From what has otherwise been a dark and difficult week, Roy Clarke has gleaned some reasons to be cheerful. On Monday, the 62-year-old’s name was splashed across the Zambian Daily Mail in a headline that must have puzzled its readers: “Roy Clarke to Be Deported.”
The Northampton-born writer was, at that time, largely unknown to the Zambian public. This is no longer the case. In fact, Clarke, a former teacher and metallurgist, is rapidly becoming the most famous man in Lusaka. In peril of losing his house, his job, his whole way of life, Clarke is determined, with the blitz spirit peculiar to expats, to stay in good sorts. “It’s been quite marvellous reading about myself in the press,” he says. “Not all of it’s true, of course, but the embroidery is in my favour, so I don’t object.”
Clarke is in hiding. He has a bad chest (“Bronchitis and deportation all at once, oh dear!”), and is under threat of being thrown out of a country that has been his home for 40 years. “It’s just silly,” he says down a crackling phone line, sounding like Richard Briers after a bothersome morning in the vegetable patch. Clarke’s crime was to compare the Zambian president, Levy Mwanawasa, to a fat elephant, an offence not obviously catered for in Zambian law, but one which evidently struck home enough for it to be broken. In the same article, published in the Lusaka-based Post newspaper, Clarke compared the chancellor to a “long-fingered baboon”, the home secretary to a “hungry crocodile”, the agriculture minister to a “knock-kneed giraffe” and the lord chancellor to a “red-lipped snake”.
In his weekly column The Spectator, Clarke filed this Zambian version of Animal Farm, and on publication day was curtly invited to leave the country. “I have some slender hopes,” he sighs, “that the judge may be an educated gentleman who knows something about the art of political satire.” But he is not holding his breath.
This has all come as rather a surprise to Clarke, and to many Zambians, who have with good reason regarded President Mwanawasa as a great improvement on his predecessor. Mwanawasa was elected two years ago on an anti-corruption platform and one of his first acts in office was to arrest the former president, Frederick Chiluba, on embezzlement charges. He called his programme of change, the New Deal. There was some bother over the validity of the election — Mwanawasa snuck into office with a 1% lead over his rivals — but on no more evidence of foul play than attended George Bush’s US election victory. What’s more, since his election, political debate in Zambia has been as robust as any in African politics. Mwanawasa is subjected to insults that would make the House of Commons blush. Since suffering a head injury in a car crash 10 years ago, he has been dubbed “the cabbage” by his opponents and accused of being brain damaged. (He did once refer at a press conference to the boxer “Tike Myson” and to president Chiluba as his “sister”. But this also has a certain neat parity with US politics, circa Ronald “Princess David, I mean Diana” Reagan).
Clarke’s insults weren’t nearly so crude. He has been writing The Spectator column in the Post for seven years, inspired, he says, by the columns Michael Frayn wrote for The Guardian in the 1960s. It was in 1962 that Clarke first travelled from his home in Northampton to what was then Northern Rhodesia, having read about it with interest in the papers. After a year working in the mines, he returned to London to complete a degree at Imperial College and then went back to what had been renamed, in the interim, Zambia, to take up a job as a metallurgist. England never reclaimed him. He met his wife, Sara Longwe, and together they had four children. In the 40-odd years since, Clarke has worked as a teacher, an administrator, and finally, in his 50s, a journalist. “My dear wife didn’t want to go to Britain, which is a terribly racist place. I could see her point. It was far better for me to be a white man in Zambia than for her to be a black woman in Britain. This opinion has held quite well for 35 years; I may now have to reconsider.”
In spite of recent improvements, and benefiting hugely from comparison to Zimbabwe to the south, Zambia is not a happy place. This is why, when the president made a pre-Christmas address congratulating his government on another excellent year, Clarke felt moved to protest. Out of a population of 10 million, more than a million people have HIV; 80% live below the poverty line and life expectancy at birth hovers around 35. “It left people a bit gobsmacked,” says Clarke. “I thought that if there was a lot of prosperity somewhere, perhaps we would find it in the Mfuwe gamepark.” The column sent up the government as a pack of duplicitous jungle animals, taking the Zambian people for fools. “Just as the [humans] are becoming thinner,” he wrote, in the voice of the elephant president, “so we in the game park are becoming fatter. As hospitals fall down in the rest of the country, so we are building veterinary clinics all over Mfuwe … by closing schools, we now have the funds to send our monkeys abroad to Harvard. They are studying for MBAs, degrees in Manipulating Budget Allocations.”
Reaction was swift. President Mwanawasa’s name was kept off the deportation order, which was issued by the home affairs minister, Peter Mumba. “Suddenly I was an enemy of the president,” says Clarke, “I was calling people animals and monkeys, I was obviously a racist, and they were seeking my deportation. Later that day it turned out that a rentamob of thugs from one of the townships had been hired to demonstrate in front of his own ministry and call for me to be chased out of the country before they murdered me. They were even carrying a mock coffin with my name on it.” Mumba told Clarke to pack his bags. “Perhaps that was his interpretation of protecting me from the mob. He said he’d give me 24 hours to leave the country. That’s about half an hour for each of my 40 years.”
A few tart comments came with it, revealing perhaps a darker purpose behind the order. Clarke’s wife, Sara, is a prominent women’s rights campaigner, who is described by her husband as “a bit of a thorn in the flesh of the patriarchal government”. So it was with well-directed spite that Clarke was told he “should not imagine that he’s got any position or status here because he married a Zambian woman”. He says, “You can’t be sure whether they’re trying to get me or her.” There is currently one other Zambian citizen awaiting deportation — Emily Sikazwe, a feminist campaigner.
Clarke’s editor at the Post, Fred M’membe, has backed him magnificently, even going so far as to reprint the column yesterday under his own byline. “I am responsible and totally answerable for Roy’s column,” he said. “It’s me who published it, not Roy. Come for me and deport me.” Lawyers at the Post meanwhile have secured an injunction which ensures that the matter will at least be heard in court, at an unspecified date. The case promises to be interesting, since for Clarke to fall foul of Zambian law, under which it’s illegal to insult the president, the prosecution will have to prove that the fat elephant in his piece shares sufficient characteristics with Mwanawasa (eg, shambolic, clumsy, untrustworthy) as to be recognised.
Opposition politicians have loudly defended Clarke and the letters pages of the Zambian press are full of support. Even those who dislike him to the extent of urging him to slit his wrists, are appalled by the deportation order and the damage it does to the image of Zambian democracy. If, after all this, Clarke and his wife are thrown out, will they return to Britain? “Oh no,” he says, laughing at my idiocy. “I don’t much like that idea. I left it 40 years ago, I can’t go back. There’d be all those people saying, ‘I told you so.’ I have nothing in England, not even a pension. In fact, I have no prospects anywhere else — I’m too old to be deported. But if I had to, I’d go to Cape Town, where my youngest is studying.”
Clarke does not consider himself brave. He has an alter ego for that, who he occasionally inserts into his column under the name “Kalaki”, given to him by his late father-in-law. “It’s a corruption of Clarke, of course. When he first heard that his dear daughter was going out with a white man by the name of Clarke, he said, ‘Kalaki? Who is this Kalaki?’ In my column, Kalaki is brave and forthright, unlike myself. I am a terrible coward.” All the evidence is to the contrary. Clarke is still “sort of in hiding”, he says, “not least because this mob may be on the rampage. It’s not very nice.” There is a small, anxious pause, after which he suddenly brightens. “Somebody was quoted in the press calling for the ‘white punk’ to leave now. White punk! I like that. It makes me sound rather dashing, don’t you think?”
Clarke’s Post column
He lumbered out of the state lodge, staggered towards the massive wooden chair that had been made ready for him, and fell backwards into it. His dishevelled safari suit was unbuttoned, and his huge belly hung over his trousers. In front of him sat all assembled animals of Mfuwe, waiting for the Great Elephant Muwelewele to begin his Christmas Message.
“Distinguished elephants, mischievous monkeys, hypocritical hippos, parasitic politicians, bureaucratic buffaloes, and other anonymous animals,” he began, “My message to you is that the last year has been a resounding economic success, and Mfuwe has never been more prosperous!”
“Ee ee eeyee,” squealed the monkeys, dancing around in circles, and waggling their bottoms, each painted with a picture of the Great Elephant.
“When I was elected,” continued Muwelewele, “I promised that only those constituencies that voted for me would see development. That is why Mfuwe is the only constituency that has seen development.”
“Iwe wakhonza!” shouted the crowd.
“All the humans in the rest of this country refused to vote for me, so they have had no share in our marvellous development! It was only you, my friends from the game park, who went out there and brought in 29% of the vote. The snakes of the Shushushu slithered into the ballot boxes and stuffed them with votes. The horrible hyenas were the party cadres who chased away the opposition voters. Our reliable rhinos moved the polling stations to unknown places in the forest. And our merry monkeys played hide and seek with the voters cards!’
“The law of the jungle!” laughed the crowd.
“So now the MMD is the Movement for Mfuwe Development. All my development programmes are located in Mfuwe, and all my appointments have been from amongst you. The previous government would not put you in government, saying you were just monkeys and crocodiles, who shouldn’t be given the vote. But I have changed all that. I have nominated hippos to parliament, and made them my ministers! I have appointed jackals as my district administrators, and put the long-fingered baboons in charge of the treasury. I have put the knock-kneed giraffe in charge of agriculture, the hungry crocodile in charge of child welfare, and the red-lipped snake in charge of legal reform. And best of all, all the pythons are now fully employed, squeezing the taxpayers!
“Our beloved Mfuwe,” said Muwelewele solemnly, “is now a state within the state. We control everything in the rest of the country. Everything is now run for our benefit. I am pleased to report that the past year has been the best ever. Just as the others are becoming thinner, so we in the game park are becoming fatter. As hospitals fall down in the rest of the country, so we are building veterinary clinics all over Mfuwe.”
“Education is another of our great success stories,” continued Muwelewele. “The heartless humans built schools and universities for themselves, but provided absolutely nothing for the animals in Mfuwe. By closing these schools we now have the funds to send our monkeys abroad to Harvard. They are studying for MBAs, degrees in Manipulating Budget Allocations.
“Just as employment is falling rapidly amongst the humans, so it is increasing rapidly here in Mfuwe. Just as factories are closing in the remainder of the country, so they are increasing here. I have declared Mfuwe a tax-free zone, and our new manufacturing industry will soon be exporting directly to South Africa.”
“Our Saviour,” shouted the crowd. “A new Saviour is born! A New Deal! A New Direction! Let’s roast a few street kids, and have a real feast!”
The jumbo glided to a halt at Lusaka International Airport. Out came the Great Leader Muwelewele, lumbering down the steps like an elephant. A reporter managed to thrust a microphone in front of him.
“Your Divine Majesty, how did you enjoy your holiday in Mfuwe?”
“What!” exploded the Great Leader, his face turning purple with rage. “I was not on holiday! This was a very busy working trip, to look at current economic developments in Mfuwe, which has been privatised. Shoprite has already bought the place, and is busy putting in an abattoir and meat-processing factory. We will soon be exporting game meat to South Africa!”
This is an edited version of the column that appeared in the Post – Guardian Unlimited