Natangwe!

I heard the story spread faster than fuel prices.

Apparently, when Madam President, our beloved Meme, summoned deputy prime minister Natangwe Ithete to the big office on Saturday morning, he did not rush in like a man summoned by the head of state.

No, the honourable gentleman was in the lobby, flirting with the receptionist as if it is all just satire.

Meme waited a while, flipping through the morning briefing with the patience of a teacher who knows detention is coming.

At the back of her mind was this thing called ‘Public-Private Forum What-What’.

Then she called out in that motherly yet menacing voice that makes grown men repent.
“Natangwe, come in, comma!”
Silence.

“Natangwe ndati!” she said louder, eyes fixed on the heavy mahogany door.
Still nothing.

“Natangweeeii!” she finally yelled, shaking both the chandelier and the national confidence. Then she sighed and muttered, “This one neh! Ayeh!”
Right on cue, the door creaked open.

Natangwe’s head appeared with the same expression as a student caught copying during exams.

“Ahh Meme, sorry, sorry! I was just confirming something with reception about the media list,” he stuttered, walking in fast.

Meme did not blink. “Oshili neh! What media list in my office, Natangwe?”
He gave a shaky laugh.

“My apologies, Meme, I am not late, I got delayed.”
He smiled, pleased with his own politician joke.

“Sit down,” Meme said sharply, “before you delay yourself right out of Cabinet.”
He sat.

The chair groaned as he sank into the leather.
Meme picked up a file. “There’s a notice on top of the toilet pot that says ‘Put down the seat and cover when done’.

Why did you not follow that simple instruction?”

Natangwe blinked twice. “Meme, eh … I thought it was more like a motivational message.

You know, like Vision 2030.

Always there, but not exactly … implemented.”

Meme placed her pen down slowly. “You think hygiene rules are suggestions? This is the Office of the President, not a shebeen.”
He looked at his Grasshopper shoes and tried to recover.

“Meme, honestly, it was a small visit. I didn’t think …”

“That is the problem,” she interrupted. “You never think.

Not in Cabinet, not in public, not even when giving speeches or renewing things with shady Fablas.”

He cleared his throat. “Ah Meme, that is just a rumour. I was just at the beach in Luanda.

I spoke to no one. I swear.”
“You swear?” Meme’s eyebrows shot up.

“You called the Ministry of Finance a bunch of calculators with legs and you shared a meme of parliament as a daycare. You think this is ‘Comedy Central’?”

He smiled weakly. “But … It shows transparency.”

“It shows foolishness, Natangwe. I gave you keys to keep things in order.

Order does not mean going into all the rooms!”

She touched the cellphone slightly as if to pick it up before continuing.

“Why did you have to say things we say in privacy out there to the voters? Hano, you … I though we have groomed you properly, but why can’t you be like Nekundi?”

He tried to defend himself. “Meme, I am a man of the people.

I communicate in ways ordinary citizens understand.”
Meme leaned forward. “Mwena man! Shut up!”

He exhaled softly, looking like a man waiting for judgement.

“Do you even know why I called you here?” Meme asked.

“To discuss the industrialisation roadmap?” he said, hopefully.

She shook her head. “Industrialisation? You could not even industrialise your own department.

The only thing you have produced this year is headlines.”

He looked down. “Meme, with respect, I have been loyal.”

“Loyalty is not performance, Natangwe. It is just attendance,” she said, standing up.

“As of this morning, you are relieved of your duties as deputy prime minister and minister of industries, mines and energy.”
He froze. “Relieved as in … leave, or …?”

“As in fired, Natangwe. Finished. Clearly you did not understand anything when I gave you keys to the mines and energy rooms.

You can stay in parliament. I don’t want to anger your uncles.”

He stood slowly, straightened his jacket, and tried to sound noble.
“Meme, history will judge me kindly.”

“Don’t try to sound clever. Get out before I even remove you from the parliament,” she replied. “Now go.

And next time, put the toilet seat down. Both literally and politically.”

Natangwe walked out with the posture of a man carrying invisible luggage.

The door closed softly behind him.

Meme sighed and whispered to herself: “Yeses, where is Shaningwa when I need her?”
The end and start.

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