That he doesn’t know me now, wow!

WE RUSH THEM INTO POWER, THEY CRUSH US INTO POWDER: This exactly is how power and politics corrupt our leaders. You give them your full votes, they give you their empty voice, or none at all! Ok, let there be elections again...

In the first place, we used to gather and share ideas together in bars, conferences and other social gatherings. In the second place, we used to gossip against GOSS together, and talked about our past survival togethr. In the third place, he used us to recommend him as a good person during his lobbying circumlocutions.

Now that he has eventually got it, he refuses to pick my phone, not even at the time of congratulatory messages such as the day after his appointment, which he now turns into my disappointment. After a day or two, he answered my call in a hurry, “Hello, hallo, hullooo! Who is this? Yes, how can I help you? Ok, ok, I changed my phone with your number. Sorry. I will give you a call later, am in a meeting…”

Hii!! come on buddy! Since when? Just by indirectly inheriting your uncle’s position that you feel such sweet all of a sudden? You puzzled me! Well, somebody should tell him that I called him to say, “Congratulations”. I don’t think I think I can ask him for money or position; and since when?

Well, this is how politics corrupts people. It comes with power, which corrupts and corrupts absolutely. Before I quit this page, and before I quit him, let me dedicate to him these poems from Chapter 4: ‘The Poly-tricks of Politics”, from my book, and then this picture from Facebook.

Poem 39

The Tower of Power

Ours is a story biblical

In history diabolical.

Once upon a time,

There was no dime,

Only nothing but love,

 traded by one noble dove

Among a people of one tribe.

There was not a crime of bribe,

Not nepotism  but mutual trust,

Not for money or honey was lust.

All were considered of equal folks,

Zero tolerance on  more equal fox.

 When they felt themselves firmly,

They said, look  we’re one family,

Come, let’s build ourselves forts,

A citadel with bricks our hearts,

Be it called ‘Tower of Power’.

But detractors saw power,

“Behold, oh, one lineage,

Speaking one language!

This is just their beginning!

Nothing will be impossible for them,

Come, let’s go and confuse their language,

That they understand one another’s speech as a babble.”

So Lo-see-far scattered them all over the earth, failing the building.

There, because of this confusion, the project was called The Tower of Babel.


The Babelization of great capitals and their cultural relativism are to me the unmistakeable sign of modernity.

Juan Goytisolo (1931 – )  Spanish novelist and essayist.

Poem 40

The War of alpha-bets

Man has two legs,

Which stride alternately.

English language has 26 legs,

And if they go alternatively,

They clash and crash like eggs.

When on others’ way stands A,

B topples it unto C, sparing D,

The result is an insult: BAD!

When M avenges A,

Overthrowing B, sparing D,

The whole process runs like: MAD!

Any attempt to abandon the Antecedents,

And go for the Precedents,

Meaning toppling M,

Makes M crushes legs-up like this W,

Who substitutes D with its western neighbor, R,

Turning the whole reshuffle into WAR!

This woe is blamed on the power-hungry alphabets,

Among which A is a legal leader.

But when it involves middlemen, namely: L, P, H,

The A wins by majority votes,

And since he is the ALPHA—

He bets for power with the leftist, the Omega,

And the arbitration culminates into an infinite wrangling

Referred to as ‘WAR of the ALPHA BETS’.

Oneof the saddest lessons of history is this: If we’ve been bamboozled long
enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. The bamboozle has
captured us. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it

Carl Sagan.

Poem 41

They are crostitutes!

From south to north,

From east to west,

From south-east to north-west,

From north-east to south-west,

They do cross,

And crisscross,

Confusing us between here and there,

Confusing them between there and here,

Between north and south,

Between east and west.

With this rate of political prostitution

By means of geopolitical crostitution,

They are not prostitutes,

They are hot crostitutes!

Whoever wishes to avoid becoming dizzy must try to find out the swing’s law of motion.
We seem to be faced with a pendulum movement in history, swinging from
absolutism to democracy, from democracy back to absolute dictatorship.

Arthur Koestler, Darkness at  Noon.

Poem 42

Judas versus Jesus

At last, our land is being nationed!

Alas, our wealth is being rationed!

Between their North Pole and our South Pole,

Between the East and the West,

By their North pals and our South pals,

The self-proclaimed magi from Eastwest.

Here, the dollar donor

from Midwest

counters the dinar donor

from Mideast,

wherefore the donor dinar

encounters the donor dollar,

whereby jealous Judas auctions genius Jesus

and brutal Brutus Junius is jealous of Julius,

The senior Caesar Julius, stabbed by junior Junius,

just in order to alter the altar of justice.

But who to blame for the game,

whereon we are not again the same?

We name and blame politeachers,

of the condemned feast codenamed politics,

wherein the West wastes the East

as the East eases the West.

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? terrible hell make war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

English poet and playwright.  Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2

Poem 43

Uncle in the Hot Seat

Uncle, you are sweating rivers,

Why don’t you reverse

And surrender this politi-cull seat of heat

To another cold-blooded, baldy-oldy?

Oh boy, but I’m just from fire to sweat,

Out of fire into frying pan,

Then into this flying pan;

From atomic heat to economic hate,

From hot temperature to hot temperament.

Unc-old, you seem not to be a temporal man,

But just a tampering man,

Why not tire?

Or re-retire?

Hey boy, I am the toughest tyre of the Movement,

I cannot retreat, I can now retread.

I better bake myself in this political heat,

Than beg for myself for the rest of my need

In that politicold seat.


It is only natural that old people would have to go, but the
problem is that there is a young man who is too impatient to wait for me.

Mahathir bin Mohamad (1925 – ) Malaysian prime minister.

Complaining about his chief political rival, “young” Tengku Razaleigh.

Straits Times (Singapore)

Poem 45

Ancestors versus Successors

“…the day of the handover!” I’d surely say

If asked what a hell is worrying  Ngong.

That be my song on a resonant gong.

“And what do you lack at this age?”

I’d open the last century’s page,

And pray so my hair were gray.

(In our generational warfare,

The aged’s lifelong welfare

Is a fanfare called pension,

Until my son is Mr. Pennson.)

Successors’ age is disease malign.

For with no gray matter I’m inferior,

Even if planted on the skull’s exterior,

All is accessed unto that nature’s favour.

Nowadays, no success is accessed by fervor.

Whereas the Ancestors’ is but a disease benign.

Poem 46

Married to Mr. America!

Hi boys,

Touch me not,

Am old-ready married,

Married to Mr. America!

And since Mr. America

Is the policeman of all men,

The husband of all husbands,

I, I… Mrs. Amer,

Wife to Mr. America,

Am the deputy husband

Of the supreme husband,

Of the interim husbands,

Of the wise wives,

Married not to America.

If America sneezes, the whole world catches the colds.

Old imperial adage

Poem 49

Mr. Cheerman for Mr. Chairman

He is just a cheer man,

For the chair man.

He doesn’t hold meetings,

He does bold beatings

With his musing bands,

With no music bonds.

When Mr. Chairman chairs a meeting,

Mr.  Cheerman cheers the meeting

With his squad of sycophants

That squat for the elephants.

When Mr. Chair-leader coughs,

mr. cheerleader laughs.

When the boss sneezes,

The boy sniffs this.

When Mr. Chairman warns,

Mr.  Cheerman mourns.

When the Big Man lies and dies,

The small man cries and dries.

I don’t want any yes-men around me. I want everybody to tell
me the truth even if it costs them their jobs.

Attributed to Samuel Goldwyn (1882 – 1974)

Polish-born U.S. film producer.

Poem 51

Stop debating us, start de-baiting us

It’s our cynical shock or surprise

That we are your political enterprise!

That your parliament dedicates 50 per cent

Of its debating time to our autonomy’s ascent,

Is unto your ominous assemblies a waste of time,

And to influence our ripe destiny is a waste of dime.

We know our poverty of property is for our weakness,

You know our poverty of erudition is from your wickedness.

We’re your weaklings because we’re dependently independent.

But now that we’ve got a vaccine to unleash on our leech,

Where else is your chance on our image to bleach?

Today, this is our very last message,

To be anchored unto our posterity passage.

We can now spell our fate, so stop debating us,

And now that we can smell your bait, start de-baiting us.

Let Blair and the British government take note and listen. Zimbabwe is for Zimbabweans.
Our people are overjoyed, the land is ours. We are now the rulers and owners of
Zimbabwe… Keep your Britain and I keep my Zimbabwe.

Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President of Zimbabwe.

Speech to ZANU-PF Congress, 5 December 2003.