Secrets of Meeting between the VP and the PM
Last night, the vice president slowly rose from his arm chair and retired to his comfortable bed. The last couple of weeks had been hectic. He had played key roles in the burial of his two former colleagues in government. By chance or design, he had been the master of ceremonies during the various assemblies in honor of the departed.
So when he heard some whizzling sounds through the adjacent balcony of his bedroom, he firmly reassured himself that he had checked all entrances; furthermore, the alarm system would have triggered a response from the commissioner of police and director of criminal investigation.
He shifted his weight around and tried to say a prayer.
He was, however, surprised to see his door flung open. In came the prime minister, Raila Odinga – the ‘cousin’ to President Obama of the US – accompanied by a raft of leaders from the left.
He almost protested the invasion of his privacy, but the P.M was quick to call for an apology.
So what was it about he demanded. What was so urgent to be delivered in the middle of the night at his bedroom?
Behind the intimidating crowd a witch sprung. He held a fly whisk with his right hand. His esoteric moves made him rage with scorn, but the reassuring look from the P.M made him hesitate.
How, in Lord’s name, would they dare bring a devil to his home? He reached for his official telephone line. It was not working.
His cell phone was off inside a rocker somewhere. The P.M drew a seat next to the bed. The crowd around him stood tall. The witch proceeded to sprinkle with his whisk.
“It is simple,” the PM was speaking softly.
“WHAT!” the VP’s voice echoed inside the soundproofed room.
After a brief exchange of scornful looks, he resigned himself to the captivity. He could imagine how the reporters would wallow in his press conference once the ordeal is over.
The PM was in his element: “It is we agree, or none of us will ever get the prize.”
“So will you support me this time?” The VP was quick to ask.
“Oh, yes,” was the PM’s quick assurance. “That explains my unorthodox approach tonight.”
“What do you expect from me, my brother,” he was now smiling and obviously taken.
“I expect you, my brother, to fulfil your promise.”
The VP’s ears flapped. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was, sure, a man of his words. He prided himself as one who keeps own promises.
It, after all, seemed easier than he had earlier thought.
“Say it, Mr. PM, ” he prodded with eagerness.
“That you are not going to present your presidential candidature if the ICC trials bar some of friends from contesting.”
“I didn't say that, of course.” He asserted.
“Yes you did, Mr. VP.”
“ OK, so be it.”
“We got a deal.”
The VP woke up to a rude realization that it was just a dream. Some dreams are so real.