How public debate on taxes almost earned me a huge slap

Our work as MCAs is full of risks. Every day, we move about in fear of physical assault. Anyway, being humble and popularly elected leaders, we are often willing to take the beatings in the spirit of service to the people.

But the slap I almost received last Friday was totally uncalled for. Had it not been for my aide-de-camp, Mokonyonyo Spoiler aka Moks, one of my noble cheeks would still be bearing the unmistakable imprint of an open misguided palm.

It all began after the reading of the national budget the other day. Being a thoughtful servant of the people, I thought it necessary to find out what they think about the proposals. I asked Moks, who also doubles as my advisor, to suggest the best way of getting this information.

“Simple,” he said exuding confidence as usual. “Board one of the public transport vehicles. There you will get honest opinions of the people on the ground.”

That was very true. Before I became an MCA, I used public transport a lot, and the debates in there were often heated. To draw people into a debate, all one needed was to make a controversial statement loud enough for everyone to hear. Public transport was therefore, a perfect place of gathering public views.

However, I had one problem: now that I was a MCA, wouldn’t I be the focus of attention in the bus? This would defeat my purpose.

“Do not worry,” said Moks when I shared this concern with him. “You will disguise yourself. A huge face mask, and perhaps a cap will do, “ he asserted. “After all, we have been advised not to discard masks all together.” That was wisdom that only Moks would dispense.

No wonder he is not about to be replaced as my advisor-in-chief - he gives me timely and thoughtful advice. We agreed I would travel in a bus disguised as any other passenger, and that I would not utter a word lest someone recognises my voice.  Moks too would be in the vehicle to provoke a debate.

So last Friday morning found us inside a bus. Moks and I were seated far apart. It did not take long before my sidekick assumed his role as an agent provocateur. “The government should have introduced more taxes. The more the tax, the better for our country, “ he declared aloud.

“Wacha ujinga!” erupted a fellow two seats away from me. 
“Kwani what is wrong with paying taxes?” Moks posed, feigning seriousness.

“Hey man, keep your nonsensical views to yourself,” screeched a man in an ear-splitting shrill voice. Moks was not one to be deterred. “Don’t be angry. Just tell us what you think about the budget,” he retorted.

“That was not a budget. It was a robbery statement. The kind of thing robbers say when they are about to empty your pockets.” I turned to see the mouth that had uttered these words and found it belonged to a bespectacled lady who looked damn serious. “And the MPs we elected are the robbers themselves,” she added.

“In fact all elected leaders are thieves. Kwanza MCAs,” came a voice from the back of the bus.
There arose a wave of murmuring. “Yes, MCAs will chew all the county money and use the remainder for development,” Mr Shrill voice was at it again. “They are always thirsting for public funds.” I felt a fire in my belly as I fought back the temptation to tell off this loud mouth. “MCA’s are the most greedy beings on earth. In fact, MCA stands for Most Corrupt Animal!”

I could not take this lying down. I lowered my face mask, looked squarely at verbal assailant and asked him, “Kwani hiyo pesa ni ya mama yako?” This must have stung the fellow unbearably, for he sprang up, left his seat and moved towards me menacingly. “How did my mother come in all this? Do you know I can slap you badly?” he snarled, hand already raised. In a flash, Moks appeared between us and pushed away the would-be assailant. “Ala! Kumbe it is our MCA?” someone gasped.

“He should not insult people’s mothers just because he is an MCA,” puffed the restrained slapper. “Let him enjoy his loot in peace.” This statement rekindled the fire in my belly. “Keep your cool,” Moks whispered in my ear.

In his wisdom, the driver of the bus increased the volume of the music, and this drowned our voices. The rest of the journey proceeded uneventfully. I still shudder to imagine what would have happened had the man’s wretched palm landed on my cheek. Kingeumana!