Mmm…I love the craze
Election period, that’s my topic for tonight, my perfect rant. Alright, that’s a horrendous start! I think I’ve quickly plummeted to rock bottom in the writers’ guild (if such a thing even exists). But true, I love election period. The bands that cram the streets of my little town at unjust hours of the night don’t agitate me one bit. The hordes of students that in these times remember to showcase their love for the university make my otherwise dull evenings come alive. I particularly love the logistics (read obscene amounts of sweets, candy, and more sweets). I anticipate these from months back and when the time is right, my outstretched hands don’t disappoint in the amount of goods they gather.
With that awkward preamble, I’ll start my story <shaky smile emoji>. Last year, I decided to insinuate myself in the political workings of my college. With filled application in hand, a reluctantly issued sum of shillings and logistics, I was ready. A small group of well wishers started my campaign as soon as I was approved and it was quickly obvious that I’d win, or so I was informed by some very polite people. The campaign period was a hectic one that mostly involved long days of incoherent speeches and dishonest manifestos. My camp advised that if every man bought a packet of ice green, the election winning move was to show up stronger, with exotic chocolates or in a worst case scenario, truffles. I chose the latter without a second thought. Exotic chocolates my dusty Musoga foot!
For voting day I wore a brilliant smile and a tight pencil skirt. Like a young office enthusiast, it was pressed uncomfortably to my skin. My logistics were carefully tucked away in the heavy hand bag that I dragged on my arm throughout the entire process. We had made a few placards to entice the very last one of all lingering votes as they made their way to the polling station. The rest of the plan was to squeeze my left eye in a horrible wink all afternoon as I handed out hard earned candy to my enemies.
Every now and then I drew out a handkerchief to wipe sweat. There was no giving up, but that’s the beauty of elections. It reminds me of soccer to say the least; be it your day or not, come rain or sun, snow or hail, one ought to smile and cheer. The boring details of this afternoon culminated in several rounds to the washrooms and eventually a public vote count that all candidates and curious students were allowed to witness.
Let me begrudgingly state that, irrespective of what that your sports-fanatic friend might have shared on a certain long match day, excitement, together with anxiety and uncertainty isn’t the best combination at any one time, on any day. My palms were particularly sweaty as the last of the votes was counted and by this time my brain was entirely vacant. My camp assured me in subdued whispers that all was well. Apparently leadership is God-given and God had gifted me many times before.
I lost, by a single, devastatingly elusive vote. The shock of this rendered me motionless for a humiliating moment until my well wishers went up in a thunderous uproar, contesting the result and demanding for a recount. I rejected the idea. How much more humiliation could a girl handle? If the actual loss was by a landslide, how could I explain away the previous ghost votes?
I bravely stuck around the station for a while to receive some pity messages but sooner than later, sorrow gave way and like a discredited cartoon figure, my shoulders slumped, I bowed my head and slowly made my walk of shame. Away from the haunting, gawking, oppressive eye of the public, I might have cried a few tears.
Winning an election, I was informed, comes with uniquely rehearsed social language and an even more uniquely selected style of dressing. Middle heeled shoes, slightly ill-fitting grey skirt suits and one conservative hair style, are the ideal fashion choice for a political hopeful. My failure to master any of those must have cost me votes.
