The season of political malfeasance is nigh

We are entering the political season where wailing and gnashing of teeth officially kicks in, allowed even by the constitution and the holy writ.

Seated under fading bedside lamps, ducking strands of soot hanging from rafters, scribes are busy coming up with the most potent fake promises all night long which their masters, the kings of double speak and deceit who we have learnt to adore, will be distributing to the electorate before the polls of next year.

Development plans are being drafted by village ragamuffins who have never seen the inside of a classroom or the backside of a teacher, and the needle they shall use to inject hallucinogens into our brains is still being sanitized.

They are also seeking public pity. And pity they shalt find.

The time for fake witches to make wishes has come. The time for politicians who vanished into thin air as soon as Chebukati slapped certificates in their palms to resurface, pot-bellied, with froth forming on the sides of their mouth whenever they lie, which is every time, is here.

I tell you what; worn out bulldozers and other road construction equipment, so dilapidated they lumber along only by the grace of God, have started making their way into Gitegi. Thin mattresses, extra-lethal cigarettes, bottles of rum - everything that could influence the people to make the wrong decisions at the ballot is now making an appearance in my village.

And my uncle Harold is loving every minute of it.

Poised to take over from his estranged girlfriend Sue as the village elder in the next elections, Harold should be among those walking around the village with wands of cash falling out of his socks and armpits, bribing every creature that has life inside it, promising to take us to Canaan at many times the speed Moses took Israelites.

But Harold is, instead, seated at the front of the crowd which desperately spreads out begging bowls for handouts from new politicians, promising, in return, loyalty that will remain until the end of time. Every so often, whenever a politician, unfortunate to follow Google maps, finds himself in Gitegi, they are greeted by a grinning Harold who, with a tongue that is constantly many inches deep in honey, finds a way to convince these politicians that he is the way, the truth and the life.

We have been eating well at the brown house, therefore, and we could until the campaign period is over. What I cannot confirm at this point, however, is that our brains are still in our heads, because we long agreed to donate whatever is remaining in our skulls to whoever comes with the sweetest, nicest lies.