[appeared in the sunday times of 16 march, 2014]
The air-conditioned conference
room rattled with uneasiness. Loyal and most top ranked officials of the
ruling party sat anxiously. When they made entry they had
quacked artificial greetings to each other. As they sat, they nervously peeked
around. Now and then their eyes randomly met but were quickly withdrawn to
continue eyeing wildly, each lost in their own thoughts. Some would raise their
heads high though, displaying an air of patched up indifference. But their foreheads
that gleamed with sweat in the cooled room betrayed them.
They waited for the president to
tell them his running mate for upcoming general elections. Indications showed he
would choose one of them. What with the incumbent vice president fallen from
grace, and loyalty much tipped to play an important role? And that pressure of
expectancy and excitement was the one killing them. Nevertheless,
envied was Professor Hajira Ahmed, popularly called Mama Hajira, a woman who
forsook her English literature books at the university. She was the party’s
Secretary General, and the president’s unflinching fanatic, even a bootlicker.
Rumour also had it that the two were lovebirds.
Specifically, the media had
created this publicity about Mama Hajira. You know how the press creates, and
destroys characters.
“The president will put to mind the
falling-out with his vice president just after winning the previous general
elections when he chooses his running mate…” The Daily Monitor, the country’s
leading newspaper, wrote in one of its publications. “The falling-out, it is
generally believed, was due to how he previously chose his running mate where merit
and hard work played important roles, and a person generally felt as an
outsider was chosen. But this time he will certainly choose a person he trusts;
an unwavering loyal party insider. This makes Mama Hajira to come to mind.”
“Apart from having an edge over her
fellow party heavyweights because of her blind loyalty and other ‘behind the scenes
services’ to the president…” the Sun, the country’s number one tabloid, had
screamed in one of its editorials. “The president will settle for the wife of
the business magnet Afiki Ahmed, Professor Mrs. Ahmed, as his running mate to
capitalize on her coming from the North, the most populated region, to appease and
woo voters from the region.”
Such were many
of the features in newspapers across the country in the run up to the
nomination paper presentation day. Even people’s talk and discussions all
hinted her to be the one. Others even called her ‘the
vice-president-in-waiting’. And Mama Hajira enjoyably basked in her positive
valuation. She enviably walked tall, sniffing glory.
Twenty minutes elapsed since they
anxiously took their seats. The room was now soaked to an ooze of sickly
coughing and weak whispering. Suddenly, there were footfalls. Seconds later the
president entered. There were shuffles to stand up. Some of them deeply lost
into troubled thoughts were not fast enough to rise on time, inviting a frown
from the president.
“Please, take your seats,” he
smilingly said, as he sat down. They awkwardly took to their seats, with the
atmosphere still jumpy.
“May someone pray,” the president
said, expecting Reverend Apostle Doctor Mauro, his party vice president, always
donning a chicly curled panky hairdo, or Sheik Mustafa Bin Ali, the campaign
director, to jump at the offer at the speed of light as they had always done. Neither
of them seemed to have the courage this day, attracting another frown from the
president. Mama Hajira came to their rescue.
“People, you seem to have seen a ghost
walk in,” the president, chuckling, said. They at least laughed, or attempted
some.
“We’re here…” he started when the
laughter died down, “that you should know my running mate before I let the
world know.”
There was uneasy shifting, and the
hearts of the gathered lieutenants could be heard pounding miles away. The
president stopped, took bottle of water and opened it as if he had the whole
week. The gathered lieutenants instantly got tortured. Water already Mr.
President! Their souls screamed. Please tell us the name and let us go! And like
the Israelites God heard their cry.
“My running mate, ladies and
gentlemen, is Lino Andisen.”
Frightening quietness gripped the
room. The people, their faces pallor, exchanged chilling uneasy looks for
assurance that they had heard the president correctly.
The president understood them and
knew the sort of questions shelling their minds. Why Andisen of all people? Has
Mama Hajira fallen from favour? If so, why not choose any other among them? Why
another outsider, a novice; a football administrator for that matter? Sir, why
don’t you learn? …
He wished they knew all that was
immaterial. Yes, he wished they knew his hot zip had caused him not only to
sleep with Mama Hajira, but also Andisen’s daughter, which Andisen had used to
blackmail him.
The president was about to say
something but stopped in his tracks. There was something disturbing about Mama
Hajira. She sat still, her gaze straight ahead; unblinking.
“Mama Hajira!” the president
called out. No response.
“Mama…”
“I think she’s dead sir. It could
be heart attack,” Asilo, the party’s publicity secretary, a medical doctor by
profession, said, checking her pulse.
“What!” The president screamed as he sat down heavily.
“Mr. President! Mr. President!” Asilo
desperately shouted. There was no answer, only difficult breathing.
“Call for an ambulance!”
