temper.
“I am a loyal Italian citizen,” he repeats. “Like the Italian prime minister, I believe in the superiority of Western civilisation. I am not interested in your Afghanistan. I’m living pretty damn good here in Italy, anyway. Apart from anything else, I’m free to enjoy a nice glass of Valpolicella with my lunch, which you can’t do in Kabul, what with the Taliban and everything, so why don’t you just get outa my face?”
“Let’s not be too hasty, Mr King, sir,” says a more mature member of the congressional delegation. “I believe we are talking the same language. We, too, believe in the superiority of Western civilisation. We are Western civilisation. That’s why, once we have bombed your country back into the Stone Age, and sent those Talibanistical rag-heads running into the hills, we would like to be in a position to put something really convincing in their place – free Valpolicella on demand, hamburgers made with real ham, seven-egg omelettes, Coca-Cola, etcetera. We think you, as the once-and-future king of Afghanistan, could be just the right answer.”
“How much? ” says the old man, after thinking this proposition over for a short while. “And I’m not talking Italian lira, either,” he adds, before they can interrupt. “How much in realistic dough?”
“This, Mr King,” they reply, “is open-ended. But we need only draw your attention to the financial success of royal lines in other countries – Norway, Denmark, and England, for example. Even Zululand.”
“And Zog?” replies the old man.
“Zog?” the congressmen refrain. “What about Zog?”
“Like with Zog,” says the old man. “You guys set up Zog as King of Albania, and within a couple of years he’s gone. Fled. Run into exile by a new bunch of communists. Seeking asylum in South Africa. Destined to die in exiled disgrace among the Zulus. You set someone up and then you drop him as soon as his usefulness is over. What kind of life is that for a king?”
“Like our president said, your majesty,” says a congressman, “these are different times. This is a different kind of war. When we are finished, you will be King of the Afghans for all time – this we can guarantee you.”
“The Afghans …” says the old man, reflectively. “Who is going to help me control the Afghans?”
“That, your majesty, is really going to be up to you. We’ll bomb them back into their Stone-Age hills, but after that, we’ll be out of there. Scout’s honour.”
“And who is going to serve me my Valpolicella when everyone is gone?” the old man asks.
“Policella-hella,” the congressmen reply. “Are you with us or against us?”
The old man remains puzzled. The congressmen depart, frustrated.
The war drags on.
Archive: Previous columns by John Matshikiza