“Uh-oh,” said one passing seabird to another, “that can’t be good,” but Millicent landed on a passing fluffy white cloud which carried her all the way to Africa. When the cloud dispersed she fluttered down through the atmosphere and landed in the back seat of a fat, ruthless and bloodthirsty dictator’s open top limousine.
“Shit” he said.
He took the baby to his crackpot witchdoctor and spiritual counsellor for advice.
“A very bad sign,” said the witchdoctor, and rattled some bones at the child.
“Is it the UN?” asked the dictator.
“Ga-Ga,” said Millicent.
“No,” said the witchdoctor, shuddering. “Far worse. An omen from the Gods.”
The dictator, whose name was King General Enguerrand du Bont, left the child under the watchful eye of one of his many wives and hurried to the dungeonous jail beneath his palace.
“Was it you who sent me this bad omen?” he accused his Presidential opponent, who had been tortured earlier that day and had his tongue cut out.
“Ack,” said the political opponent.
“My God,” cried the Dictator, “you too! I’m cursed!”
He drew his pistol and waddled through the palace, his copious medals jangling on his corpulent military uniform, looking for the baby with the intention of killing it.
“You cannot!” protested the one of his many wives. “It’s just a baby.”
“Blah,” said Millicent, and pooped in her nappy.
“Shit,” said Enguerrand doubtfully. “I’m screwed.”
“It is the will of the Gods,” said his one of many wives.
The witchdoctor rattled the bones, burned some incense and consulted the entrails of a ritually slaughtered chicken.
“Do good deeds,” he instructed. “Appease the Gods”
Enguerrand released his mother from jail and begged her forgiveness, but she slapped him around, abused him and demanded all her shoes back, so he had her head cut off. He set free a number of church leaders but they denounced him as the Spawn of the Devil, which was an insult to his beloved mother, so he shot them.
“Not progress,” said his murderous First Minister, his brother.
“Penance!” cried the witchdoctor, so the portly dictator was forced to get on his hands and knees and play horsey for an hour, much to Millicent’s delight. She gave him a wet, sloppy kiss.
He pardoned a number of political opponents and tribal enemies, and hoped no one noticed when they were quietly hunted down and dispatched by the security forces in the dead of night.
“You’re not trying,” said the one of many wives.
“It’s difficult,” he conceded, and played horsey again.
“Woba woba,” said Millicent happily. (…)
© andrew wheeler