A cautionary tale: The talking iron sheets 

Once upon a time in a land lush and green, the sun, like a pearl, shone brilliantly, powered by the vibe of the valiant people of the land.

The leaders of the land tolerated the people. Not wanting to burden the people, the leaders surrounded themselves with the finest privilege of the land. The rich privilege flowed through the land like milk and honey making the land a tad too sweet.

The sweetness caused the people to fall into a catatonic state. The people transfixed, stood on the outside looking in. These people lacking ideological orientation mislead themselves into thinking the leaders were actually their servants.

Dressed in condescending finery far above their Buy Uganda, Build Uganda (BUBU) salary, the leaders did not disappoint. They consistently delivered dysfunctional service delivery, populism and poor governance. The lessons were many and unrelenting but the people would not learn.

To crown it all, the supreme leader, that great revolutionary who ushered in the catatonic sleep the people enjoyed, charmed the people. Effortlessly funny, he made the people laugh until their bellies ached. Some people came because they loved him – this old man in the hat.

Others came because they had been told, ‘there will be food, drink and some ka money for your troubles.’ Some came to marvel at the master of deflection.

When it came to walking that revolutionary talk, the supreme leader’s BUBU boots left no imprint. The supreme leader let his luxuriously long motorcade do all the talking. After serenading the people with populist words, he hopped into his convoy and sped off in the manner of one fleeing a crime scene.

His people, corralled by their leaders into attending the supreme leader’s meeting, imbibed the dust his powerful motorcade kicked up. As the people oohed and aaahed at the dust, so fine, so brown, so thick – the dust became the encumbrance it had always been.

They could not get the dust out of their hair, clothes, and soft parts. The people tired of fighting the dust, now have a brownish hue to them. When it rains, the dust turns into violent mud, caking the people the way the rains outgun Kampala roads.

From their dry comfortable perch, the leaders looked down and pitied the muddy people. The supreme leader chided the leaders for not teaching the people to irrigate the dusty mud. The chastised leaders had to do something, something that would make them look good.

High up in the loft of their swanky privileges where the business of building the nation happens, the leaders had a hearty feast to prepare for the hard work of thinking for the quisling people. Above the cacophony of munching, belching and delicious laughter, Henry Barlow’s poem ‘Building the Nation’ did not play.

The fantastic meal consumed, the leaders deliberated feverishly. Yes, their dusty muddied people needed iron sheets. The shinier the better. Thus, the leaders gaily ambled their plump bodies to the store of national goodies. Once in the store, they lustfully ogled the treasures of the national store. With the purity of celestial virgins, the leaders headed towards the iron sheets.

The iron sheets glinted like jewels in the sun. It is rumoured the iron sheets bewitched the leaders whispering to them, “Take me, use me, I am all yours”.

Entranced, the leaders did not stop to question why and how the iron sheets could talk. The luminous iron sheets, a mortal enemy of the goodness buried deep with the leaders continued to whisper like the enchanting sirens of Greek mythology,

“Take me, use me, abuse me, I am yours, locate me in your compound.”

Charmed, the leaders took the iron sheets – used them and abused them. Alas, the talking iron sheets did not stop talking. The iron sheets stayed neither silent nor hidden. News of the misuse of the iron sheets reached the indifferent ears of the dusty muddy people.

To the bewilderment of the leaders, the iron sheets broke through the catatonic indifference of the people. There was something about these iron sheets. Something cheap, something common, something mundane. Yet the people arose in indignation and demanded the prissy heads of the leaders. The stampeded leaders were bamboozled – why were the people moved by bewitching iron sheets?

Had the leaders not done graver things with more expensive national goodies?

Eight of the people protested publicly about abused iron sheets. The leaders cushioned from the disagreeable views of their quisling followers scoffed. These were just cheap iron sheets – why all the noise? Fortunately, the police in service of the leaders swooped down on the protesting people.

Today, the exasperating protesters are in the safe custody of the state. The leaders, if you must know, are alive and well, in the unrepentant custody of their privilege. Such robust healthy sprigs of leaders.

As for the iron sheets, the leaders have called for an exorcist to silence the talking sheets.

smugmountain@gmail.com

The writer is a tayaad muzzukulu.