It always happens when I’m in a good mood. The accusations, that is: at home on a Sunday morning following a good night’s sleep, or after sending an especially poetic passive-aggressive email to my work colleagues about their disastrous attempts at parking, or when the waiter at an expensive restaurant has forgotten an item on the bill. Happy moments, blissful moments. When all in the world seems good, and its scales are eternally tipped in your favour. And then the see-saw creaks, and you hear a faint voice (part wife, part supervisor, part anxious waiter) slowly getting louder: “Sebastian, why haven’t you picked up your socks?” “Sebastian, please report to HR.” “Sir, we’ve forgotten something on your bill.”
At first, I used to feign ignorance: “Socks! HR! Bill! Where?” and then apologise. Yes, I’d apologise like my life depended on it. Which is quite pathetic, but it does the job quickly. So effective was it as a defence that I began doing it prematurely. I would skulk around the house, or the office, or the many ‘fine’ restaurants in Lusaka with my head bowed, uttering apologies and the odd platitude, all the while committing first-rate crimes. In short, I cut the figure of the typical civil servant.
As with everything civil, however, I was soon snuffed out. People would stop accepting my premature apologies and demand authentic ones instead. The cheek. I, a purveyor of the most delicate sorries, should lower myself to be authentic. And so I had to re-strategise, turning to the profession with the most experience in empty apologies and evading accusations: politics.
Evasion is a hereditary trait of the politician, who, in some settings, is even considered a subspecies of the human (known as homo politicus). We can imagine their beginnings: in the cradle peacefully lies the young political creature, satisfied after suckling their crude oil baby formula, being taught how to evade even the most straightforward question:
“Who’s a good boy?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Love.”
“My constituency doesn’t want love. It wants roads.”
“Oh, you are a very naughty boy.”
“Again, where is your evidence for that accusation, mum?”
Accusations. Na mere allegations. Without proof, everything is just a word, a floating word without connection to any fact. An allegation, one that deserves scorn. And even when there is proof, you must deny it at all costs. Deny the very existence of facts themselves, get upset at the mention of a contrary fact, and rightfully call it an opinion. That is the way of the homo politicus. Armed with this new way of being, I put it into effect almost immediately:
“Sebastian, why haven’t you picked up your socks?”
“I don’t own socks.”
“What’s on your feet then?”
“Which foot?”
“Both.”
“You should ask my feet; they have a mind of their own nowadays. Given to them by the wonderful concepts of decentralisation and local elections.”
“Sebastian, stop joking. Get serious.”
“I am serious. Local elections are quite common. My right hand is quite ideologically opposed to my left hand. One would say predictably so.”
“Are we really doing this again?”
“Doing what? I am perfectly innocent.”
About Sebastian:
When not picking up his socks, the homo Sebastianus can usually be found in an HR meeting, vigorously denying the existence of facts.
