Watch out, change is coming. It is coming like an avalanche, like a plague of locusts. It will cover the walls of your high wall fences and blank out traffic signs at road junctions. It will spruce up the wall of shanties and give huts a new beautiful appearance. It will come in bold large letterings, like advertisements in old newspapers, like the screams of a megaphone wielding preacher at dawn. It is coming in the form of familiar faces singing new songs, hits of the 60’s in new CD plates, old products in colourful new wrappings.
Change is coming and it will harass you to nuts. Listen, you will already hear them rehearsing their notes for the grand performance in 2015. They are good at it, at manufacturing those sweet sounding slogans, at exciting us with their clichéd lines, at insulting us with their half clever rhetoric. We get carried away. We dance to their tunes. We get drunk on their wine. We sell our consciences to them. Then they rape us again and in the season after this, 2019, they will metamorphose again, shed the old coat and come to us again with the same song, change.
Change is coming. Doesn’t it just feel like a déjà vu? These characters, these circus clowns that have grown more adept at changing their colours than the chameleon, do we not know them? Have we not heard these stories before? Do we not recognise their antics? Hands of Esau, voices of Jacob, does their trickery not ring out like sirens in the night? Or are we deceived by their freshly minted logo and the new accent with which they pronounce the magic six letter word?
Surely we are not. We know them, these career politrictians, these political job seekers. Like babies, they are pretty uncomfortable hanging around their own mess. So they seek clean slates, new nappies. They do a name change. Old things have passed away they want us to believe. New creatures they have become.
After fouling the public space from under the umbrella, after sweeping our collective patrimony into private pockets, after offering us half cooked corn and penning down gibberish on our memory, they attempt a remix, another go at the cherry, another chapter for our nightmare published under a new imprint.
What is it that propels this new song from them? They’ve been chased out of the umbrella and the rains are bad. The broom was not broad enough to gather them enough game. They were getting choked on their own half cooked corn. The pen’s ink was being erased even as they wrote. So they team up standing on a new dais. A conglomeration of disgruntled elements. A brood of power tasty vipers. They appear in their new robes, singing like a choir, this new song of change, this new melody of hope.
Change is coming but it is not the kind we yearn for, the kind we dream about when we lie down at night, the kind the dictionary defines as “to become different.” It is the new kind of change. The ‘more of the same’ kind, the variety that seeks to differentiate between six and half a dozen. The posters will be different but the faces will be the same. The slogan will be different but the intention is the same.
It is the change that does not change anything, the kind that the promoters cannot offer because they do not even know what it means. We fall for them at our own peril.
First published here