My mama raised me well, I can’t play dirty

There was a time I announced that I want to enter politics, and the mother of my clan threatened to go back to her parents on the hilly sides of Mbeya, now I know why.

Recently rumours spread around that things were not so rosy inside chama tawala, because there are some fellows who convinced themselves that what mama is doing, they can do better.

It is alleged that these fellows who do not possess peanuts for brains believed that come the next general elections, they should be the one inspecting a guard of honour after being sworn in as the chief prefect of this country, and later being whisked away in a convoy of heavy security.

The people who are close to mama smelled treason, and they decided to go in public and told those ambitious fellows that they should forget the top seat and continue selling donuts.

As I told you on numerous occasions, I wouldn’t mind sitting in that big house near the ocean, but my dream of starting small was shattered by mama Boyi, and this was after we witnessed firsthand what extent people can go to become leaders.

It was after some fellows convinced me that instead of thinking of being the prefect of this country, I should first begin by entering the round building in Dodoma as a Muheshimiwa Mbunge, because I was the choice of the people, therefore I should take the initiative of representing the woes of Manzese residents.

When the mother of my small clan, mama Boyi, got wind of the story, she waited patiently for me to return home, and when I found her sitting in the dark, I knew immediately that something was amiss.

I looked closely at her hands if there was any sign of her secret weapon, the greasy frying pan, but it was nowhere to be seen, and I knew there and then that the problem was serious than I thought.

She waited until I had settled down, and she took no notice of the reek of alcohol in the room, and when she opened her mouth, the first word was an insult.

“Are you stupid? Do you really have the interest of this family at heart? I cannot believe that the bald head on top of your shoulder has nothing inside bigger than a grain of sand…of all the careers you think that politics is best suited for you!” she screamed.

You see, in my neighbourhood there is a fellow called Oscar the Hawker, who is known for spreading rumours, and on several occasions he has nearly succeeded in ruining my marriage, and I knew for a fact that he was the one who had leaked the information.

Some of the men in our neighbourhood including yours truly were planning to go to a nearby tailor and design a good and colourful dress for Oscar, because he was behaving worse than a woman when it comes to spreading ‘umbeya’ (rumours).

I told mama Boyi that indeed the rumours were true, but the fact remained that I had all the chances of winning and transform the life of our family, because chances were I would end up being the best fisadi this country has ever seen.

“My dear wife, imagine yourself in a very black V8 going to Kariakoo market for shopping, and while you are playing with that in your mind, can you envisage us going to Hawaii every holidays?” I asked her earnestly, and she looked at me as if I was the greatest fool to ever walk the face of the earth, and that is when she threatened to leave.

Anyway I understood why she was so much against politics, and this is after witnessing firsthand the chaos related to the local government elections which took place some time back.

You see, there was a fellow called Majaliwa who was the favorite to win in our ward, and I have to say that my support from the word go was with him, and this has nothing to do with the fact that I had swallowed enough frothy liquid to float a small boat on his account.

During the campaigns, this fellow pulled enough crowds which have never been witnessed in Manzese, and this was fuelled by the fact that the young man can really talk.

Things were looking bright for him, and everyone was prepared for a landslide win, until a few days before the elections when the tables turned drastically.

At one of his last meetings, the crowds had gathered in anticipation, ready to witness the fellow conducting a coup de grace, and when he was invited to the podium, the crowd went wild.

He trotted confidently on the podium, and when he lifted his arms in greetings, the noise could be heard several blocks away, and when he took the microphone and began to speak, no words came out of his mouth.

For a moment people thought that the microphones were switched off, but frantic moves by the technicians indicated that there was nothing wrong with the sound system.

Once again Majaliwa opened his mouth to speak, but not a single word came out, and he began to panic, because a few minutes ago his voice was more than perfect.

His aides went to the podium to inquire about the problem, but he could not say anything, and they decided to put music as they tried to sort the situation out.

They moved him behind the podium into his car which was parked there, and when he was inside the car, his voice was restored, and he could speak normally again.

He decided to go back to the podium to address the crowd, and when he took the microphone, the same thing happened, and his voice took flight once again.

What we learned later was that his opponent had decided to involve a very serious technical bench to deal with him, and this included a silent visit to some remote parts of Bagamoyo.

The technical bench involving some weird looking old men and women made sure that Majaliwa would never address the crowd until the elections were over, and every time he got near a microphone, his voice would disappear.

And that is how Majaliwa lost the contest, and that is what scared mama Boyi even further.

“If this people can do that for a mere position of a village executive, what do you think will happen when it comes to contesting for parliament?” she observed, and I had no option but to agree with her.

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