Member of Parliament

The Four-wheel drive cross- country car moved fast up the hill
leaving a big cloud of dust in its wake. As it rolled down the hill
approaching the village, the villagers watched it with little interest.
The occupants, one the driver, the other his boss seated on the hind
seat a newspaper spread before him did not talk. Each engrossed in
their own thoughts. To the driver, this was his duty, to drive hiss
boss to destinations communicated to him at short notice, at anytime of
the day. The car was good and he enjoyed driving it. He did not need to
strike conversation with his boss the Member of Parliament. He had
nothing to say to him. He only talked when talked to and things had to
remain this way. It was for this reason that he never complained when
he sent him to pick his mistress from the university long after working
hours. It was for the same reason that when the Member of Parliament
went to eat lunch and came back to complain about fibrous steak the
driver just smiled. It never occurred to the member of parliament that
his driver was hungrily dosing in the car when he was deciding on
whether to have a third course or not. Neither did it bother him that
his driver continually chewed on a toothpick, trying to kill the hunger
mill inside him.
The Member of Parliament knew this road well. He was born here and was
reared here. He could pinpoint the wells where the animals drank with
the precision of a village herd's boy that he once was. He knew the
village homesteads and their heads by name. The village pastors knew
him and so did the imam. Had they not grown up together and rivalled
for the same girls in their youth?
Now as the car passed a large mango tree he looked out and recognised
the village barber. They had sat on the same bench in the village
school years ago. How time had flown! It was ironic that the village
barber had turned out a barber just like his father. In class the
barber had always academically out shone him. His light had flickered
though when his father passed away at an early stage. The young boy had
taken to the father's trade to sustain the family. Perhaps if his
father had lived he would be a doctor, now or maybe a
lawyer&;#8230;
The speeding car had now passed the mango tree that was his saloon. The
Member of Parliament looked back to see a cloud of dust spreading to
where the barber was attending to one of his customers. Perhaps next
time he should tell Joseph (the driver) to drive a bit
slower&;#8230; But today he was in a hurry. It had not occurred to
him in his air-conditioned car that the road was so dusty. He knew the
thinking of villagers. They always complained about such small things
as a speeding car spewing dust onto their already dirty selves. It
bothered him too, when he was still young and did not know the workings
of his class. One moment still lingered in his mind. It happened as he
returned from school so many years ago. A speeding car had spluttered
water all over his new uniform the day he donned it the first time as
he went to school. It was such a cold morning the rains having come
down heavily the previous night. The shirt never cleaned completely and
the stains were there for him to see two years after the
incident.
Today he was to see the Carpenter's son. Word had filtered to him that
the young man fresh from secondary school was going to contest his own
seat in Parliament. Of course the young man could not win. But he could
not take chances. The elections were just around the corner and despite
the fact that he had been elected unopposed to parliament three
consecutive times, he wanted to gauge his opposition.
He knew the carpenter's son all right. The boy had asked him difficult
questions in his previous campaigns. He had always known this boy had
political ambitions but he had never imagined that the boy would be so
foolish to put his stakes so high. Now as he thought of the fact that
he was out here to meet the boy and talk him into abandoning such a
foolish idea, he realised that his heart was racing. How could this be?
Was he scared? There was no way he could be scared of this boy. The boy
had to drop out of school just last year because he lacked school fees.
There were many like him in the village. This one raised interest
though because he was the best student in the whole village and it was
a pity that his father the carpenter could not raise school fees to
further his education. The boy had come to him of course. And like the
many that came to his office in the city seeking employment, he made
promises that he never kept. It was unfair that the villagers wanted
him to run all kinds of errands for them. They expected him to get jobs
for their uneducated kids, provide for transport when a villager was
sick and needed to be taken to the city hospital, and even attend all
funerals when one of them died. At first it had proved too much for
him. Moving from the city to the village eighty kilometres away on
almost a daily basis. Parliament needed him and his own business and
social life suffered. And then gradually he had learnt to handle
matters the professional way. The same way that the others members of
parliament did. He had learnt that the villagers should be remembered
when he needed them and not when they needed him. He would go to them
when the time he needed their votes came. This would be their time,
their chance to voice their opinions and ask for their favours. This
happened once in five years, when a new Member of Parliament would be
elected into office. It was a convenient way. He knew that in five
years he would have accumulated enough resources to buy off the
villagers' support. In a space of one month he would spend a fortune,
but then he would recover it with profits if he made it to parliament.
There would be the abnormal salaries, the allowances, and more
allowances. There would be a 'pat' on the back from industrialists who
wanted their 'grievances' heard through him and if he played his cards
well&;#8230; who knows? The president could make him a
minister&;#8230; And all this came with more eer.. 'pats' on the
back. It had worked well and in the past elections and he had once
again won the seat unopposed. This time he knew if he made it there
would be a greater reward. He was one of those that the president had
promised to 'work with' in his next government. It excited him to think
of himself as a Member of Parliament and a Government minister.
It was strange how he had made it up the social ladder. He was no
different from all the other boys he had gone to school with. Most of
the boys that he went to school with and had remained in the village
for example were now village drunkards. Those that had 'made it up',
were at best teachers in the village primary school. As he mused over
it he realised that the village had made him. Somehow unknowingly the
villagers had pushed him up the social ladder. Ngabo being the biggest
among the villages that constituted the constituency he represented,
had been most influential. It had always turned out that Whoever the
village voted won the parliamentary seat. He was one of their own and
they had kept him there. Three times in a row! Now he was invincible.
He was popular beyond Ngabo and it amazed even him how overwhelmingly
he had won the most recent poll.
He felt himself swing to the side of the big car as Joseph turned a
sharp corner. Wasn't he driving so fast? Even as he reached out for the
arm support Joseph braked hard. For a moment he saw them, chicken
feeding on something white probably rice or maize that had spilled in
the middle of the road. Too late! As the car veered trying to avoid
them, they scattered making it impossible to avoid running over a
number of them. He heard the familiar bump; the dull sound of a small
fleshy mass squashed under a great weight as the hind tyres rolled over
a number of chickens. Looking back he could scarcely make out a few
feathers lazily floating in a cloud of dust. He knew they would linger
in the air for a short while before finally settling with the cloud of
dust. What was it with Joseph? The car could have skid off the road in
his attempt to save chicken. Mere chicken! How long was it going to
take villagers to learn to keep their animals off the road? Only the
other day they had run down a goat and the week before that a dog. He
cursed under his breath as he wondered who it was this time he had to
compensate. They were nearing the market now and he was not certain who
lived in this area. Joseph had slowed down, recuperating perhaps from
the nasty experience.

They were descending on the market. He could see that there was a huge
gathering though today Tuesday was not a market day. Perhaps this was a
religious gathering. They called them 'crusades' and religious fanatics
used large speakers to address the people. The crowd was so big he felt
he could use the chance to talk o the villagers. He wondered who was in
charge and if he could spot someone he knew, someone who could give him
a brief of what was happening here.
The road passed just close to the opening that the villagers called
their market. It was a large patch of open land where the children
played football on the days that the market did not open and there were
no public gatherings to be held. The grass grew short on this patch of
open land and in most areas where the children trampled most as they
kicked a banana fibre ball in the name of football, the grass had
completely dried out exposing a hard bare ground surface. As the big
car almost silently rolled into sight, the villagers for a moment
turned to look and then uninterested they turned to listen to the
boy.
He was such a marvel. Not only was the boy was a good speaker he was
intelligent too. He seemed to be very articulate in his ideas. And he
had a good development plan for the constituency and the village. Could
he represent them? He said he could. At first they had believed in
'their son' Keba, the incumbent but somehow he had let them down. Three
times in a row they had supported him into that prestigious chair yet
they had got nothing in return. Their roads were still rough and dusty,
there were no basic drugs in the village dispensary and they still
drank water from the dirty wells. Their children still went to the
small primary school next to the village church. The school did not
have enough buildings and so some of the children attended class under
tree shades. There was no electricity in the village and village folks
had to trek long to nearby town ships to have their maize milled for
their basic maize flour diet. It puzzled them though they had never
questioned it that Keba seemed to have enough money during campaign
time to meet their basic needs for sugar, soap, and salt. During this
time he was always willing to listen and even volunteered to pay school
fees for promising students in the village. Now the boy was questioning
all his promises and even opening their eyes to the fact that the money
Keba used on them during his campaigns was not much compared to the
bribes that he got when he was in parliament. For the first time the
villagers' minds were let to wonder at the cost of his posh personal
car. The cost of which they whispered was more than enough to build ten
new school blocks. They had heard about his hospital in the city, his
farm in some far away village, his private International school and yes
even his bus company. How had he, their own peasant's son accumulated
all this in such a short time? Why did he choose to put his investments
so far away where they could not directly benefit any of them? Did it
not pain him to see them pilled on an open truck in the rain on the way
to a hospital when he had a bus company, and a hospital?

Once upon a time the villagers had known hard times. A dictatorial
regime that was in power had sown seeds of fear deep inside them. It
was such a time that many people were killed on suspicion that they did
not favour the government. One did not have to be outspoken to be
labelled anti government. They vividly remembered for example, the two
young men that had been killed on a firing squad in this exact place
where they stood. The young men had been paraded through the city, and
interviewed on state television before being brought here to their
mother village to the firing squad. They were killed here because the
president wanted the villagers to see and learn and be discouraged from
'such activity'. The two boys who were actually brothers had the same
family name as a famous rebellion chief. When security operatives had
questioned them about why they used such a name they could not
'properly' explain it. No one could question such killings and their
lives had ended thus. Such were the times that someone found donning an
'unpatriotic' piece of clothing was ordered to eat it on spot, at gun
point. People did not venture out of their houses after seven in the
evening and gunshots could be hared throughout the night. The villagers
would wake to the sight of bodies in the swamps, the forest and
sometimes abandoned on the roadside. Bodies they could not recognise,
bodies they could not ask any one about. They had learnt to bury the
dead without question. To get something done in a hurry if it really
had to be done and get on with their quiet life.
Things had changed now. That regime was long gone but the villagers had
not awakened to their new freedoms, the power they wielded with that
single vote each of them cast. Perhaps that is why they had
unconsciously bred their own kind of dictator. Their own Member of
Parliament who only came to them when it was time to put him back in
power. It stirred up the anger in them as the boy took them through a
guided tour of the power and freedoms that they had for so long and yet
had foolishly not used.
It had never occurred to Ande that he would go this far with his
campaign. It had all started as a joke. Having failed to continue with
his education, he had pondered about his next move. It had irked him
that the Member of Parliament had not been able to help him out of his
situation. He had gone to his office many times, using the little money
that he earned out of helping out in the village carpentry. He had
given up when he realised the member of parliament was sometimes
refusing to see him, telling his secretary not to allow in any visitors
even when he had an appointment. When elections came round this time,
he thought of a better way of catching Keba's eye. He knew by declaring
his candidature to the prestigious seat, Keba would feel uncomfortable.
He would come to him and try to convince him to stand down. Perhaps
Keba would let him name his price. That way he would be able to get
enough money to keep him in school for the next few years. He had seen
it happen in other constituencies, he had decided to try it. Mobilising
a group of seven youths they had started out on a campaign trail that
was to take them from door to door in Ngabo and even beyond. At first
the going was hard. They had to walk on foot and depended on
sympathisers for their tea, and lunch. It did not take them long though
to discover the hidden sentiments that the people held against Keba.
Within one week, the villagers had volunteered over fifty bicycles, two
motor cycles and an old lorry to be used in the Boy's campaign. He had
realised it late that it was no longer his campaign it was a war, a
silent war between the villagers on one side and their ungrateful son
on the other. He was just a weapon. It was therefore no longer in his
reach to negotiate with Keba. It frightened him this invisible power
that the villagers held. He envisaged himself as a small ship, riding
the high waves of a turbulent sea. No longer able to use his sail, but
praying that the mighty waters may not bash him against the
rocks&;#8230;
It did not surprise the boy that the villagers had turned up in such
large numbers. It did not scare him to address these people. He knew
them, almost all by name. He could see the same faces that he saw in
the village church on Sunday, familiar faces that he saw on the way to
the village well, and during the children immunisation clinic. They
were his village mates and talking to them was like the usual
discussions he had with his peers when they argued about football or
which girl was the fairest in the village. He always stopped to think
of how Keba would feel if he found him addressing the villagers. The
people he called his and his only. Would Keba see what he saw? Would he
realise that there was a possibility that he could lose the seat this
time?
His heart skipped a beat as the big car rolled into sight. It moved
slowly and then made to stop a few metres from the crowd. What he had
dreaded all along was bound to happen. He stooped midway in a sentence
not knowing all of a sudden what to say. At that moment the hind door
of the big car opened and the Member of Parliament alighted. He could
see him clearly from the podium where he stood, the big mad clad in a
clean cut suit with a matching pair of shoes was outstanding against
the backdrop of ragged villagers. He clutched a bundle of papers
tightly under his right hand and a mobile phone in the other. Now in
his early forties, his head was beginning to bald, at the centre
exposing a healthy oily patch of skin that seemed to reflect the rays
of the afternoon sun. It made the boy feel so incompetent thinking that
he could fit into this man's shoes. Suddenly an idea struck him. With
his voice wavering and almost betraying his fear he announced the
arrival of the Member of Parliament and invited him to greet 'his
people'. There were murmurs of disapproval from the crowd as the big
man made his way to the podium. No one could however stand out to voice
an objection. No one of the villagers wanted to be singled out as the
opposition to the big man. They would find courage to do it with the
vote but none could muster the courage to tell off the big man to the
face. Handing over the papers he held under his arm to the boy, the
Member of Parliament held the microphone and coughed into it to get the
attention he wanted.
This was going too far. The boy had to know where to stop his game and
he was going to belittle him in front of all the villagers. He wanted
to show him his place and settle this once for all. What was the little
boy up to stirring up the villagers against him? He had seen it in many
faces that turned away as he walked up the podium. No one could look
him directly in the face and he felt like he was intruding. Intruding
on them indeed! Did they know how much he had done for this country?
Did they know how many motions he had brought to parliament and had
been passed? Did they know that he was one of the most highly rated
members of parliament in the country? Did they ever stop to imagine a
parliament without him? He did not sleep in parliament like some
members did. He had gone there and shone, that is why the president
listened to him; that is why fellow members of parliament called him a
consultant. He did his job in parliament beyond satisfaction and every
one could testify to that. It was not his problem that the villagers
did not know this. All they cared about was their village, and its
needs. Why did they not read newspapers?
He had to control his voice as he started to speak. The tone in his
voice was giving him away but he did not care. He was being betrayed by
the people he had fought for and the anger inside him was
overflowing.
'Let us not be deceived by this boy who we still wash soiled nappies
for'&;#8230;. He started.
And who are you to abuse our candidate? It was Zakayo the village
drunkard. His voice had boomed loud, drowning Kebas. All along he had
sat down at the base of the podium and no one had dared to shift him
from his position. Zakayo was rarely sober and his cloths like the rest
of him stank of stale local brew. The villagers never took him serious
and now as he staggered drunkenly towards the Member of Parliament, the
boy made a move to intercept him. Keba was now really angry. Balancing
the microphone between his right and left hands he could feel his
fingers twitch he wanted to hit someone, break
something&;#8230;
Zakayo in his drunken stupor saw the blow come and staggered to the
side, the boy, facing away from the Member of Parliament did not see
it. It was not meant for him, but missing Zakayo, the open palm caught
him on the ear with the fingers extending to the cheek and making
visible marks on the boy's face. There was a temporary silence as the
boy lost footing, his body momentarily hanging suspended in space
before landing on his back in the middle of the crowd. Suddenly the
crowd went wild throwing tomatoes, walking sticks, sandals, and bottles
at the Member of Parliament.
From where he lay he could see them. Anxious faces voices that shot
over the din asking if he was okay. He could hear the sound of small
objects hitting the podium like hailstones in a reckless storm. It was
the sound of war, a kind of war he could not describe. In a flash he
realised it, someone had to protect the Member of Parliament. He saw
him then.
Keba had never anticipated such a moment in his life. It had never
occurred to him that he could be resented in such a humiliating manner.
He had not intended it to strike the boy down. He did not even want to
hit the village drunkard in the first place, he had acted on impulse
and now he was very afraid. The tempo was rising and the crowd was
hurling more objects at him, he had lost the microphone in the scuffle
and there was no way he could control the crowd now. Now a stone landed
noisily beside where he crouched on the podium, missing him by inches.
It suddenly occurred to him that he was going to die.
The boy knew that the villagers would not continue hurling their
missiles if he went onto that podium. He could form a human shield for
the Member of Parliament and perhaps he would be able to safely escort
him to his car. He could see him trying to shield his head from rotten
tomatoes, eggs, dried up cow dung that the villagers hurled at him. How
had the villagers got hold of all these in a short time? At that moment
the stone landed, the situation was getting out of hand. With a single
movement he was up the podium and moving towards the Member of
Parliament.

For all this time Keba had not dared to look up at the crowd. The sound
of the boy's feet on the wooden podium quickly moving towards him they
were now descending on him. In a spate of fright he drew his gun,
pointing it in the direction of the impending danger.

He knew that for certain he did not pull the trigger. In a flash he had
realised it was the boy. He knew the boy could not harm him. Something
hurled from the crowd struck his hand then. There was a loud explosion
as the small gun went off. In a slow haze he saw the boy lurch forward,
momentarily raise his hands like a ballerina before collapsing in a
heap on the podium. For a moment time stopped. Nothing seemed to move
and the sound of the birds could be heard in the distance. It was the
sound of the second bullet that broke the spell. Keba's finger on the
trigger twitched firing the second shot sending the villagers
scampering for cover.

The boy sat in the four-wheel drive car, gazing at the road as it sped
towards him. Ngabo was a few miles ahead. It was election time again
and he needed the villagers' votes. Suddenly he heard the familiar
sound of a small fleshy mass flattened under the wheels of the big car.
Cursing under his breath he wondered how long it would take the
villagers to learn to keep their animals off the road.