Bunge Chronicles: Taking sweets, selfies and barbs in the name of political masters

Parliament in session. [Elvis Ogina, Standard]

Sweets, selfies and barbs all for political masters

After a fruitful day of trying out the vulgar words they had learnt, waheshimiwa were itching to immortalise their pride.

Nothing could better freeze this moment than a selfie or two at Bunge's aisle. And so they corralled in pockets, all smiles, their mean looks and scowls momentarily forgotten. It was a time to celebrate another sitting allowance earned.

The speed at which some ran, keen not to miss out, must have tested the endurance of their high heels and wedges.

None seemed to mind the prospect of misstep or the danger of hitting the floor, which would have made for a more memorable photo perfect for seeking sympathy. 

Away from the battlefield that was the chamber, Tangatanga and Handshake were friends again. But saying that would imply they were at one point enemies.

The wahesh, unlike the people they represent, have never hated each other. They don't love each other, either.

Everything, to them, is business. Even the Political Parties (Amendment) Bill, which made one of them grope a Sergeant-at-Arms, and another point at her colleagues inappropriately. Everything is transient. Their interactions are transactional governed by the doctrine of quid pro quo; scratch my back, I scratch yours. Money, as Kiharu's Ndindi Nyoro claimed, is a common currency. Sweets are acceptable this month for obvious reasons.

Insults, too, are their tools of trade. And so a mhesh will soak up an insult from a colleague, referring to them as a cow, for them to hit back by calling the other an idiot.

In an election year, however, a direct party ticket would be the most alluring mode of payment, as it promises political survival, hence the constant references to their respective political masters. Given the nature of their relationship, fights that see them shedding their own blood, such as the John Mbadi vs Bernard Koros one, are a rarity.

The wahesh don't earn enough to shed blood. Bloodshed is above their pay grade, reserved for their bosses, the wananchi who must defend the honour of their elected representatives.

To achieve that, Wanjiku will end lifetime friendships, turning against the neighbour for siding with the chap who didn't bray "aye" or "nay" to a Bill. 

Any observer of recent sittings would have known that from the looks on some MPs' faces whenever they have are called to vote, some do not know why they vote.

Technology exposed the cluelessness of such characters, given the number of times the vote shifted from + (aye) to - (nay), and vice versa. No, the wahesh are not tech-illiterate, not when they excel at taking the best-timed selfies.