Back to Index

Art of electoral humiliation
Rejoice Ngwenya
February 18, 2013

He is dumbfounded, paralysed with indignation. A poignant silence pervades the room. Everyone stares at the large expensive LED screen perched on the wall of his vast aristocratic lounge. He slumps in the red leather sofa, clasping a half-empty water glass on his lap. He adjusts his spectacles as his deputy whispers something to a man dressed in an ash-grey suit.

Gradually, the room is evacuated save for him and his deputy. He tosses the water glass against the wall and rests one cheek on a wobbly arm. "I therefore declare the winner of the 2013 Presidential Election, with a seventy-five percent majority, leader of the . . . " No sooner has the deputy switched off the television than she is waved out of the room. He stares at the screen, as if decoding its cold, glossy blackness . . .

The red morning sunlight drenches the grass-thatched village compound, then he puts on his trench coat, huddles a copy of Machiavelli-s 'The Prince- and saunters towards the cattle paddock. Men in black attempt to follow but he nods them away. They revert to their limousines, observing the man disappear towards the pastures.

At the paddock, his fine head of cows sleep innocently on the dewy grass. A large bull staggers up, flapping its large ears and sniffing expectantly in his direction. He leans over the gum pole rail and pats the monster. Africa, he soliloquizes, at least you are more reliable than humans. I suffer for them and how do they thank me? Slap my face. Uneducated, incorrigible scoundrels! " . . . there is no other way of guarding oneself from flatterers except letting men understand that to tell you the truth does not offend you; but when everyone may tell you the truth, respect for you abates." Compliant, ubiquitous, pathetic losers!

The phone vibrates in the breast pocket. He glances at the light blue smart screen. "Are you okay, Baba?" his wife inquires. "Woman, don-t you ever call me before I do." He switches it off, tossing it into the paddock water-trough.

His knees are trembling and weak. The man pulls out a dry stick from the fence and walks towards the dam. A jetliner paints a streak of white steam fifteen kilometers above ground, in the distant cold blue sky. He looks up, pausing momentarily. He points his stick to the sky and quips with a wry smile: "Good morning your Excellency. We hope you had a pleasant sleep. Breakfast will be served in ten minutes." The airplane disappears into a thin cloud. My incontrovertible high altitude requiem!

Three steps from the water, he turns to glance one last time at his grass-thatched paradise silhouetted against the western horizon. His black limousine glitters in the morning light, traces of humans milling around the giant metal ant. Parasitic bastards! He continues to read from the small book: " . . . men will always prove untrue to you unless they are kept honest by constraint... Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person."

He closes The Prince, tosses it far onto the water and clasps his rosary: "Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt. Moliri, et late fines custode tueri". The losing presidential candidate wriggles out of his trench coat, steps into the icy water and wades towards the book as it floats effortlessly in the centre of the deep, silent dam.

Please credit www.kubatana.net if you make use of material from this website. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License unless stated otherwise.

TOP