Culture | Wax and gold

Satire is flourishing in Ethiopia

The political climate has become more permissive—up to a point

AYALKIBET, A PORTLY man in a garish white suit, is taking an oath. Hand raised, expression sombre, he reads a pledge to administer his café wisely. Four colleagues nod in approval. “But only for a month,” prompts one, following the text as he recites it. Ayalkibet skips over that proviso; his colleagues look up in alarm. So begins a recent episode of “Min Litazez?” (“How can I help you?”), a hit Ethiopian sitcom, in which the temporary manager schemes to extend his time in office.

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Who might this represent? Not, surely, Ethiopia’s new prime minister, Abiy Ahmed, who has convulsed the country’s politics by promising free elections next year and to step down if he loses. And, indeed, “Min Litazez?” is too clever for such clunky comparisons. But the audience is invited to draw their own, and many viewers have seen a reflection of Abiy in the protagonist. In previous seasons there was no doubt that Ayalkibet—then a petty tyrant of the workplace—stood in for the ruling party’s authoritarian old guard, whom Abiy shoved aside last March. Now, as Ethiopians acclimatise to a more gentle leadership, the character has been transformed. No longer a dictator, he is a well-meaning but pompous honcho with a weakness for the limelight.

“Min Litazez?” is revolutionary, in an understated way. Not only does it lampoon Ethiopia’s leaders; it does so on a national channel owned by the ruling party. “We’ve never had anything like this,” says Elias Wondimu, an intellectual who made a guest appearance last year. The show’s popularity, and the imitations it has spawned, illustrate how subversive comedy is tiptoeing into the Ethiopian mainstream, upturning decades, even centuries, of cultural norms. Amid the laughs, the high-jinks offer a glimpse into the psyche of a conservative society loosening up fast.

Until 1974 Ethiopia was an imperial monarchy. Next came a Marxist junta known as the Derg, and then, after 1991, the iron-fisted rule of the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front. Each regime upheld an absolutist conception of power that left little room for public dissent, least of all satire. Under the Derg this meant a total ban on the free press. The constitution of 1994 theoretically prohibited censorship, but it continued in practice. Until last year the government would insist on cuts to films, TV shows and plays—or ban them altogether.

The flipside of this draconian approach was a sophisticated culture of concealment, in which resistance was disguised as obedience. “You bow in front and fart behind”, as a local proverb has it. In Amharic, the most widespread language, this is known as samnawarq, or “wax and gold”: the studied use of words for ambiguous purposes. For centuries poets and azmaris, the bards and original satirists of highland Ethiopia, celebrated the glory of feudal overlords in songs that shrewdly hid their true meaning. “The more repressive the government was, the more vocal the oral satirists became,” says Tigab Bezie of Bahir Dar University. In diluted form, the technique still persists in everyday humour. “We’ve developed a keen sense of self-censorship,” says Elias. “You use wax-and-gold strategies to save yourself.”

But the subterfuge has gradually become less necessary. After disputed elections triggered mass protests and a fierce crackdown in 2005, a CD of jokes making fun of the then-prime minister, Meles Zenawi, became an underground sensation. The government quickly pulled “Repressed Jokes”, as the recording was known, from the market. Since then dissident humour has migrated—and flourished—online. There is a booming industry of political memes and what Engdawork Endrias, an Ethiopian literary scholar, calls “informal essays”: writings, often posted on Facebook, which can be savagely satirical. YouTube offers a platform for risqué sketch shows such as “Fugera News” (though that programme, now discontinued, was made abroad and its presenter hid his identity).

Funny ha-ha

Now such material is making the leap to television. “Yaz Leqeq” (“Temperamental”), a sketch show that aired on a satellite channel last autumn, offered impersonations of prominent politicians (including the prime minister). New sitcoms tackle current affairs with increased daring, while some older ones, such as “Betoch” (“Families”), are tentatively following suit. In January Eshetu Melese, a stand-up comedian, performed his hour-long show about torture under Abiy’s predecessors on television. He says he has since been approached by several producers keen to bring a version of “The Daily Show” to Ethiopian audiences.

These innovations share some common themes. The programmes tend to be self-consciously didactic. In “Yeemama Bet” (“Mama’s House”), a sitcom set in a traditional drinking den, the six characters, who represent various ethnic backgrounds, come together at the end of each episode and resolve their differences. So do those in “Aleme” (“My World”), which is set in a guesthouse. Eshetu says that during his stand-up he explains the political messages at the end of each joke, pointing out, for example, that Ethiopia needs a proper human-rights commission.

In their open political boldness, all these innovations follow in the footsteps of Bereket Belayneh, a playwright whose sensationally popular one-man show, “Eyayu Fungus”—first staged three years ago and soon to air on television—made fun of low-level officials as well as Ethiopians themselves. His protagonist, a madman, excoriates the audience for their failures, moral and otherwise. The new trend is “not about entertainment”, says Behailu Wassie, the director of “Min Litazez?” “The intention is to get a better country.”

The hope is that humour can act as a tonic for long-standing ethnic tensions that have persisted, even worsened, since Abiy’s arrival in office. Surafel Daniel, director of “Yeemama Bet”, says its angriest critics are those who wrongly perceive a gag to be made at the expense of a particular ethnicity. With time, he hopes, audiences may become less sensitive. Abel Asrat, a humorist and commentator, is more upbeat. “I see different ethnicities laughing at the same joke,” he says.

Leaders, too, may learn to take a joke, though this may take a while. At any rate, most people remain wary of mocking Abiy directly. Last year “Min Litazez?” was briefly suspended, reputedly for going too far. “Yeemama Bet” has begun to identify political leaders by name, though not too critically. “Back in the day it would be a suicide mission,” says Surafel, the director. Caustic Western-style satire, in which even a leader’s appearance is gag fodder, is still unthinkable. One day, perhaps. “I want to make jokes about Abiy and I want it to be aired on government TV,” says Eshetu. “That’s political comedy, right?”

This article appeared in the Culture section of the print edition under the headline "Wax and gold"

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