Dear Mr. President,
Our most glorious ruler, sinister and repulsive, inept and backward, the silly, the petty, the one and only, from whom flowers burst forth in the morning and sweet scents follow in the night, whose eyes sparkle for new coins, and whose walk makes the ducks blush. We salute you, I salute you.
Let’s just be clear on a few issues first. I don’t like you. You have tried to give me flimsy reasons on why I should like you, but we all know that you’re lying. So I hope you approach life with the understanding that you are not liked. Not just by myself, I’ll have you know .On the contrary, I have a huge audience to entertain with my anti-you campaign. Let not your Prime Minister think he’s any better. I don’t like him either, so let him wipe that silly, smug smile off his face. That being said, lets carry on.
All policemen are ugly. You don’t need to look at them closely to notice. It’s not really the facial features that they possess for surely nobody can look exactly like another unless identical twins. Even if they are identical, they shall not surely have the same traits. No, this is a corporate ugliness. It is not in the face, the dark face. It is not in the body, the usually slender and slightly muscular body. No, it is not these. It’s as if their selection process has an ugly section that they all have to pass. It is an innate ugliness that must come from the heart. This is a dark and sinister aura about them that must be inborn and therefore cannot be escaped. They must be marked from birth. They must be the discarded children of coitus between demons and women in their sleep. I suspect, and it is with strong reason, that these policemen are quite unique in nature.
When you hear police, especially in Kenya, what is the first thought that crosses your mind? Run? Pee and shit on yourselves? Sit and wait for the end? Many people have associated your police with the trouble, harm and pain. It has even been rumored that the first horse of the apocalypse was already released through them. Yes, we think it. Yes, am saying it. You need to be in touch, Mr. President. You need to understand Mr. President. You need to CHANGE Mr. President.
Then there is the little issue of a great establishment. I would like to understand it. Perhaps, you can release a press statement on it, because clearly, giving a speech on it has become a problem. Mr. President, not only that but wouldn’t Kenyans love to have a representative in this establishment. Wouldn’t Kenyans love to eat too? I am telling you, not suggesting to you or speaking in rhetoric. Mr. President, Kenyans would love to grow fat. Kenyans would love to grow rich and fat. Kenyans would love to eat cakes and wine and pastries and foreign delicacies with you. We would like to sit at the royal table with you Mr. President. Besides, isn’t it rumored that that royal table is ours. It is said, only in the most hushed of tones though, that this golden table, laden with the proverbial national cake is also ours to eat, all of us. You need not worry though, the tones as I said are hushed, and therefore a mere undercurrent. Quite inconsequential.
If you hadn’t noticed, Oh Most Grand Mr. President, that past your senility, there exists a drought. Oh Your Excellency, people are dying. You ask what death is. You want to know how this peculiar event occurs, Mr. President. Well, it happens when after going without food or water for weeks, yes weeks Sir, not minutes, your life source seeps out of you. You are lying on the ground. The sun scorches your beaten and battered body. You skin is already leathery and dry. Spotted like a cheetah because of the scorching sun. Your eyes are sunken, no hope to light them even portending. You hair has fallen off, and not because of some city disease like cancer, but because of lack of water. Simply because there is nothing to hold onto on that head. Your bones are paraded and displayed like the agricultural show dairy cows. Your nakedness lies before everyone and you do not care. Flies grace your mouth and eyes. There are no vultures there to celebrate your passing on. Mr. President you are all alone. Alone, have you ever heard that word? Alone? Well, it’s when there is nobody with you, not only to tend to your every need, to massage your feet and pass you the towel when you walk out of the steam bath. No, it’s when there is nobody, period. Mr. President, have you heard of the drought in Kenya? Do you know where it is?
Mr. President, I would like you to know that you have erectile dysfunction. You have it in your head, not your penis. Your Excellency, you have already been diagnosed. You know, why you are suffering this terrible disease? Mr. President, you suffer because you cannot rise to the occasion. You need to learn how to ‘jump into action ‘Sir. You need to know how to satisfy your partners Sir. Mr. President, you ask me why I do this. You ask why I say this. Well, next year is 2012 Sir. Yes, it is 2012. We have planned elections in August of that year. Do you remember what happened in 2008 because of you? You and your so called principal? Well, people went at each other like blood thirsty vampires. They became the undead, these citizens of yours. Look at them now again, Mr. President, teaching themselves how to be vampires, preparing to become undead again. They do this as you stand there and watch Mr. President. I suspect you even encourage it; you stand there and pump away with your left hand to the excitement of their preparation. The flash of their machetes seems to excite you; the scorch of their flames clearly makes you want to dance. You see Mr. President, you have dysfunction. You have erectile dysfunction. It is in your head. Your head and your heart. You need a doctor Your Excellency. A swift visit and a huge dosage of antibiotics. Flashing them down your system may keep you alive. I will make you aware, that the disease leads to death. Beware, Mr. President.
Have you ever tried to walk a tight rope Mr. President? I ask the wrong question. You are too fat to move. I suspect I am scaring you even, so let me scare you a little more. You are walking a tight rope Mr. President. There is teetering involved. Teetering and possible toppling, Sir. When toppling comes, tumbling follows and I think you can bounce, but let’s not put it to the test Mr. President. I need to remind you that you are the one in charge MR. PRESIDENT. You are the boss of us. We do not deny. We have a fat boss. A fat, lazy boss, but still our boss. So Sir, in your fat laziness, as you walk the unnoticed tight rope that you are on, please realize that we are watching you. We are hoping you fall, just so we can put someone else up there in replacement. We know he will walk it, fatten up and fall too…with time. So please as you do it, up above our heads, please don’t fart, and don’t release anything on us that would make our not so attractive selves, so not attractive. You know what I mean.
One more thing, Your Excellency, I want to thank you. Thank you for teaching me to work, not to hope, not to wait, simply to live and to die. Thank you for teaching me to suffer, walk in the sewer and on the fire, so that I can survive. That makes you the single most honorable and noteworthy man I know. Thank you so much, Mr. President. You are a winner. You are The One. You’re the Man!
For your instruments to sing, 
