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Once upon a time, in an imaginary country that strangely resembles many others, the Republic of Kongolesia-Eternal.
At his head, for more than forty-five years, he had held an unusual character: His Excellency President Immortel.
Arriving in power in 1979 with a coup d'état presented as a « accident of history »He promised, with his hand on his heart:
« I'm just here to get the country right and give power to civilians. »
Four decades later, the country was still in the process of « straightened » (to the point of becoming completely twisted), and civilians were still waiting for their turn.
Today, at the age of 90, His Excellency still governs, surrounded by ministers for life, cousins for life and professional laudators, who each morning repeat the same chorus:
«We must remain in power if not: After him, it will be chaos. »
And as chaos is already well established, the people conclude that eventually... they might not have been wrong.
The Elastic Constitution: from the presidential custom
In this Republic there was a small sacred book: the Constitution. At first, she said wisely:
« No one may serve more than two presidential terms. »
But the President, visionary and handyman at his hour, discovered that the Constitution was elastic. We could pull it, sew it, turn it around like an old sock.
Since then, she has become a tailor-made garment, adjusted to the size of His Excellency.
Thus, the mandates were extended, extended, recycled. Sometimes even, to vary the pleasures, we invented a « New Republic » : Republic 2.0, 3.0, 4.0... The President, on the other hand, remained the same, as a software that was updated without ever changing the computer.
Parliament's acclamations
In this well-oiled theatre, the National Assembly is nothing more than an immense chorus of applause. Members are not aware of any debate or contradiction: their only task is to raise their hands with perfect synchronization, like a traditional dance troupe that is not repeated.
The sneeze chef? Standing ovation!
Is he yawning? Unanimous unanimous vote!
Here, the laws do not argue, they acclaim like choruses of popular songs.
As for the Senate, there is no need to look for the great wise men whom we are promised: it has become a five star home for cousins, aunts, brothers-in-law and friends of the regime, a select club where no diploma is required but where a high-performance applause meter is required.
Read a law? Too tiring.
Understand a budget? An Olympic sport they don't play.
But to type hands and repeat "yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" with conviction, they are true world champions. Some even train to applaud louder than their neighbors, to be noticed and perhaps get a little extra favor.
In this setting, Parliament is no longer used to make laws, but to organise a permanent competition for claims. Here everyone shines: not by his ideas, but by the power of his palms.
Phantom Opponents: An Electoral Comedy
But what is a democracy without opposition? To avoid the election being too much like an induction ceremony, the President invented a rare species: Ghost Opponents.
The latter appeared at each election, shouted loudly against the regime, threatened to boycott... and ended up congratulating His Excellency on his overwhelming victory at 99.9%.
As for the real opponents, they had been carefully ruled out by Domestic Justice, a faithful servant who always accused the embarrassrs of plotting against the state with a typewriter, a travelling pigeon or an old transistor.
The National Guard of Cousins
Still suspicious, the supreme leader offered himself an army in his image: a national guard knit house, composed almost exclusively of his cousins, nephews and brothers-in-law.
Recruitment is simple: no need to know how to walk, let alone know the military alphabet. The essential thing is to have the right surname and swear fidelity to the old presidential chair.
As a result, a chamarré troupe where the rifles shine more than the medals, and where the cries of war often resemble wedding songs.
But as confidence does not exclude prudence, this custody is closely monitored by paid foreign mercenaries, real nannies armed to the teeth.
They alone know how to handle modern weapons, while cousins parachute for the photo. It almost looks like a big play: locals pretend to protect, foreigners cash the millions, and everyone salutes the leader as if he had just saved the planet.
National television, a unique channel of praise
Every evening, the people are entitled to only one show: the official television newspaper, which looks less like a source of information than a single one. Daily Mass in Honour of the Chief.
The presenters compete with enthusiasm to announce that the president has inaugurated... a roundabout, a water pump or even a street lamp. Behind them, the images are repeated: the old chef who cuts a ribbon, shakes a hand, or receives a bouquet of flowers larger than him.
Journalists, transformed into modern troubadours, have only one mission: to convince that the country is living its best hours, while the dark streets, empty hospitals and ruined schools disappear behind a curtain of forced smiles.
On national television, the weather itself seems to be waiting for the order of the palace: it rains if the president wishes, and the sun shines when he smiles.
99.9% elections"
Every five years, we replay the great election play. Posters bloom, official meetings turn into giant parties with tam-tams, beer and free t-shirts. Opposition? Invisible, reduced to the role of extras. The result is always the same: 99.9% vote for the leader. The only suspense is whether we dare to withdraw the 0.1% "out respect for democracy".
Voters laugh yellow but play the game: some even say they vote two or three times, "to make sure it counts". In the evening, the media announced the victory with feigned joy, as if the country had just won the World Cup.
The applause echoes, the drums beat, and the old president, a little more bent, advances to promise that he is there "by the will of the people". A people who are beginning to wonder if his will has really been consulted.
The Royal Family Economy
Here, the economy is not a national system, but a large family shop. The mines belong to a cousin, the public markets to a brother-in-law, the oil to an uncle, and even the neighborhood bakeries end up bearing the name of the president's sister-in-law. The calls for tenders are so predictable that we could write the list of winners before even announcing the projects.
The few foreign investors, if they want to survive, must agree to associate with a nephew or sponsor a grandson's birthday party.
As a result, everything circulates in a closed circuit, like a huge family meal where the dishes never leave the table. The people look away, wondering when they can taste the crumbs.
The First Lady, guardian of the throne and mystic
In the Republic of Kongolesia-Eternal, everything goes through the First Lady, nickname behind the scenes « Her Majesty the Appointments ». Nothing moves without its seal: ministers, directors, ambassadors, advisers... everyone must first walk through his living room before hoping to cross the threshold of the palace. In reality, the presidential decree never comes out without a little slug of his lipstick.
But the First Lady is not only the guardian of the posts: she is also the guardian of the mystic. She orchestrates the spiritual protection of the President, skillfully juggling between renowned marabouts, miraculous herb witches and evangelical preachers in search of gifts. Result: His Excellency is shielded by incense, incantations and holy water — No plot, whether earthly or heavenly, can reach it.
At his side, his brother, Minister of Finance, self-proclaimed « Cashier-General of the Kingdom », ensures the proper functioning of the silver pump: it feeds the Family Foundation, waters the faithful and thirsts the recalcitrants.
Together, siblings invented a unique model: comprehensive family governance, where politics, economy and magic meet at the top of the state.
The prodigy son
While the old chief clings to his throne, the appointed heir, nicknamed by some "the prodigy son", train already to rule. But his kingdom, for now, are the five-star palaces of Paris, the rooftops of New York and the secret villas of the French Riviera.
Between two private jet flights, he collects expensive watches and luxury cars, parked like trophies in front of his private hotels.
Always dressed in costumes of great brands, he parades more than he studies, distributes smiles more than he delivers speeches. Some say that he does not yet know the capital of his own country, but that he can recite by heart the map of the luxury shops of 5th Avenue and Champs Elysées.
For him, politics is a mere expectation: to wait in air-conditioned comfort, until the paternal armchair finally frees itself.
The cult of portraits
In the streets, it is impossible to escape the frozen smile of the leader: His face is everywhere. On walls, calendars, schoolbooks, even in hair salons and pharmacies. Some even say that it was seen on packages of flour and rice bags distributed before the elections.
The giant statues watch over the public squares, arm stretched towards a future that he is the only one to see. The official slogans, painted in red letters, remind every day that "the guide is eternal" and that "the people are happy thanks to him". In this setting, children grow up believing that the president has always existed, a little like the sun or rain. One would almost be surprised to think that one day his portrait will replace the sun directly in the sky.
The Tired People: between resignation and humour
The people, on the other hand, fluctuated between despair and laughter.
- The grandparents told nostalgia about the triumphal arrival of the President.
- Parents remembered their teens bent by her promises of « National recovery ».
- The children knew only him on television.
- And the grandchildren asked:
« Dad, is it true that before, there were other presidents? »
« They say that in history books... but no one has ever seen. »
In markets and taxis, a joke became a national proverb:
« Here, there are two certain things: the rainy season... and the President's victory. »
Prophecy of chaos
In every rumour of succession, the President waved his staff and declared in a serious voice:
« If I leave, it will be the civil war, the apocalypse, the return of dinosaurs and perhaps even mutant malaria. »
Immediately, his supporters returned to choir:
« After him, the flood! »
And, by hearing it, the people eventually convince themselves that the misery under President Immortel was perhaps more reassuring than the announced chaos.
A kingdom frozen in the eternity of the leader
So goes this country where everything seems to revolve around one man, his golden chair and his tired breath.
Parliament turned its voice against mechanical applause, the Senate turned into a family club for study cousins... in the art of applause, the National Guard resembles a clan reunion under the supervision of foreign mercenaries, and the state media can no longer pronounce only two words: "eternal praise".
At each election, the people play their partition in the farce of 99.9% vote, while the economy divides like a cake between parents, uncles and aunts of the palace.
In the streets, the giant portraits of the chief watch every gesture, imposing on the collective memory the illusion of an eternal figure, as if history had ceased to exist outside him.
And behind the scenes, the prodigy son perfects his art of living in the comfort of private jets, surrounded by champagne and luxury cars, waiting for his turn to "sacrify his life at the service of the people".
Behind the forced applause, the giant statues and the blinking processions, an entire people are still waiting for the real spectacle: that of freedom, justice and the simple right to live better. But in this frozen theatre, the play seems doomed to replay again and again, until perhaps one day, the curtain finally falls.
Moral of History
You could believe a comedy if the laughter didn't get stuck in the throat. Because behind the servile applause, the giant statues and the processions of black cars, it is a whole people that stumbles in the shadow, waiting for fresh air and the future.
The 99.9% joke amuses the powerful, but tired those who suffer it.
And while the son prodigy parades in his palaces, millions of citizens count their meals, their steps, their hopes.
Moral of history?
When power becomes a family heritage and the Republic disguises itself as a sitcom of bad taste, it is no longer theatre: it is a tragedy in several seasons, whose people have never asked to be the figure.
So was life in Kongolesia-Eternal:
- One Elastic Constitution which adapts to all the whims of power.
- The Phantom opponents to give a competitive look.
- One Domestic Justice to remove the inconveniencers.
- One First Almighty Lady, which names, names and renames collaborators as one changes wig, while managing the mystical security of the throne with evangelical prayers, marabout incense and witch potions.
- At his side, his brother, Minister of Finance and true Family treasurerATM at the service of the Presidential Foundation.
- A resigned people who laughed not to cry.
- And an Immortel President who, year after year, presents himself as the only guarantor of stability.
In some African kingdoms, the President is not only head of state: he is Eternal Patriarch, protected by gods and decrees ; the First Lady is not only wife: she is Queen Mother, HRD of the Republic and Head of Spiritual Diplomacy ; his brother is not only minister: he is National cashier certified royal family.
The alternation is a legend, but the family-mystic dynasty is a very concrete reality. And if you ever wonder when this will end, the answer is simple:
— « Never. Not as long as the sky, the sorcerers and the Central Bank walk hand in hand. »
If you think this story is pure fiction, look around you: it may be that President Immortel has already taken root in your own Republic.
