‘He who pays the piper…’

A brief discourse on Martin Ssempa and anti-gay laws in Uganda followed by a pithy short story.

Welcome back to this small sanctuary for gentlemanly debate and freethinking. Yes, the king of corn returns to cast a sardonic eye over the vainglorious and prick them with his rapier wit. Well, that’s the theory anyway. Today’s sermon concerns Martin Ssempa of Kampala, Uganda. This eminent fundamentalist ‘Christian’ preacher recently scaled the media dunghill by treating his congregation (including minors) to a screening of gay porn. Supposedly, this bum-basting-bonanza served to warn his flock of the evils of homosexuality. Frankly, I find that proposition very hard to swallow - not a phrase commonly associated with porn.

This great theologian’s also a keen advocate of Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Bill. Amongst the bill’s original provisions was the introduction of the death penalty for consenting gay adults considered ‘serial offenders’. Even ex-pat Ugandans would remain under its jurisdiction and liable for extradition then charged accordingly - this, from the country that, only recently, banned female genital mutilation. However when western governments threatened to pull the plug on Uganda’s aid programmes, there’s been some partial back pedalling.

Mr Ssempa’s other towering achievement was conducting a well-publicised condom barbeque because he disapproves of safe sex (in a society ravaged by HIV AIDS). Aside from the rather chewy hotdogs, the innocent bystander might be forgiven for wondering if he plans to lob a few books on the pyre too? In fact, why stop there? Why not distribute a few back-issues of Der Stürmer and begin a spot of genocide?

In a world where unsustainably high birth rates threaten our finite ecosystem, shouldn’t Mr Ssempa be thankful for those of us who aren’t using their partner’s womb as a baby-making factory? Apparently not. According to his worldview, gay folks deserve imprisonment, torture and death since they pose such a dire threat to civilisation. Like, hello? Ever heard of global warming, corrupt government, war, pestilence, famine, etc?

What perplexes me is that Mr Ssempa regards himself as a Christian. Odd really, since the rhetoric of persecution and segregation represents the very antithesis of Christ’s teachings. I would seriously question if this charlatan’s been within ten feet of a bible (excepting his mother providing bedtime stories from Leviticus). And (yawn) as with so many fundamentalists, his limited mental faculty is incapable of separating the concepts of homosexuality and paedophilia. Trite, clichéd and downright bizarre, yes, but thanks to people like him, these offensive stereotypes still persist in the world. Worst of all, this twisted logic is being bandied about in the absence of reliable corroborative evidence. But, since when has empirical truth played a part in any superstition?

Why is it that so many extremist religious ‘leaders’ try to mask the rhetoric of bigotry and inhumanity behind a fallacious banner of righteousness? I mean, doesn’t the vast gamut of humankind deserve more than the rantings of didacts who arrogantly imagine that their doctrine supersedes the ethics of compassion, respect and human dignity? More saliently, isn’t someone who demonises the eclectic nature of humanity an enemy to humanity at large?

Naturally, I realise that I’m wasting my time by even daring to question the wrongs of such insidious and persistently antihuman mindsets. In fact, I should have more important things to do with my time - like scratching the old gluteus minimus, for instance. However, Martin Ssempa is a dogmatist with power and influence who’s intent upon crusading against basic human rights and freedom of expression. It’s difficult to imagine a worthier candidate for a little polite criticism.

Quite by chance of course, Mr Ssempa reminds me of Izi Cumeeng, a fundamentalist preacher in my next short story. In fact, it's uncanny, they could almost be the same person - although obviously they’re not…

* * * * *

‘He who pays the piper…’

The events in the following story are almost entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. Please DO NOT continue reading this tale if you are not an adult.

* * * *

Rapturous applause reverberated about the vast auditorium. Row upon row of sweat-beaded faces gazed, spellbound, at a commanding figure centre stage. A suited prophet; hands raised as if in benediction. Cheers subsided. A baby’s shrill, mournful cry rang out…a stifled cough…air electrified by fevered anticipation. Izi regarded his flock with unconcealed pride. It was the regard of a man possessed by an unassailable certainty and blinded to the considerations of moral relativism.

In the great pantheon of human folly, Izi Cumeeng loomed large. Truly, he was a Goliath, straddling an effluent river of ignorance and hatred. He’d experienced his epiphany when American Evangelists had moseyed on into town to distribute free bibles and browbeat unsuspecting locals. Naturally, a largely uneducated populace always provided rich pickings for these latter-day conquistadors. This process of indoctrination was euphemistically referred to as being ‘born again’. Nonetheless, what it amounted to was a form of intellectual rape.

During a protracted spell in the US, Izi had gone on to achieve a masters in bible studies at ‘The Hallelujah University College of Redneck’. Hardly a centre for academic excellence, true, but at least he’d learned one simple tenet; society should be governed by thuggery, not buggery. And thanks to the theories of Kamerön Höss (a Nazi-revisionist), Izi’s mission to win hearts, drain minds and empty pockets was now finally being realised. After all, what nobler calling for a humble, god-fearing man than the acquisition of earthly power and wealth?

Again Izi lifted his hands messianic fashion. ‘This, I tell you…this, the one great evil! Our children suffer; our families rent apart. People starve, people die of AIDS. All because of the homosexual. Oh, suffer the children! He comes as your friend - to your family compound. Then he rape your family. This, the gay…vermin I tell you…evil! But the evil that men do should not live after them. Not anymore my friends. No, let it die with them. Let their bloods be upon them! We will curse them with our words and smite them with our vengeance and our wrath!’

The assembly was galvanised into a cacophonous eruption of enraged jeers. Fists waved at invisible assailants. Fearful sobs emanated from children. Finally, the furore subsided as the visionary raised his hands like some masterful puppeteer. Mothers comforted babes and the assembly gazed on as if bewitched.

‘Truly, I say unto you my friends - these the gays are plotting a world takeover. Look at the governments of Europe…infested with the gay and their diseased liberal ways. Like Sodom and Gomorrah - or worse… Oh yes my people - they are breeding with lesbians to create a race of heinous homosexual hybrids!’

Izi noted with great pleasure that his audience now bore the unmistakable look of fear suffused with their rage. They were as pliant as pieces of clay, yielding to his will.

‘And worse, the gays use juju against you. They are witches who give you the evil eye and despoil your children. They are harbingers of disease. Worse, they even gorge themselves upon baby flesh!’

There was uproar. Deafening shouts from the gathering. Even Izi was momentarily taken aback by the sheer ferocity.

‘So my people, shall we allow the sodomite, the family destroyer, to continue doing the work of Satan?’

‘No! No!’ women wailed hysterically.

‘Shall we let him carry on thieving, raping and defiling all that we hold so dear to us?’

Again, the anguished cries of mothers pierced the stifling air.

‘No, my good people.’ Izi resumed. ‘I say never, never, ever! Hell no! Because we are the chosen few. Only we can purge this great sin from our land - together! But we need money. We need plenty, plenty money! Amen to that! See the collection buckets. I beg, give generously. Gift me your money! Gift me your money to fight this cancer of vice and wickedness!’

Unbeknown to his impoverished congregation, Izi’s rather mercenary approach was a necessary evil since he’d recently made a down payment on his third Lexus. Besides, who could possibly begrudge a man a few of life’s trifling essentials? He’d once considered joining the ranks of faith healers in Africa, but decided that being a politician-cum-misanthrope preacher was a considerably more profitable enterprise.

‘You, the faithful, have chosen me as your prophet.’ Izi continued, his litany rising in cadence and fervour. ‘Truly, I am honoured and I am humble. But I am also strong - like an elephant. I have great tusks to impale our enemy, I have a large trunk to whip them and I have hard feet - like boulders - to crush them into their grave. And if they try to hide underneath me – oh, I tell you - I shit on their head with my mighty arse!’

There was a peel of thunderous applause, delirious cheers and exhultant handclapping. But by now, ‘the faithful’ had no thought of scripture, or God or anything else other than the idolatrous worship of their great demagogue.

Izi wiped rivulets of sweat from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. He looked heavenward with an enigmatic smile, visualising his first private jet. Indeed, the sky was the limit…the dream of salvation from grinding poverty was already in his grasp. Though his siblings had been lost to the wages of sin, he was the chosen one. He paused purposefully ‘See! See the work of Satan,’ he thundered over jubilant crowds. ‘See the evil of gay! This what they do!’

The hysterical rapture ceased as if a heavenly bolt had struck everyone dumb. There were gasps of horror as the congregation caught sight of a panoramic screening of naked, writhing forms. They heard groans of ecstasy as skin slapped against skin, hands grappled and mouths explored. Even Izi’s ‘hardcore’ supporters hadn’t anticipated such an unambiguous demonstration of sin. All of a sudden, grown men vomited, women screamed or tried to cover their children’s eyes and old ladies fell to their haunches and began weeping for their ancestors. In the shock and terror, even Izi’s wife failed to notice what should have been a familiar pair of buttocks receiving a good pounding.

‘Look at it!’ Izi commanded through his microphone. ‘Look at it long and hard! Witness the ways of the sodomite!’ Izi regarded the ensuing pandemonium impassively for some minutes. Much to his annoyance, he noticed that one of his collection buckets was being used as a makeshift sick container. He signalled to his henchmen to quickly recover the remaining ‘donations to the cause’. The film was abruptly cut.

Eventually, after the sobbing and wailing died down, Izi stared benevolently at his beleaguered congregation. ‘It’s okay, my friends.’ He soothed. ‘It’s okay. You are safe. Don’t worry. I will make sure that this terrible thing never happens to you…or your children…or your children’s children. I promise that we the faithful will defeat them. We will slay our foes and be victorious! In the name of Jesus!’

Of course, given the lewd and inappropriate nature of his sermon, Izi was hardly in a position to claim the moral high ground. In many ways, he might be likened to a person who’d shit themself, who goes around complaining about other people’s halitosis. But at least there was something to be said for his originality. It certainly upped-the-anti on those who preferred that well thumbed passage from Leviticus, since demonstrably, he had his very own well-thumbed passage. Besides, he’d already indulged in most of the seven deadly sins, so what was just one more between friends? Soon there'd be none left and he'd have to make a start on breaking The Ten Commandments.

‘Next week,’ Izi resumed unrepentantly, ‘I show you the evil of bestiality, where I corner my big fat goat. This I follow with movie about the evil of necrophilia and incest and a film I make with my dearly departed mother. Yes, my people, to show you sin I even go to f*ck my mother!’ Oh yes, like Jesus, I will bear the sins of all mankind in order to show you salvation. Oh yes, I, Izi Icarus Cumeeng, am your avenging angel!’

A partially recovered audience gave a lacklustre cheer.

‘Hallelujah! Amen! Hallelujah - now gift me your damn money!’ Izi smirked.

* * * * * * * * *

Somewhere in a darkened room sat two shadowy figures gazing at an illuminated map of the world set within a vast mahogany table. A faint smell of cigar smoke pervaded the air, infused with the scent of freshly cut flowers.

‘Where to next?’ One of them said monotonically.

His counterpart stabbed a plump, gold encrusted finger onto Ghana. ‘Just there,’ he murmured in rasping American twang. ‘In fact, the whole of West Africa looks real good to me. We already got the east pretty well in the bag – Uganda, Zimbabwe, Malawi…’

‘Think those Ghanaians will join us to do the Lord’s work?’ The counterpart asked diffidently.

‘Sure they’ll join us!’ The fat, pale hand made an expansive gesture over the continent. ‘Hell, they got no option. Oh yeah, they’ll do the Lord’s work alright…or at least they’ll do our bidding. You know what they say – he who pays the piper calls the tune.’

‘You mean a Pied Piper?’ Came the waspish reply.

The corpulent man gave a throaty laugh. ‘Listen, I gotta get to Congress bud. I’m late. Got an awful lotta of lobbyin’ to do…’

‘Amen to that, Sir.’

© Edwin Black

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
'Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. ' The Bible, Matthew 7:15

The Butterfly Catcher

Welcome.

I often wonder if the human condition has turned me into a bit of cynic. Has the world in my eyes lost its sheen of grandeur and enchantment? I hope not. Hopefully, there’s still aspects of the existence that remain veiled in mystery. Intangible qualities that neither science can dissect nor religion ascribe to some anthropomorphised deity.


The Butterfly Catcher

Distant from a world he reviled, an embittered man lived alone in a valley. Birdsong tormented him. Flowers offended him. His one pleasure was catching butterflies. Of all the valley’s creatures, these were ugliest; their gaudy colours incensed him. What joy to watch one struggle in his net! Once exhausted, he’d lock it in a windowless room in his house. Someday, he’d rid the valley of them altogether.

One day, the man ventured into the forest. After uprooting some flowers, he noticed an unfamiliar trail. Curious, he followed it to a clearing. At its flowery heart stood an ancient tree. Joyous birdsong rang out. Cursing this new blight, he began stamping on blooms until he spied a shimmering patch of colour on the tree. A butterfly unlike any other. It blazed radiant as a cerise sunset. He edged forwards, thrusting his net over it. However, it remained still. Perplexed, the man inspected his catch. He almost dropped his net as a soft voice enquired, ‘Why are you trapping me?’

Dumbfounded, he spoke falteringly, ‘there’s too many repulsive colours….birds are too noisy…and butterflies…oh, what an abomination!’

‘But that’s how they’re made,’ it answered, ‘there’s beauty in your ugliness, music in your noise, love in your abomination…’

The man paused, suspecting a trick. ‘Why should I listen to a butterfly? Mine is the one true path…to cleanse this valley of evil!’ He spat piously.

Again, the creature spoke, ‘Set me free and I’ll grant you a wish…’

The man schemed. There was so much to eradicate! ‘Then banish all that displeases me.’

‘I’ll grant you this wish, but with one condition’, it responded, ‘never return to my realm…’

The man hastily agreed and lifted his net. Immediately, the butterfly fluttered to the uppermost branches, fanning its wings in sunlight.

Next day, the man espied birds serenading eachother. Would the butterfly keep its promise? Sure enough, the birds fell silent then vanished without trace. The man laughed.
Walking further, he spotted a meadow of flowers; every hue and every kind danced jubilantly. As he stared, they paled and withered to dust. Regarding what he’d done, he saw that it was good. ‘Exterminating vermin from my valley’s tiring,’ he yawned. Heading homeward, he heard wind murmur through leafy bowers. In his gaze, leaves curled, trees became ashen. ‘At last, I’ve rid my domain of loathsomeness,’ he gloated. Standing at his door, sunlight dazzled him through bare branches. As he squinted, this too dimmed; cobalt sky plunged into darkness. Satisfied with his accomplishments, the Butterfly Catcher slumbered.

The Dark Age endured. The man languished, ignorant of things beyond his narrow confines. He grew sad and listless. Time passed slowly, although he could no longer discern day or night, hour or week.

Abruptly, a light startled him in his abyss, hovering at the window. Rushing outside, he saw the iridescent butterfly. He called out, light dazzling him. ‘Grant me another wish! How I miss the sun on my skin…the birdsong!’

‘I’ll grant you your wish, but first, release my friends. They’re imprisoned in your house.’

‘Gladly! Oh, how wretched I’ve become!’ The man raced inside, flinging open doors and windows. Dashing outside, he gazed in wonder as a host of angels streamed from their prison. Their touch restored life; leaves sprouted, flowers blossomed. Birds chirped joyously and the wind whispered poetry.

‘Freedom is a precious gift. Thank you.’ The creature boomed.

Awestruck, the man wept stinging tears.

‘Now I have a wish - look for the beauty in creation; a diversity born of nurture and love. Perhaps we’ll meet again, Butterfly Catcher? Visit my house someday. It has many mansions...’

Ascending, the butterfly grew evermore radiant. Shedding light over the valley, the earth and finally, the universe.

(c) Edwin Black

A scandalous autobiography of Edwin Black – Part I

Memoirs of a game cock: Father’s antics and how it affected my early life.

I was conceived of an illegitimate coupling and born into bastardy in 1971. Following in the family tradition of Jus primae noctis (i.e. ‘knocking up the serving wench’), my erstwhile father, the late Bicount Randolph Mandy-Cox importuned, and finally sequestered my mother’s virtue in the servant’s quarters at Huberd Manor. Having reluctantly availed herself, my now pregnant mother, Winifred Black (or ‘Whinny’[?] to my father), promptly whisked herself off to Brighton to avoid the stigma of illegitimacy and, moreover, a stringent grilling from the Bicountess.

My father (or Randy Cox as he was fondly known to Peers), followed in an ancient bloodline of raffish aristocrats who, as you might expect, were ruled by passion rather than governed by ethics. This predilection for chasing anything in a skirt (or indeed, trousers) had resulted in a family tree that resembled a veritable thicket. In fact, the Mandy-Cox pedigree can only be viewed in its full tableau when unfurled on the banqueting table of the Great Hall. Needless to say, my father’s frequent genealogical ‘shoot-offs’ had considerably bolstered the local populace of Coxmoor Village.

In contrast with his many other indiscretions, my mother’s self-effacing charm and delicate, raven-tressed countenance stirred in my father a spirit of noblesse oblige hitherto unknown. Upon her return to an uncertain future with her parents in Coxmoor, my mother and I were offered lodgings at Huberd Manor’s gatehouse. This bucolic idyll would become my home for a few happy years until I was of schooling age.

To her great credit, my mother remained tight-lipped as to my paternity in order to spare the wanton destruction of the antique Wedgwood that she’d so lovingly cared for at Huberd Manor. When occasionally pressed on the point, she alluded to a visit from a door-to-door salesman. Consequently, my father was able to renew his acquaintance with her; having, as it were, a penchant for all things tight-lipped and being pressed on the point.

At my father’s behest, I was privately tutored at Huberd Manor and, as a consequence, rarely associated with village folk. Cloistered within these confines, I was afforded a unique insight into some of the vulgarisms and malice of the ruling elite. My two older half-brothers regarded me as part-punch bag, part-pet and as such, apt for the customary maltreatment. If it wasn’t itching powder on the bath towel, it was chilli pepper in my underpants or even one of the dachshund’s ‘calling cards’ on my pillow. Although the apparent hilarity of their horseplay escaped me, the penalty for their hubris didn’t escape them. Fate, it transpired, would have the last laugh…but more on that later.

In keeping with family custom, I spent much of my adolescence lusting after Ashok Varma, an urbane Indian cook in my father’s employ. Despite my awkward attempts to curry favour, he was less than obliging. However, this most formative sense of perpetual lovelorn angst did create a template for later life.

At seventeen, I was afforded an undergraduate place at St Bilious College, Oxford, reading English. However my stint in the hallowed halls of academia was decidedly brief. Naïve, and easily led, some fellow students decided to take me for a night out to ‘get arseholed’. My first public exposure to (and at) local alehouses, proved ill advised. My debauched and drunken antics culminated in an attempt to bugger the bronze effigy of Sir Thomas Bodley (well, that hand-on-hip stance did look so alluring). Although Oxford University’s illustrious founder might have been accommodating to the proposal (given that he’d been a diplomat), the Dean certainly wasn’t. Doubtless, his incandescent fury was, in part, inflamed by the Oxfordshire Herald, which considered photos of my exploits - in flagrante delicto - newsworthy. I was unceremoniously banished from the entire Oxbridge portmanteau in a blaze of salacious publicity.

News of my ignominious downfall did not impress my father, who regarded my actions as a personal slight. Back at Huberd Manor, the blistering diatribe made me realise that his estate’s reputation (such as it was) might not survive being dragged further into the mire.

‘Being seen to be respectable’, he'd admonished, ‘is infinitely more important than being respectable. By all means enjoy a feisty butt, but always remember your feisty rebuttal. After all, respectability is nine-parts denial and one-part brazenness. For example, the true scoundrel will always attend church - a show of piety being the best remedy for any disagreeable rumours…’

He went on to describe his philosophy as ‘the way of the gamecock’. I agreed apathetically, though the rebel in me begged to differ. I suspect he discerned this divergence and in a pique of spiteful rage he contacted an old flame in Ireland. Within days, I was found myself being packed off to a finishing school for girls in the Emerald Isle.

‘St. Grendel’s School of Comportment’ brought a new reign of tyranny to my existence. On arrival, I was immediately compelled to wear a black smock and balance books on my head. However, this enforced transvestite circus act was nothing compared to my ensuing tribulations. This despotic regime was enforced by a brood of hideous and diabolical sadists fiendishly disguised as nuns. Minor infractions of their rules (or 'indecorous displays') resulted in the infliction of devilish torments ranging from imprisonment and starvation to feverish threats of hell and damnation. It was even rumoured amongst the girls that one of these gorgons harboured torture equipment dating back to the days of the Inquisition. Indeed, it was never ‘God’ I feared, but rather, those purporting to represent him.

Days spiralled into weeks as I was forced to clasp teacups ‘just-so’ and attempt to waltz to Stravinsky. I also had to strut with On the Origin of Species clenched between my buttocks whilst reciting scripture. Barely sustained by the meagre rations, the doom and oppression of this daily grind took its toll. In my mind’s eye, it became a Manichean struggle for liberty of conscience and freedom of thought. Oh, how my louche and bohemian lifestyle at the Manor seemed but a distant memory! I resolved to escape this asylum of hysterical hypocrisy and medieval mania.

One moonless night, I sped from my prison. Passing beneath the shadows of a monolith spiked with minarets and spires; a slumbering demon-horned dragon in silhouette. Penniless, I hitched a ride to the seaport and pondered upon my return to dear old Blighty. By chance, I came across a sailor who agreed to ‘provide safe passage’ provided that I returned the favour. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

The whole hideous experience certainly put the willies up me, although not in the fashion one might have preferred. At least it substantiated the theory of aversion therapy, since I now oscillate between being a cynical humanist and an optimistic existentialist. In the next gripping instalment of my life, you’ll discover more family intrigue, dastardly deeds and even hope rising from the cinders of disaster.

Thanks for reading and be naughty,
EB x

© Edwin Black