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Why I will never desire to be a politician

Counties

politician

First Lady Margaret Kenyatta may need to retire from running marathons because she seems to spend a lot of time dancing vigorously with women these days.

The last time I danced that hard was in 2009 in Mombasa when, edged on by the aftereffects of several ridiculously expensive shots of brandy and ululations from two pretty workmates, I, against my better judgment, waddled onto the dance floor.

Although I scandalised the dancing profession only long enough to confirm that my break-dancing days were way behind me, I spent the rest of the week feeling rather arthritic.

My limps, tummy and ageing back ached like an old sore. At one point, I thought I was suffering from rigor mortis although I was very much alive and kicking (rather feebly though).

Fat per diem

This dancing thing is one reason I have no intention of becoming a politician. I hate dancing.

And as if that is not enough, as a politician, I would be forced to pretend I was enjoying myself, smiling, laughing and grinning like a cat that’s chewed a well fed rat.

Yet I would rather be doing something more entertaining, such as counting my fat per diem, before flying off on a ‘fact finding’ mission to Egypt accompanied by my ‘personal assistant’ — female, of course.

And then there is this thing of shaking people’s hands. As a politician, you must do quite a bit of that if you want votes.

A guy approaches you and you have no idea whether he has just come from the toilet and shaken after use. But you must shake his paw and smile like he is Barack Obama.

Nasty sideshow

In fact, I suspect that when politicians go home after a round of meeting the people, the first thing they do is wash their hands.

The resulting rinse must be dirty and oily enough to ignite a rusty Tuk Tuk.

Another nasty sideshow of a politician’s life is food.

Whereas the taxpayer pays you enough to afford only the finest cuisine, your job description demands that you hang around rural primary schools and churches eating badly cooked pilau, oily chapatti and raw mandazi.

As with shaking hands, you never can vouch for hygiene. I think Parliament must spend a fortune deworming waheshimiwa.

Speaking of deworming, the worst thing about being a politician is that you attract all manner of parasites into your life.

From jailbirds, chicken thieves, layabouts and petty crooks, a large part of your income is blown on the decadent lifestyles of hooligans you and your wife can barely tolerate.

And did I say ‘wife’? Oh my gosh! That is absolutely the one reason I would never become a politician.

Senior bachelor

To begin with, I wouldn’t be elected or erected as we say in some quarters for the simple reason that I am a senior bachelor.

Second, I would hate my wife to watch me get insulted daily on TV, in newspapers, on Facebook and occasionally whipped and chased like a stray mongrel by my enemy’s militia.

This is not to say politics has no juicy perks. It does.

My favourite is that you get to smooch very pretty women who would otherwise never give you a second look at the back of a fuel guzzler, as an armed police officer stands guard in the midnight chill.

 

 

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