We are attracted to good dancers, although rumour has it those with sleek ndombolo moves should not be judged by the cover because most wriggling waists rarely extend beyond the dance floor.
Be that as it may, good dancers are presumed to have a cheery spirit, easy to hang out with, great lovers. That is why you may be a solid female banker, with a seven digit salary and tough genes in your ovaries.
And you know whom your husband will run off with? A scatterbrained dancer with a humongous rear.
And you could be the tough male IT professional who advices governments and presidents. You have a massive trust for your children and a lovely residence. And you know who will make your wife weak in the knees? A yellowing Congolese crook whose CV is limited to a gyrating waist and so loud perfume it screams all the way from Kisangani.
Politics is different. It is the only arena where terrible dancers thrive. And it appears that the more badly a politician dances, the more empty headed and more ‘loved’ he is by the electorate.
Back in the day, when the likes of Jomo, Jaramogi, Mboya and Moi used to call the shots, leaders did not dance fwaa.
Those were traditional chiefs, so they royally stepped off the dais, performed a little jig, waved their fly-whisks and proceeded to issue a monster of a speech. T
hese days, politicians break out in sweat, shaking their bottoms badly like they are on fire. And then they shout around and say nothing. Politicians don’t lead the masses anymore. They have become comedians, dancers and entertainers. Their campaigns are a freak show, where idle, jobless, hungry citizens come to be treated to fun.
They gather at dawn, abandoning their scrawny cows and goats and malnourished kids and crops to come watch the big people ‘live-live’.
Although the programme was scheduled to start at 11am, by 2pm nothing has moved, apart from the village drunk who has come for alms to top up wetting his pants.
The kids, who have prepared a scratchy song and dance, are bored stiff. Everyone is hungry.
At 4pm, the tough guys start trooping in in their big cars, naturally after engorging on tender meat and roast chicken at one of the many ‘resorts’, Greek for the fornication hideouts that have sprung up all over mashinani courtesy of devolution.
By the time the big man lands in a chopper at 5am, everyone is numb with boredom. Nonetheless, his arrival charges the crowd, which is more excited by the helicopter than what the speakers have to say. A DJ invites them to go chini kwa chini in tandem with the politicians who are treating them to dances with wolves.
Then each speaker springs to the podium, stabs the air violently, spits into the microphone, insults the enemy, dances badly, howls a slogan or two before passing the mic to another. On a good day, villagers even get treated to a wrestling match right there on the dais. And then everyone goes home, the politician to his chubby mistress and the villager to his scrawny cows, fertile wife and malnourished kids and crops.
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