Hustlers!

Some people never learn their lessons.
You notice their cocky attitude, as they treat people as if life were simply a try at coconut shy. How many would have imagined that five years would pass by as if nothing had happened?
I hear some councillors were alternating between periods of optimism and a sense of emptiness. It is now time out for those whose eloquence is convincing, but have nothing to show for all the sweet pep talk. Every aspirant declared to have the magic wand needed to save the ship of state from sinking, others made pronouncements about their panacea which can make the “Anglophone crisis”, a thing of the past, with a wave of the hand. It is interesting to watch these “politricksians,” some of whom think their past unfulfilled promises now should be seen as water under the bridge.
This has been said for so long that it can be a new sing song. People are tormented by the past, tremulous about the future and very much disturbed by the present. Several men and women in the Northwest Region have for long felt that they were being nourished by a generation of broken promises. Some became bitter, quarrelsome and slightly pathetic; all these born out of the frustration of not seeing their elected officials taking interest in their troubles.
The ballot box is the proper instrument for the citizenry to sanction the actions of the ruling elite. Yes, there are complaints that there is a sophisticated rigging machine that is so effective that no one can beat it. But why fear such things? Truth is, no matter what “politricksians” might say, the virtues of honesty, candour, frugality and patriotism have withered and died. What is left, is a people whom neither the vices of their rulers nor the increasingly bold attacks of foreign and local enemies could shake out their apathy. You have dreams and you struggle to attain them, then you find they were a mirage in the desert. The struggle is the fun. The dream is the motivating force. Nothing more!
I, the Bohemian of Abakwa, born on the last day of the month, by the shores of the Atlantic, in the land of the proud people, this day declare; cheats, especially during an election are like a fake brand name garment or wrist watch that looks genuine but eventually disappoints. Wealth and vanity are at the expense of the weak and helpless. My friend Otto is a councilor. He says money is the name of the game, and many have been wielding money bags ready to oil the lips of the councilors who see the senatorial elections as the opportunity to get their own share of the Upper house gumbo. Otto says, “better take your own now and run. Who knows whether we will still be councilors …” My conclusion is that we are all hustlers.
By Winston Lebga

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