The Fish Stinks From the Head Down

I watched the thief writhe in pain on the ground
blood trickling down his left ear
His eyes were swollen shut where a large boot mark
had imprinted firmly on his face
The crowd bayed for blood, enraged
The golden chain he’d stolen dangled from his broken wrist

That golden chain triggered thoughts of stolen rights
Stolen rights to superior education
Stolen rights to health services
Stolen rights to good roads
To quality public service
To Electricity
Water
Housing
Land

How could we beat a petty thief to the nth of his life
yet shake hands with a bigger thief with the temerity to stand
on stage and feed on big man praise,
not caring whether the man on the street lives or dies?

How could we kill one who’s probably at the end of his tether
and not ask the pompous con artist on the stage how he sleeps at night,
knowing he’s stolen the future of an entire nation?

How could we bathe him in ululation and cheer
when he’s the carrier, nay, the author of the negative
stereotypes about Kenya and Africa as a whole?

How could we vote him in
year upon year, the same wolf, wearing a different face,
yet channel our anger to the thief with the golden chain
in his hand?

Inspired by a discussion with JK

PoP 18 Aug 07