In his desire to become a politician of some renown and calibre Richard Mugamba had spurs galore to prick the sides of his intent and oodles of vaulting ambition that frequently overleapt itself.
Thin wisps of lies and massive cobwebs of deceit littered the attic of his mind. He had been Gorgonized by years of staring at the stony visage of avarice. Black trails of political slime marked the corridors of power through which he crawled. Green scum stained the greasy pole he used to worm and squirm his way to the top.
Ferrets and weasels could compare notes and take a leaf or two from Mugamba’s book on how to inveigle, coax, and cajole a gullible public. Insincere flattery and officious courtesy were left in the wake of the cruiser line of public deception that was Mugamba.
Though Mugamba had cracked the urban crowd he still had to curry favour with the rural villagers and tribal elders who had little patience and no truck with the shenanigans of go-getter politicians who were constantly go-getting.
So off he set to explore the dark hinterlands of Africa scouting for precious votes armed with a fibbing mouth, a machete of lies, and a rug sack of propaganda.
He stopped at the first village deep in the gizzard of Africa’s darkness with his official translator by his side who interpreted the local cabala tongue and tribal fee-faw-fumism.
“I am here to promise you jobs!” soapboxed the wily Mugamba.
“GUBA DALA DALA!” responded the crowd in unison!
Mugamba was perplexed and turned to his interpreter, who had somehow managed to disappear into the crowd. Mugamaba took the expression to be one of praise and exhortation so he continued.
“I am here to promise you electricity!” sneaky Mugamba declaimed.
“GUBA DALA DALA!” yelled the crowd as one.
Mugamba took this to be more encouragement and smiled like a vulture hovering over carrion.
“I am here to promise you drinking water!” shifty Mugamba giftgabbed.
“GUBA DALA DALA!” was the unanimous response from the crowd.
“No child will be left behind – free education for all your kids!” pronounced Mugamba with so much conviction he almost persuaded himself.
“GUBA DALA DALA!” chanted the villagers of one accord.
Mugamba looked delighted at the enthusiasm of the crowd. He turned to look at his interpreter but couldn’t spot him in the surging crowd.
“Widows and orphans will be offered free housing!” snake-tongued the sneaky Mugamba.
“GUBA DALA DALA!” intoned the villagers in harmony.
Mugamba stepped away from the crowd and patted himself on the back for a job well done. Their votes were as good as his. He felt like a crafty crocodile that had just snapped at a baby zebra’s haunches.
He managed to find his interpreter and the two went for a tour of the village. “Don’t you think the villagers love me?” said Mugamba, smiling smugly like Tweety after it had outwitted Sylvester yet again.
Soon they arrived at an area fenced in by high walls. Mugamba was curious and wanted to know what lay behind. He instructed his interpreter to open the gates.
“You can’t go in there, it’s a field” said the interpreter.
“Why not?” harrumphed Mugamba, “What’s in the field?”
“The field has a Guba in there,” replied the interpreter.
“And what on earth is a Guba?”
“A Guba is the local name for a Bull,” replied the interpreter.
“So what if there is a Bull in the field, I can walk through, can’t I?”
“You could Mr. Mugamba, however the field is covered in a lot of Guba dala dala.”
