To kill a political mockingbird…and hang him on a hillside
And it is there that it is revealed that there is a new kind of politician on the horizon, one who does not promise
It is a boiling hot December night. There are no sheep. Farmers had long stopped farming with these animals which are so vulnerable to stock theft.
The stars are blocked out by the thick, billowing black smoke – a grim reminder of the earlier vexations of an angry march on the Kremlin that included the obligatory burning Dunlop and the odd continental.
The shepherds are protected by a posse of Mbubes. You cannot take chances. The Endumeni municipality cannot produce security cameras in the CBD so you have to make your own plan. Chances are the police have no idea where your street is either.
A What’s App group vibrates with news of a miracle. A promise. The Whats App folk know what is happening before the police or that info-tainment channel, CNN, and can be quoted as a news source.
A GPS reading points scores of curious would-be voters to an abandoned stable in outer Wasbank.
And it is there that it is revealed that there is a new kind of politician on the horizon.
One who does not promise. One who speaks of love for one another and suggests voters ask not what your town can do for you, but rather what can you do for your town. The would-be voters are confused. Disappointed that there is no free fried chicken handouts or T-Shirts or even a promise of some tender action, some drift away mumbling something about ‘bloody politicians are all the same’.
But the wise men stay and listen to this new person. He said all men are brothers and that love could conquer all. Many gathered round to hear, many for his life did fear.
It was said he had no bodyguards and no car. He seemed to just appear at public meetings.
His dress was that of a simple man. It was rumoured he had no cell phone but was always available to assist with all kinds of human complaints.
The press are amazed that his speeches never included promises of what he would do but rather messages as to what people could do themselves to better society.
Something also strange was that he never asked the press for favours nor accused them of misquoting him. He never even organised a free RDP house for him and his friends. It was even said his rates bill was up to date. But they came for him one morning at the breaking of the day. His followers woke to hear him calling as they carried him away, accusing him of spreading lies and hate.
His public meetings were a danger to the state. Some soldier said, “Who was he anyway?”
And they hung him on a hillside far away. (Acknowledgements to Chris de Burgh’s Just another poor boy)
