In the grand theatre of Asomdwekromanian politics, where intrigue and subterfuge dance a lively jig, there unfolded a spectacle both tragic and ludicrous. The stage was set: A train racing through the green landscape, its iron wheels singing a metallic hymn to progress. But fate, that mischievous playwright, had other plans.
The train meets its untimely rendezvous with an ill-fated truck, a mere pawn in this high-stakes drama. Members of the eagle-headed Umbrella, ever the maestros of political theatre, seize the moment. Their social media aides erupt in jubilation, as if applauding a skillful violinist at Carnegie Hall. “Bravo!” they cry, raising their glasses to the unseen hand that orchestrated this tragic incident.
But who’s to blame? Zu-za points fingers away from the truck. “Hold your tongues!” they scream. “This collision is no accident. It’s a political drama, scripted by fate.” And so, the plot thickens, leaving us wondering: Is this theatre or reality?
Theories sprout like mushrooms: The Umbrella tells a tale of improbabilities. The train, they argue, is blindfolded by its own velocity. Its brakes, like a timid lover, hesitate at the crucial moment. “Impossible!” scoff the skeptics. “A train sees all, knows all. It is the oracle of steel tracks.” But the Umbrella continues with its Kwaku Ananse tale on how the truck got stuck on the steel tracks.
And there, in the media’s spotlight, stands the owner of the truck – a tragic hero in this tragicomedy. His explanation, delivered with the solemnity of a Shakespearean soliloquy, is a marvel of illogic. “Listen,” he implores, “When loaded, my truck glides beneath the bridge like a swan on a moonlit lake. But unloaded, it stumbles like a drunken sailor. Thus, the accident was not a conspiracy, but a cosmic glitch that caused financial loss to the state.
The Umbrella embraces this tale. “See,” they cry, “The truck was no saboteur.
It was an unfortunate pawn, caught in the crossfire of fate.” And behind the truck owner stands a Zu-za woman with an umbrella embossed scarf. Her presence speaks volumes. Clearly, this was no accident. It was a political ploy to ridicule the Nana Dee government and make it look incompetent in the eyes of the unsuspecting public.
Why, you ask? The answer lies in the train’s maiden voyage – a test of progress and a proclamation of modernity. The Umbrella, thwarted in their own tenure, sought to puncture the Nana Dee government’s triumph. “Let the train falter,” they whispered. “Let it stumble on the bricks of our discontent.” And so, they placed the truck on the tracks, a Trojan horse of ridicule, a steed bearing the weight of their grievances.
A photo of the truck appeared, looking old and blurry, like a painting found in old ruins. The Zu-za folks said it was not real. “Fake!” cried the Zu-za sages, dismissing it as mere digital deception. “Behold,” they intoned, “this image has graced the internet’s halls for ages. It is no more real than a human having four legs.”
The ferocity of their defense and the eloquence of their confusion points to the Umbrella’s tacit endorsement of the recklessness of the truck driver. Whatever transpired that fateful day, it bore the indelible stamp of their party. And so, as the train’s wheels ground to a halt, as lives hung in the balance, the Umbrella gleefully raised their scarves to the gods of political theatre.
And now, the ‘obey the wind’ flagbearer, President Ogwanfunu. His policy compass has no direction as it is lost in the storm of indecision. He gives solutions only after problems have danced their merry jig. “If I were President,” he declares, “I’d ask serious questions about railway accidents.”
But we remember his reign: The Guinea fowls that flew to Burkina Faso, the tree planted during the dry season, the rickety vehicles that claimed a journalist’s life, and the numerous ‘create, loot and share’ schemes. We did not hear him ask any question at all regarding the above-mentioned debacles.
His shamelessness knows no bounds. In the grand theatre of politics, he plays the role of the shameless rogue, a character so deft in the art of deception that his audacity eclipses the sun itself. His is a performance of such brazenness that it would leave even the most cynical of critics speechless.
Yet, this maestro of mischief does not act alone; he is but the brightest star in a constellation of cunning. Together with his band of merry marauders, he weaves a tapestry of trickery so intricate that those who surround him, his companions in crime, are left marveling at the illusion. I repeat, his shamelessness knows no bounds
He still deludes himself into believing that his compatriots have short memories. Well, his compatriots are no amnesiacs as we eagerly await the 2024 polls. Life and good health, we pray, to witness what the pregnant time will birth.
Curtain falls. Applause. Kudos to the architects of chaos and disruption!
See you next week for another interesting konkonsa, Deo volente!