The National Cake-Sharing Mafia (or: Games Leaders Play) (2)

As the second cynical leader headed back to the conference hall I determined to regain my equilibrium, screw up my courage and be more aggressive in my questioning. But lo and behold, it was a pair of beauties, two ladies of past acquaintance that sauntered out for fresh air, chatting amiably. When they saw us they strode briskly forward to say hello.

“Last I heard, you two were at each other’s throats,” I began.

They stared at me as if in disbelief, looked at each other, slapped each other a high five and hugged, laughing uproariously all the way.

“Theatre, pure theatre!” they said in unison. “You sef! You know we’ve been good old friends right from time.”

“But you wanted the same electoral seat. . . .”

“Couldn’t be helped. The governor was desperate to get me dis-elected, to clip my wings, as he put it . . .”

“And he tricked me into giving up my lucrative federal appointment only to end up fighting my old friend.”

“And it turned into an ugly fight, no lie. I was forced to quit the party, join another party, buy my way to the nomination and buy the votes back to my old seat.”

“So your quarrel was superficial, so to speak?”

“Superficial—but real, nonetheless. It was not (to use the rhetoric) a quarrel over fundamental differences of principle or ideology or even methodology on how best to develop the country to attain its (clichéd) ‘rightful place’ in the ‘comity of nations’ . . .”

“No,” said her friend, “it was a quarrel at the feeding trough, two lionesses elbowing each other away from the slain prey—the body politic like a felled giraffe, large, speckled, elegant, lying supine on the ground while its carcass is torn to pieces in the feeding frenzy of starving lions.”

I confess I was chilled by this visceral rendition of our politics. They read my body language.

“That’s why you’re not a politician. As the poet said, read your books, file your stories—but leave politics to us who are not afraid of blood.”

With that parting shot they swung their buttocks charmingly back to the conference hall.

Evidently my colleagues reaped a comparable meaning from this little scene. We broke into discussion.

“I have often wondered,” said one reporter, “whether our leaders, whatever their political party or level of public service, know what they are doing and the consequences, short-term and long-term, of their actions. And again and again I arrive at the same answer: Yes, they know.”

“Their rhetoric,” said another reporter, “points in one direction, their actions in an opposite direction. They speak daily of lofty goals of national development and transformation, and even of practical methods for attaining them; but they do nothing to attain those goals. And they go home after two, three or four years in appointive or elective office fabulously wealthy. But check the portfolio they just left, and it’s in shambles—same or even worse than when they went in.”

“That’s right,” said a third reporter. “They know exactly what they are doing—just as their slave-hunter ancestors knew exactly what they were doing, that is, hunting down and selling into slavery and misery their neighbors and neighbors’ children.”

“Yes,” said the camera-man, “our leaders are neither naïve nor ignorant of the consequences of their actions and inactions. They know themselves to be misdirected and criminal, traitors to their mothers, grandfathers and country. Our leaders are intelligent, well educated, well spoken—but they are perverse and perverted, morally weak, unprincipled, governed by fear compounded by guilt. . . .”

We were so engrossed we didn’t notice two gentlemen striding in until too late.

“I hear you. I hear you well-well. You de cuss me. I cuss you! And I cuss your mama! Idiot!!”

“Don’t mind them,” said his friend. “Na so-so jealousy! Steal money, win election, get rich they no fit do, so all they do is criticize.”

They had already walked past us; but now the second man changed his mind and walked back, dragging his friend by the hand. Now they faced us squarely.

“I will tell all of you a few facts of life and you can report it in your TV and those your stupid newspapers. . . . We your leaders are consummate actors, dissemblers of the first order, con-men extraordinaire. As the saying goes, a fool is born every minute. And I say a thief or con-man is born every hour. Those born in-between are, on the whole, average. It’s the same all over the world, regardless of race or colour or religion. The world has many more of fools and average humans than clever thieves and con-men. That’s just the way it is.

“There is also something called the Food Chain,” he continued. “The stronger animals and humans (including the con-men/thieves), whose strength includes their smarter brains, bully, enslave or eat the weaker ones (including the fools/average), whose weakness includes their less-clever brains. That is how come the majority are ruled and messed over by the minority. . . . Are you still with me?”

“We’re listening. Go on.”

“In other words, the minority (con-men/thieves) are the predators, while the majority (fools/average) are their prey. We your leaders are the predators, you the masses, who constitute the overwhelming majority, are our prey. . . .”

•To be continued

Onwuchekwa Jemie