Poly-Tricks

It is called politics,
Not statistics.
We need no numbers to do the trick.
We build false hopes, brick by brick
And no bars, no cells, can nip or nick.

              *                *               *

We all know and understand what it takes to make it in this country. So when Peter Anambra decided to contest for MP in 2012, I knew that was opportunity knocking for me.

I was his self-appointed campaign manager.

Peter promised to fix our roads. He promised jobs for our youth. He promised to open the shoe factory that once made us rich. He promised to clear the refuse dump that attracted diseases, and replace it with a market. He promised oxygen for our hospitals, and water for our villages. He promised electricity… houses… schools…

But I asked for only one thing. I wanted him to guarantee that my son gets a visa to the USA. It is not an unusual request, because many have used that path into greener pastures. I was particular about this because my boy had been at home for eight years since secondary school.

He promised he would do it.

In that election, I campaigned as if my life depended on it. I worked harder than Peter himself. There were nights I did not sleep at home. I know how politicians behave, but, being so close to Peter, and knowing how simple my need was, I was determined to see this through.

It was a narrow victory.

After the election, the Peter we knew was nowhere to be found. We barely saw him, and only heard of him during interviews on radios. He never came to look for us, his foot soldiers.

Coming for funerals every weekend is not visiting!

On TV, in parliament, he’d scream at the top of his voice. He’d laugh. He was having fun. He was enjoying his post.

We also heard that he’d been put on many committees for rural development… each fetching him at least three thousand per sitting… but he’d forgotten us. Giving speeches at durbars is not what we voted for!

When we told him to redeem his reputation by fulfiling some of his promises, he explained to us that it was not his duty to fix lights. It was not his duty to build markets. It was even not his duty to clear rubbish. In fact, none of his promises were his duty. He told us to go to our DCE, another pawn of the powers.

He said all he could do was to lobby on our behalf. And even that, he said, depended on the annual budget.

If he had told us this in 2012, would we have voted for him? He was not even ashamed to drive into town with his new Ford Mustang, 2015 registered, wearing shoes by foreign designers.

Okay.

When I finally met him in Accra, in December, 2015, he pretended he didn’t know me. But I had already heard… that he’d been to Spain, and Portugal, and Switzerland, Qatar, Ethiopia, Peru, Mauritius, Poland, the UK, Canada, and guess where… the USA!

But when I told him I wanted my son to be given a visa, he refused. Why? Because he was a principled man.

I asked him to find someone who could help me. He refused. He called it robbing Peter to pay Paul. I reminded him of his promise to fix our roads. But he refused to talk any further – I had not addressed him properly… as honourable. And when I asked him for ‘transportation’ back home, he refused – he belonged to a new breed of politicians, who could neither be bribed nor cajoled.

Okay.

In July, 2016, my son got a visa to the USA. He got it via the dark arts of the ghetto life. He had to get married to some lady from Virginia, who was far older than I was. If I had been a better father, this would not have been the narrative. But I blessed his decision. I had to.

I swore never to do politics again.

During the 2016 parliamentary elections, I was told Peter Anambra had secured a loan of six hundred thousand from a bank to campaign with. He thought only money wins elections. He couldn’t believe how people walked past him like a stranger during campaigns. At a point, he was almost lynched.

When the results were finally declared, he fainted.

People actually cried for this man. But which of them had spent sleepless nights convincing the electorate to consider him? I know some of them didn’t even vote for him. But they were crying, because that is what was left to do. 

It made the headlines very fast, with some reporting he’d suffered a stroke.

He developed this odd behaviour the doctors struggled a lot with:

When he was given food, he refused. When he was asked to drink water, he refused. He refused to bath. When his party members went to look for him, he refused to see them. He refused to speak, despite all evidence that he could. And when the bankers came to visit him at the clinic, he refused to open his eyes.

What sort of Kweku Ananse antics were those?

What pained me the most was that the only name that came out of his mouth was not his wife’s nor any of his kids. It was mine. Soon, people started forming all sorts of theories about what I had done to him.

I almost did not recognize him when I saw him at the clinic. He’d lost so much weight in such a short time. But he spoke to me… something he’d not done in months with anyone. He was referred to the city hospital for better treatment following my visit.

Peter is healthy now. I learnt it was not a stroke. It was a rare form of depression. Nowadays, he spends most of his time as a pundit on radio stations. But I doubt he has the clout to make a comeback.

Last week, he came to my farm with three jute bags filled with fifty cedi bundles. He’s now understood the principles of politics, and what it truly means to follow those principles before calling himself a principled man. Now, he has atoned for his iniquities. He has paid the penalty. He needs help for the 2020 elections. 

He will get help. How can I refuse? I am a principled man.

– Poly-Tricks
– Pervasive Refusal Syndrome
– Inspired by a true story
– MyMindCrest.WordPress.com