Musa was grew up without a silver spoon it was no secret on the streets that his family grew up in poverty. All his life all they had was enough to get by for the next day, he grew looking at the flamboyant lives politicians lives, and they lived with such impunity, without a care in the world for the masses. He always wondered why the people were so docile, how can people who are not up to 2000 in number subjugate a population of over 2 miilion people to stupendous poverty.
He would often ask his father: “Baba, we have no light, no water, the roads are bad, no security”, why do people still support these politician?
His father always said: “ Musa people cannot fight for what they’ve never heard” but maybe one day we hope our situation changes
Musa just sighed , he could not wait for a fictitious hope, that never seemed to come. Musa was hell bent on change, Musa thought and pondered on how he could effect change, could he even ever get to positions that had any impact
Musa grew up without a silver spoon; it was no secret on the streets that his family lived in the shadows of poverty. All his life, all they had was enough to get by for the next day. He grew up watching the flamboyant lives politicians lived—men who moved with such impunity, without a care in the world for the masses. He always wondered why the people were so docile. How could a group not even 2,000 in number subjugate a population of over 2 million to such stupendous poverty?
He would often ask his father, "Baba, we have no light, no water, the roads are bad, no security. Why do people still support these politicians?"
His father always said, "Musa, people cannot fight for what they’ve never heard. But maybe one day, we hope our situation changes."
Musa just sighed. He could not wait for a fictitious hope that never seemed to come. He was hell-bent on change, pondering how he could ever reach a position of impact.
Musa always thought about his path out of the slums, fueled by a burning ambition. He had to do anything he could to make it. He didn't want the money, he’d always told himself, he wanted the power to dismantle the system that kept his father’s back bent, well past his prime and his mother’s eyes weary, with bags as if she never slept. Hopelessness written all over their faces. He began as a grassroots organizer, a voice for the Market Square People. He was already a familiar face, wherever their was a protest he was there. He spoke with such fire and spoke the language of the hungry.
"I promise you," he would shout from the back of a rusty pickup truck, "that I will never forget the taste of lack in this neighborhood. I will never eat while you starve. If I ever enter that State House, I am carrying every one of you in my pocket!"
The people loved him, they saw themselves in his tattered shirt and his fierce eyes. Maybe he wasthe hope they had been looking for. By the time he in his thirties, Musa had done the impossible. He had bypassed the godfathers and the kingmakers, even the threats and the assassination attempts, riding a wave of anger straight into the legislative assembly. On the night of his victory, he sat with his father in their small, dim room.
"Baba," Musa whispered, "the change is here. I promise, I will be the one who stays true."
His father only chuckled and smiled!
The first year in office was a battle. Musa proposed bills for rural electrification and for water desalination plants in his constituency. After about 3 months he quickly realized that the 2,000 he once despised were not just monsters/devils, they were a well-oiled machine(a cabal). They didn't fight him with frowns or hate, they welcomed him with invitations. They invited him to something he never had.
"Musa," the Senate President said, draped in the very expensive Getzner agbada, that cost more than Musa’s childhood home. "You want to build roads? Very good but you cannot build a road without a contractor. And a contractor needs a friend in the ministry. We are all friends here. Why make enemies of your friends?"
A year had passed since Musa ascended the legislative seat and the true test came during the "Great Drought" of this year. The over 2 million people Musa represented were starved with a lack of water because the funds for the state water project had been "reallocated" to the security vote, basically a slush fund for the elite. Musa stood in the chambers, ready to scream. He had the documents to prove the theft, but that morning, a black briefcase was left in his private office. Inside was more money than his father had earned in forty years of labor. Accompanying it was a photograph of a sprawling estate in Dubai, registered in Musa’s name.
At that point Musa thought to himself
“If I take this, he reasoned, I can fund my own charity. I can do more good with this money privately than I can by fighting a losing battle against these giants.” It was the classic lie the soul tells itself when it begins to rot.
The Irony of life happened five years later, a new protest broke out in the streets. A young woman, much like the Musa of old, stood on a crate shouting about the lack of water and the broken roads. Inside the tinted glass of a bulletproof SUV, Musa sat in the back seat. He was wearing a gold watch that felt heavy on his wrist. He was scrolling through a real estate brochure for a villa in France. "Sir," his driver said, "the protesters are blocking the main artery to the airport. Should we take the back route?"
Musa peeped through the SUV, and he saw the faces, some of them familiar and just a glimmer of guilt sparked in him but it was quickly replaced with irritation and annoyance and he said, "Use the sirens," Musa said, his voice devoid of the passion "and also call the Commissioner. Tell him to clear these people out. They are disrupting the peace, they do not have permit to protest. How can we attract investment to this country if the streets are in chaos?"
As the sirens wailed, cutting through the cries of the hungry like a blade, Musa realized he had become the very thing he once questioned. He was now one of the 2,000. He had broken the promise he made to his father and to his people. He didn't wonder anymore. He knew why they were subjugated. He was the one holding the leash, and the leash felt soo soft against his palms.
This might be a fictitious story but it is the reality of people in corrupt third world countries
iMAGES ARE A.I GENERATED
