In the noisy market of Nigerian politics,
there is a new festival --
The Fence-jumping Carnival.
Every season, someone climbs over,
landing softly into the open arms of the ruling party,
like a greedy cat sneaking into the neighbour’s kitchen
when it smells fresh banga soup on fire.
They always say the same thing,
It is for the “development” of my people."
but if you look closely, you will see,
it's for the development of their own stomach
If you peep under the big flowing agbada,
you will find pockets full of personal dreams.
The defectors love sweet excuses
They wave flags and boast,
“The sun is brighter in Abuja”
But the sun does not move…
it is the jumper who has moved his chair closer to the fire.
Governor Douye Diri has simply moved his seat closer to the stew pot.
If the sun could talk, it would laugh and ask:
“How much development did you see
when your brothers were already cooking inside this APC kitchen?”
Did Bayelsa stop licking empty pots,
Is Bayelsa not still licking empty spoons?
Even with Timipre Sylver stirring the souo,
and Lokpobiri adding the federal pepper and salt,
was Bayelsa not still waiting for the crumbs from the pot?
Was the Aso Rock pot not boiling far from the mouths of Bayelsans?
The truth?
The main dish on this defection menu is not about roads, schools or bridges.
It is the sweet aftertaste of power
It is about soft chairs in Abuja after the governor’s seat grows cold --
They look at soft seats in Abuja,
Maybe a senate pillow for tired heads,
or a Minister's chair with soft cushions,.
and cups of tea served under the shade of the big Abuja broom
Anything to keep the mouth busy after the feast in Bayelsa is over.
Abuja is the golden shade
under which politicians hide when the rain beats their ambition.
They call it “strategic alignment,"”,
but the aroma smells more like “self-preservation pepper soup..
Defection is now a virus.
It is now a contagious fever,
It spreads faster than harmattan fire on dry grass.
One governor coughs “APC”,
another sneezes “PDP”,
and yet another yawns ADC
And yet another craze a brand new party overnight.
Soon every politician is infected by survival instinct,
running to the ruling party like bees to sugar water.
No shame, no ideology, no beliefs ,
Only the sweet taste of survival
Like flies rushing to a plate of sugar
Our politics is sick.
Our politics has caught a terrible stomach bug.
It is political diarrhoea ,
leaders rushing from one party toilet to another,
flushing away their old slogans ,
flushing away yesterday's promises,
and picking up new ones like fresh rolls of tissue paper .
Yesterday’s loud critics are today’s praise singers,
blowing trumpets for the same people they once mocked and attacked,
while the people watch, holding their noses
as the bad smell of political defections fills the air.
If defectors truly wanted to serve,
If the detectors were really for the people,
roads would be built no matter their party colour.
Water would flow even if their gowns were blue,
Schools would blossom whether their caps were green.
And hospitals will work even if the caps are made of broom.
Even if the umbrella is the party badge.
But no -- they do not jump for our good.
They jump for themselves.
And no matter how long they plant strategies like yam seeds,
If the land is cursed,
If the gods do not bless the ground,
the harvest will still be empty.
And so the game continues,
Jumping from party to party like a restless child,
whispering sweet nothings to whichever party holds the biggest plate of yam.
This is not service to the people,
This is politics of the belly.
It is political prostitution dressed in fine agbada,
smiling for the cameras,
while the masses chew on dry garri.
Let the people remember:
The defectors are not chasing the sun for us.
They are chasing their own shadows across the field .
And when night falls,
The shadow will disappear,
and the defectors will sit in the dark
remembering the kitchen they abandoned.
By then, the people will have moved on,
looking for leaders who plant gardens,
And leaders who plant hope instead of climbing political fences for soup.
In the end, political defection is just a race to fill empty plates,
Not the people’s plates, but the politician’s own bowl of soup.
They cross fences for their stomach, not for our future,
changing colours like chameleons whenever the heat changes
Until leaders cook with honest hands,
the masses will keep chewing promises instead of real food.
"When the defection pot is cooked with selfishness, the people will only taste the smell."
EBIKABOWEI KEDIKUMO - writes from Ayakoromo Town, Delta State
08134853570
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