"When Leaders Change Parties Like Clothes, the People End Up Naked in the Cold"
" Leaders Trade Loyalty for Power in a Political Bazaar Where the Masses Are Never Buyers"
They change colours like lizards basking in the midday sun,
pretending they are warming themselves
while secretly sizing up the fattest tree to crawl onto next.
They change sides the way a vain man changes suits,
with no thought for the seamstress who made them,
and no care for the neighbours watching from their hungry doorsteps.
One day they wrap themselves in red,
next day they shine in green,
tomorrow they wield the broom as if it were a holy sceptre,
blessing the land with false promises,
but their sweeping is never for the dust of the streets,
never for the hunger in the people’s bellies.
No -- each sweep is for gathering golden crumbs
into their own swollen pockets,
their own private barns,
their own overflowing plates.
The wind of defection blows without pity,
and their knees wobble like paper towers in a storm.
This is not the wobble of humble men praying for rain,
but the wobble of opportunists
sniffing for the richer kitchen, the fatter pot.
Their roots are shallow,
buried not in the soil of principle or love for the land,
but sunk in the quicksand of appetite for power.
They hide behind big words like "strategy"
and "political realignment,"
but the elders know better.
Where truth walks naked in the public square,
where the air itself smells of backroom deals,
these are not moves of wisdom ...
they are the stinking politics of the belly,
the deafening drumbeats of selfish ambition.
Every defection is a marketplace bargain,
a haggling over loyalty as if it were cow meat,
a pawning of integrity for the price of a new office chair.
The people, the real owners of the market,
are handed over like goats in a backstreet trade,
their voices sold without consent,
their dreams passed around like calabashes at a feast they are not invited to.
The masses are never invited to the table,
except as clapping hands...
hired drummers and rented dancers
to cheer men who pretend to serve
but only serve themselves.
It is a theatre without plot,
a joke without laughter,
a government without a beating heart.
These defectors grin with teeth polished by lies,
their smiles as sharp as new coins
but as cold as an empty freezer in harmattan.
Each grin hides a ledger of betrayal,
each handshake disguises the exchange of the people's hope
for a personal seat near the pot of stew in Aso Rock.
Every promise they make
is a fruit without sweetness,
picked too early in the garden of deceit,
ripened only in the heat of their own greed.
Served without shame,
these promises taste of wind and dust,
leaving the people choking on nothing,
their tongues dry from years of false speeches.
They drive their special-purpose vehicles,
sumptuous machines painted with today’s party colours,
vehicles repainted fresh before the next election season,
ready to deceive again.
But no matter how glossy the paint,
the wheels always turn toward the same destination:
self-glory, self-gain, self-preservation.
Every crossing from one party to another
is nothing but a clean swap of flags
and a dirty swap of loyalty.
It is the public sale of commitment,
the betrayal dressed in new clothes,
a performance we have watched too many times.
They forget the villages,
they forget the farmlands drying under the sun,
they forget the fishermen who mend their nets with tears for bait.
They forget the labourers bent under poverty’s load,
the schoolchildren writing in the sand for lack of paper.
Instead, they spread their mats in the tent of the highest bidder,
drinking from whichever cup promises
to keep their bowl full and chair steady.
And so the people watch,
helpless, silent, hollow-bellied —
as defectors dance their victory dance,
stomping barefoot on a floor tiled with broken promises
and shattered hope.
When the dust finally settles,
the thrones they sit on will be made of sand,
beautiful for a season,
but washed away by the next tide of greed.
The crowns will tarnish,
the gold will rot in the dark,
and the songs of their false victories
will be swallowed by the same wind that carried their lies.
Yet the people will still be sweeping hunger from their doorsteps,
waiting for leaders bold enough to pick service over self,
truth over treachery,
vision over vanity.
Defection without honour
is the dirtiest dance of politics.
It is the public auction of loyalty
in a market controlled by merchants of deceit.
It is the naked parade of ambition,
bare and shameless before the eyes of a hungry nation.
It is the slow killing of hope,
hope strangled in the same room
where selfish men toast to their own success.
And when leaders change parties like clothes,
the people are left stripped of dignity,
naked in the cold,
waiting for warmth that will never come.
EBIKABOWEI KEDIKUMO - writes from Ayakoromo Town, Delta state
08134853570
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