Brethren, he was a former governor of our village, of our city- and how sad human existence could be; an existence that can only be referenced either in the present or in the past. He was a former Senator- and how empty earthly opportunities and positions could become- opportunities and positions that are sweet, enjoyable and pleasurable simply because they never last. Like sexual relations, earthly pleasures are like illusions- they are ‘discharged’ as soon as they are tasted.
He was a former governorship aspirant. Yes. Nothing pays better in this clime than public office. Thus, like the proverbial chair in the theatre, which goes round, and round without end, a former governor could become a former Senator who could become a local government Chairman who could become a local government councilor. To be a politician is an experience only the politician can tell. The other day an intellectual icon was offered an unsolicited portfolio in the cabinet of a former governor, the former exclaimed in wonderment: “Could you imagine that? I Professor XYZ as Commissioner; in whose cabinet in this state please?”
But life is all about choices. Before he passed on last Sunday, our brother had achieved earthly successes the like of which thousands of politicians would continue to envy. He had seen it all, so we thought. “But I have not seen and cannot see it all”, he would have argued. But who can actually see it all? Those of the world would always want to “see” it all. To be in the world and of the world is to lose it all. To lose it all is to be in the world. To be in the world is to fail to spare a thought that the bell could ring at any particular point in time. But again, show me a politician who cares what happens tomorrow. The hallmark of political correctness is to build castles in a future one is destined never to witness.
Thus it came to pass that hour before he died, plans were being made on how he would emerge, once again, as the governor of our village.
Strategies were being marshaled. Campaign leaflets and mementoes were being produced. Hours before he passed on, he had joined the social gathering in town. Political jobbers had found new castles in his house to inhabit. Praise-singers had found new patronage in his persona to adulate. Once again the town was rising again, so it seemed. Nobody knew he had only a couple of hours left to spend on earth, not days, not months, not years. Agents from the celestial had already begun to do the count-down for him. The “stones” of life were being counted out for our brother at a time neither his wife, his aides, his children nor the coterie of political jobbers who usually camp on the margins of social events like vultures in search of prey, knew they were looking at a subject whose last day on earth remained only a few hours.
