From time to time Moleki Nzela used to come to our small Congo, but this opponent had to do so under cover because our Head of State had links with the Head of State opposite and the two of them would give each other end-of-year presents: hand over my bloody idiot of an opponent who brays to Paris morning, noon and night, and I’ll hand over yours who’s playing it up for Brussels even though he doesn’t have hairy testicles. From one day to the next we found out that Moleki Nzela had been poisoned by the President opposite. Now the people in the street held this against the President, and so the hunt was on for a name that would suit him better than his clown’s glasses. The day after the murder, the people of the big Congo nicknamed their Head of State “The King of Fools”. There was a song to spread this appellation. But it was best not to sing it out loud, for risk of a date with the guillotine. Alas for the President, the song was being whispered on everyone’s lips, and you could hear people whistling in the street, like Brassens, the singer from Sète, that there was little hope of de-throning the King of Fools, and so this sovereign could sleep soundly at night, everybody would have to follow him dutifully, it was possible to topple the Shah of Iran, but there wasn’t much chance of de-throning the King of Fools …
The King of Fools hadn’t annihilated Moleki Nzela because of any political disagreement, no, it was a tale of lust. The President and his opponent were well acquainted with Mama Fiat 500 who ran the biggest pleasure business in the country opposite, right in the centre of the district of Matongé, and she kept the high-ranking personalities for herself because, again according to the singer from Sète, you don’t wiggle your backside in the same way for a hardware-store owner, a sacristan, or a civil servant, let alone a President for life or an implacable opponent. It was a close run thing as to whether the President opposite and his opponent might bump into each other in front of Mama Fiat 500’s door, where each was going to do his business. She knew how to set the timetable, but a traffic jam could mess with all that. Normally the King of Fools would turn up late at night. He came to escape the tantrums of his wife, a real pain in the neck who forced the King of Fools to clean his nails while he was jigging about on top of her even though their whole country, and ours too, knew that she was no Venus.
On the first evening that the King of Fools thought he’d spotted his eternal opponent round at Mama Fiat 500’s, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief and turned round several times to face his four fixers crammed into an ordinary car but armed right up to their dental cavities:
“Shit, did you see what I just saw? That man sneaking out by the secret door, over there, on the other side, can you see him? That’s Moleki Nzela, my bloody idiot of an opponent who spouts a load of rubbish about me from Belgium!”
The henchmen replied with one voice:
“Oh no, Mr President, Moleki Nzela lives in Brussels. He has been banned from entering this country for seventeen years, we have your presidential decree in our glove compartment.”
He glanced at the decree, and recognised his signature:
“That is indeed my signature … But all the same, are you sure it wasn’t him I just saw?”
“Absolutely certain, Mr President! Moleki Nzela, that son of a bitch, is meant to be sick in Brussels and he can’t even pay for his hospital expenses any more, rumour has it that he’d like to call upon your goodwill to honour his bills, which are piling up! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Ah, yes, that’s right, I have heard that story, I must just be imagining things! That fool will get nothing out of me, let him croak his last over there in Europe! I’d rather pay for his funeral, it would cost the State less.”
The henchmen burst out laughing and praised the presidential sense of humour which, according to them, the King of Fools always exercised. They scrupulously noted down what they referred to as “the President’s humoristic nuggets”.
After a little while, the King of Fools stopped laughing. He returned to the attack, as if suddenly bitten by a mosquito:
“Hold on, hold on, hold on, oh no, oh dearie me no, there’s something wrong with this story … You’re saying it wasn’t Moleki Nzela I just saw over there, eh? All right, but a man still got away on the other side, and if it wasn’t that bloody idiot of an opponent Moleki Nzela, then tell me who the fugitive was, eh? Isn’t that what I pay you for?”
One of the men, the shortest one who always had an answer for everything, tried to calm the King of Fools:
“Mr President, allow me to point out that there are a lot of girls on Mama Fiat 500’s plot of land …”
“So?”
“It’s their trade. And she’s their boss.”
“So?”
“Just as there are lots of girls, so there are also lots of men who come, who leave, who sneak out by the back door because they need to keep things hush-hush, it’s like that every day …”
“Yes, but there is only one Mama Fiat 500 inside! And anyway, you get up my nose, you’ve always got an answer for everything! Well then, shit, that is why you are not tall!”
“Allow me to offer my apologies, Mr President …”
“I suppose you think I’m impressed by your degree from Sciences Po?”
“Not at all, Mr President …”
“Do you realise that I fought in Indo-China?”
“Of course, Mr President, all the textbooks for our History remind us of this fact …”
“Do you realise that there are important people who study my place in the history of political ideas in this world? Do you realise that even de Gaulle and Pompidou were frightened of me, eh? Do you realise that when I cough France catches the flu, eh?”
“Quite so, Mr President …”
“Well, I’ve had enough of short men like you, tomorrow you’re fired! You will hand back your black Mercedes to the presidency, along with your villa by the river! Find me a tall man, you imbecile, and preferably one without a degree from Sciences Po! What I’m asking for right now isn’t rocket science: I want to know who that man was who just left my Mama Fiat 500’s place, do I make myself crystal clear?”
Seeing as the short man with an answer for everything had gone very quiet and teary-eyed, the tallest of the four ventured:
“Mr President, I don’t have a degree from Sciences Po, and I’m tall, one metre ninety-three centimetres as a matter of fact … With your permission I would simply like to remind you that your Mama Fiat 500 may be the boss of these girls, but she is yours, and yours alone, Mr President. She only does that thing with you, nobody else may touch her. That said, she does have to eat, to feed herself as it is written in the Constitution that you yourself drew up with wisdom and sagacity, and I quote, if I may be so bold, the sublime Article 15 of our supreme Law: “All citizens, both men and women, must find a way of getting by in life and not wait for help from the founding Father of the Nation …”
The King of Fools was startled:
“That is very badly written! Very, very badly written, that Article 15! Are you sure it’s in my Constitution by me, that?”
“Yes, it’s in your Constitution by you, Mr President. And in addition, Article 17 as modified by …”
“All right, all right, you can spare me your opinion of-no-fixed-degree! You sat the exams for all the degrees in France but didn’t get a single one, and now you dare open your mouth to talk to me about the modification of my supreme Law? Did I ask for your opinion, eh?”
“No, Mr President …”