Jongwe | Lionel de MaineJongwe[1]: Against Dictators Everywhere
A One-Act Play
Characters
A Writer: A smart young man or woman; stutters when nervous
The President: A wiry man, aged over eighty, wearing thick glasses
Dream Actors: Group that silently acts the president’s dreams
Setting
Zimbabwe early in the millennium. The PRESIDENT has ruined the country in his quest to hold onto power. The economy is in tatters–unemployment is 60% and inflation 115%. Poverty and AIDS are widespread. A time of reckoning has come. We are in a private office. Downstage right is a divan covered with a blood red blanket. There is a colorful potted plant, perhaps a bougainvillea, in the corner downstage of the divan. Near the head of the divan and facing the audience is a mahogany desk. Behind the desk is a wooden swivel chair that squeaks when moved. Scattered papers cover the desk and crumpled pages litter the floor. There is a window in the stage right wall and a large portrait of the president behind the desk. Stage left is empty–this is where the ACTORS perform the PRESIDENT’s dreams. A fake wall separates stage left and stage right. The door is open but there is no doorknob–only a gaping round hole.
Scene I
Chimurenga music[2] plays until the curtain rises. White light comes on stage right to visually create a room in the darkness. The PRESIDENT is covered and napping on the divan while the WRITER is a few paces behind the desk vigorously performing calisthenics.
WRITER: (with finger on lips) Sssssshhhhhh. (gestures to the divan) He hates everything about me so please sit quietly and don’t wake him. A noise. (reacts to noise in audience) Sssssshhhhhh. Please. You must not disturb his afternoon nap.
The PRESIDENT yawns, stretches, gets off the divan. He is wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, red tie and shoes. He is obviously fit and does twenty press-ups beside the divan.
WRITER: Now look what has happened. (stutters) He will take my tongue.
PRESIDENT: A glorious afternoon. Are you ready to write my autobiography?
WRITER: (nervously) Comrade President, I long ago started my search for truth.
PRESIDENT: Good. (smiles broadly and straightens tie) Very good. We will begin with a chat about education because education is very important for the people. You must describe my accomplishments in this area. I have six (counts on fingers) college degrees. There are no national leaders–not in Europe or Africa or America–as schooled as I am. Two degrees I earned while locked in the colonial regime’s stinking prisons. Hellholes. They smelled of urine and fear. But those hardships are forgotten and of no consequence now. Write (jabs finger at writer) only that while imprisoned I seized the opportunity to broaden my horizons through education. Write that after the settler regime released me I obtained four more degrees in London. (writer writes) Are you getting all this?
WRITER: Comrade President. (stutters) You are not telling the whole truth.
PRESIDENT: Beware! (pauses) Beware of falsehoods. (laughs) Now write. Write that during my time in London I immersed myself in economics and politics and developed my political philosophy. (to audience) Luckily my dedication to Marxism did not prevent me from savoring the fruits of capitalism and developing an appreciation for luxury. (to writer) Don’t you dare mention these indulgences.
WRITER: (stutters) Comrade President, is there a veneer of truth on your words?
PRESIDENT: (to audience) This literary idiot hungers for trouble. I will ask the questions–and also answer them. (thinks intently) Ah! Comrade, what was your most glorious moment? (smiles happily) Truly there are more than I care to remember. And they grow more glorious each year. But what should he write? (to writer) Write this: The president’s moment of greatest epiphany was his victory in the liberation struggle. Do you remember the struggle against our colonial masters?
WRITER: Comrade President, by whose authority do you (stutters) order, "Write this"?
PRESIDENT: (springs at writer) How dare you challenge me? (chair squeaks as writer retreats). You are here only to write. The comrades who perished in the struggle paid for your freedom with their blood. Now write this. Fifteen years we spent in the jungles but I always knew the day would dawn when we wrested power from those who raped our land and consigned our children to scratch a living from barren soil. We began our struggle with rusty German Schmiezers and landmines abandoned by capitalist America when our Viet Cong comrades defeated them in Vietnam. Those days were my darkest. (to audience; chuckles) Do you think this fool understands? I soon seized control and changed things. Those who informed on the comrades or challenged me were killed. They deserved to die–everybody knew they were traitors. (to writer) Write this: justice came in the barrels of rifles supplied by our friends China and Russia. When the struggle ended we had Kalashnikovs and RPGs and SAMs stashed in villages everywhere. And with victory came a time to correct past wrongs. (preens) I reconciled three warring parties into a great nation. I integrated the settler army into ours to form a fearless national army. Later my greatest rival–the father of Zimbabwean nationalism and revered leader in the southeast–joined my cabinet. (to audience) His defeat was a victory like no other–(laughs) a truly glorious victory.
Halfway through his dialog lights fade stage right and red lights rise stage left. The PRESIDENT keeps talking–this lighting sequence signals that he is slipping into a dream. The ACTORS enter stage left dancing to Thomas Mapfumo’s rhythmic Chimurenga song "Ndamutswa Nengoma."[2] The music begins softly but increases until the PRESIDENT’s words are almost drowned out. The dancing continues when lights cut and the stage goes dark. (English words to the song are: That sun has risen forever // There will never be darkness again in Zimbabwe // It has dawned forever // Let’s work together–let’s have socialism // Ye ye weye ye ye // Ye wo a ye woye // I have been asleep // Drums have woken me up.)
Scene II
Lights come up stage right. The setting is as before except that the WRITER is standing beside the desk. His shirt is soiled and ripped and his left arm is broken. A plaster cast reaches to his shoulder and his forearm is suspended in a white sling. Until he starts speaking, he leans against the desk with his good arm. The PRESIDENT is snoozing under his red blanket.
WRITER: (to audience with finger on lips) Sssssshhhhhh. (points) Before he wakes let me introduce myself. Sssssshhhhhh. Everybody calls me History. (listens for reaction) Yes, you heard correctly. That’s History as in your school textbooks.
The PRESIDENT wakes, stretches and then does his daily exercises.
PRESIDENT: Another glorious afternoon. I am ready to reshape history.
WRITER: Comrade President, you (stutters) DON’T have authority to do this.
PRESIDENT: Bite your tongue or you will taste the inside of my prisons. (laughs) I dreamed of singing and dancing and the lingering sweetness of victory on my lips. The people named me Jongwe–Rooster–after the symbol of our ruling party. (smiles too happily). Their praise has lifted me to the heavens.
WRITER: Comrade! Today we will discuss the Hyena Brigade and the suppression of your opponents in the southeast. (nervously) Rumor says your generals sealed off the area and starved thousands of villagers. Some ate grass to stay alive.
PRESIDENT: (to audience) Where is this imbecile from? (to writer) There was no Hyena Brigade in our magnificent army. Of course we discovered a few arms caches hidden around the countryside. (writer shows his disbelief) Naturally this was expected after our fifteen-year struggle to depose the despised colonial regime. (angrily) And the police may have arrested a few bandits more interested in common thuggery than in nation building. (shouting) But there was no massacre and I know nothing of genocide. I know nothing of genocide.
WRITER: The truth, PLEASE! I have no interest in regurgitated misinformation.
PRESIDENT: (to audience) Does he understand NOTHING? Our country prospers. I have undone the wrongs woven by colonialism. This is what HE must remind people about in my autobiography. I brought agrarian reform, education, housing and health care to ninety percent of the population. (jabs finger at writer) Do you not see a bustling economy around you? (thinks intently) Write this: I was humbled as a young leader to receive the Africa Prize[3] for Leadership for the Sustainable End of Hunger. The policies I pioneered energized people in their struggle against poverty. And write with fervor of the buildings we raised, the roads we paved and the rivers we dammed. (thinks) Say this: Unity Tower became a fine symbol of his benevolence and commitment to the nation. Did I not reshape the horizon with Unity Tower? (punches the air) Does this tower not scrape the sky?
During this speech lights fade stage right and rise stage left. Mapfumo’s "Tichakunda–We Shall Overcome," begins playing. Two ACTORS wheel a cutout high-rise onto upstage left and hook a black Rooster, outlined in red neon, onto the building. Others, dressed in T-shirts printed with Roosters, worship the sign under the watchful eyes of the PRESIDENT dressed as a soldier and armed with an AK-47. A woman and a child shuffle onto stage noisily rattling tin cups. Some of the ACTORS try to remove their T-shirts but the PRESIDENT forces them back into the T-shirts at bayonet point. Lights and music cut. (The English words to the song are: This is Harare, // The famous Harare, // Our lives are a round of poverty, // Our houses are like fowl runs, // We sleep like rats, // Our children at school, // We beg for their meals, // Their clothes are full of patches, // Their education is an uphill struggle, // But we shall win in the end....)
Scene III
White light rises stage right. The WRITER is sitting on the edge of the desk. His left arm is still in the cast and sling but his torso is now wrapped in bandages and he has a thigh-high cast on one leg. A pair of crutches rests against the desk. No blood is visible anywhere but the WRITER is obviously in considerable pain. The PRESIDENT is under his red blanket.
WRITER: (with fingers to lips) Sssssshhhhhh. (nods at divan) I must tell you a secret before HE wakes. (PRESIDENT moves; WRITER jumps) Sssssshhhhhh. HE thinks he is God and expects me to side with him. To avoid trouble I have asked to be reassigned. But that requires approval from my cover organization–my disguise if you prefer. My cover in Zimbabwe is the Ministry of Propaganda. Hah! The Ministry of Official Shady Truths. When I approached the Professor–yes, the minister calls himself the Professor of Publicity–he laughed and said I work for HIM. (shakes his head) Ludicrous. Whoever heard of History working for a Minister of Propaganda? (PRESIDENT rolls heavily) Sssssshhhhhh.
The PRESIDENT sits up and the blanket falls off his shoulders. For exercise, he jogs back and forth downstage, but he is clearly very stiff and soon switches to running on the spot and waving his arms over his head. While he’s exercising his sleeve slips down to reveal a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm. The PRESIDENT hides the bandaged arm a moment before the WRITER glances up from examining a page of the manuscript on the desk.
PRESIDENT: Another glorious afternoon. The Professor wishes to edit your work.
WRITER: NEVER! This charlatan will meddle only over my dead body.
PRESIDENT: (glares at writer) Ask and thou shall receive. (to audience) Send me my most brutal bodyguards. (to writer) Remember that I am President for Life and that our constitution decrees you address me as Excellency or Comrade President.
WRITER: (grinning behind his hand) Comrade President, the people claim you stole the last election from them. Some believe neither you nor your presidency is blessed by the gods. (unexpectedly stutters) Is there truth behind these rumors?
PRESIDENT: (to audience) They... the fools know not what they say! (struggles) Such rumors are spread by puppet regimes in the west who wish to undermine my democratic government. (struggles violently; to writer) Henceforth you will listen only to my version of events or face the consequences–a beating in prison. (struggles less violently) Listen. God and the people voted me to power. The people still adore me–remember how eagerly they cast their ballots to deliver me another glorious victory with a staggering 60% majority. After twenty years I am still a HERO to my people. (long pause) THE HERO of our liberation struggle.
During this speech lights fade stage right and rise stage left. Mapfumo’s "Tumira Vana Kuhondo" begins playing. Stage left protestors are milling about. Each wears a white T-shirt that reads DEMOCRACY across the chest and NOW across the back. The T-shirts glow in a black light. Torn trousers, ragged shorts and grubby skirts show under the T-shirts. The PRESIDENT appears dressed as a soldier and tries to force the group to remove their T-shirts. They laugh and begin smashing the tower and the Rooster. In a rage he grabs a woman carrying a child. She kicks him in the groin. He bayonets her. The child screams–a mournful sound that continues while lights fade. (Words to the song are: We are sending our children to join the struggle; // Children to war, children to war. // Fathers, mothers, send your children to war, // We are all sending our children to war. // We may be eliminated, // But our children are fighting; // This year we shall send our children to war, // Look, the enemy will be destroyed...)
Scene IV
A spotlight comes on. The woman, child and two Democracy Now supporters are laughing and clapping each other on the back. A journalist enters and takes notes while the group reenacts the bayoneting–the murder was faked. One of the supporters pretends to be the PRESIDENT. The journalist goes off-stage but soon returns pulling a long banner that reads:
Daily News
Child Sees President’s Militia Bayonet Mother.
The group dances, punching their fists into the air. Lights cut and music slowly fades.
Scene V
"Ndamutswa Nengoma" starts playing softly. White light comes up stage right. As before the PRESIDENT is napping, covered, on the divan. The plant at the foot of the divan has gone, replaced by a zinc bucket with a toilet seat bolted over its mouth. The center-stage door is closed. A heavy chain runs through the hole meant for the doorknob and around the doorframe. The chain is secured with a large bronze lock. The WRITER is in a wheelchair. His left arm, still in a cast and sling, is shackled to the wheelchair. Both his legs are in casts and are propped up on the footrests. Blood has oozed through the bandages around his torso. A dressing taped to the side of his head is soaked with blood. He is tossing the manuscript into the air, painfully and a few pages at a time, with his good arm. Pages flutter onto the floor, divan and desk.
WRITER: (to audience) Were you fooled? (pauses for answer) The journalists who reported the story were. The Daily News and other independent newspapers described the killing as one of HIS political murders. Then the truth surfaced and the Minister of Shady Truths jailed the writers. After all nobody likes looking foolish–it’s simply embarrassing. (shakes head) I was fooled too. (shakes head again) Even History had to learn a lesson about propaganda. (smiles) Shall we rouse his comrade lordship? (SHOUTS) Wake up, Comrade President!
The PRESIDENT wakes with a start. He is wearing a blindfold. For his exercise he shadow boxes with quick, powerful punches. The WRITER laughs and resumes scattering pages.
PRESIDENT: What a glorious afternoon. (breathes deeply) I hear my praise-singers.
WRITER: (kicks pages on floor) True... true... today people are rejoicing.
PRESIDENT: (happily) I will make my book required reading in our high schools.
WRITER: (chuckles) The young are still foolish enough to swallow your lies.
PRESIDENT: School! (with reverence) I wish the mission priests who taught me could read this book. Especially Father Benjamin. He always said I was destined to lead the nation. That reminds me–call my state car. I promised to read at the opening of parliament today. (tries to reach for an imaginary book) Why are my hands tied behind my back? (thinks) Never mind. How long is my masterpiece?
WRITER: (shrugs to audience) Seven hundred pages of (stutters) falsehoods.
PRESIDENT: Good. Very good. I will read the entire memoir to parliament. And this evening I will read an excerpt to the Queen in Buckingham Palace. The palace informed me that Elizabeth plans to honor me with a state dinner. Her Majesty is eager to present me with a knighthood. Won’t that be grand? (laughs madly) Big Dada Idi Amin[4], who had to crown himself King of Scotland, will be insane with jealousy. My wrists are hurting terribly! (squirms) Have the Russians translated my book? I must learn to say "Africa’s Majestic President" in Russian before I visit the Kremlin. I will present the Russian president a copy this afternoon. (sniffs and crinkles his nose) Why does my mansion smell of urine and feces? Never mind. The North Koreans–they trained my Hyena Brigade–have invited me to entertain them with tales from my book. And the Chinese are translating....
During the PRESIDENT’s rambling red lights come up stage left. Stage right lights remain on to signify a fusing of reality and dream. The ACTORS are dancing wildly. They are waving placards that read DEMOCRACY NOW, FREEDOM, A NEW FUTURE and LIBERTY. A few squirt beer from bottles. The music reaches a crescendo that drowns the PRESIDENT’s words before the WRITER signals for the celebration to stop. The dancers watch as a noose drops from the roof to hang beside the PRESIDENT’s divan.
WRITER: (wheels over to PRESIDENT) The crowds despise you. (to audience) HE has been inducted into the Hall of Infamy with his friends Idi Amin, Jean-Bedel Bokassa and Mobutu Sese Seko. (to PRESIDENT) They condemn you to hell.
PRESIDENT: Why do they show their hero no respect? (groping before him) Why do you not address me as Excellency and President for Life? I have informed you before that this is my official title as decreed by parliament and ordained by God.
WRITER: Your Excellency, I will happily call you President for Life.
PRESIDENT: Good. Very good. (strains to hear) What are MY people singing?
WRITER: (puts noose on PRESIDENT’s neck) They sing songs of liberation.
PRESIDENT: Good. (nods vigorously) Very good. They will always worship me.
Lights cut as the rope tightens. The music rises in volume and the sounds of dancing are heard in the dark. The music continues during curtain call and while patrons leave the theater.
Footnotes
1. Jongwe–Robert Mugabe’s nickname–means "rooster." A handful of Africa’s political parties–some repressive–have adopted the Rooster as their symbol. One such party is Mugabe’s ZANU party.
2. Thomas Mapfumo invented Chimurenga (means fight or struggle) music during Zimbabwe’s struggle for independence from colonial rule. He now speaks against Mugabe, who has banned his music. An OPTION when performing this play is to have a musician or poet recite the words to the songs in English, with the music playing in the background, while the actors perform the dream scenes.
3. In 1988 The Hunger Project awarded Robert Mugabe the US $100,000 Africa Prize for Leadership for the Sustainable End of Hunger. In 2001 the organization declared that Mugabe’s policies were now "inconsistent with the spirit of the Africa Prize...." The most famous laureate of the Prize is Nelson Mandela.
4. Africa’s most infamous dictator, Big Dada Idi Amin, destroyed Uganda.
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