Hang on; don’t rush out to buy a new kofia for the event. The wedding is on, sure, just not yet.
You see, Mr. President, my better half and I have agreed not to get married until you leave power. We know it won’t be in 2011, but that’s okay. Take your time. It will give me the opportunity to work off the extra fat and to get a plush job in the National Social Security Fund. That way I can look my personal best and he and I can rip off a few working suckers to afford a yearlong honeymoon in Cape Verde.
My fiancé doesn’t mind …
… I’m sorry. It seems I have been disingenuous in mentioning a fiancé.
Mr. President, I don’t have a husband-in-waiting. I’m searching for one, but the hunt is hard. You understand, don’t you? You said, a few years ago, that you were looking for people with vision. I felt your pain when you admitted to being tormented because only you had the power of foresight for Uganda. I identify, Mr. President. I identify. There are no men who live up to my one and only requirement that they be men. Masculinity and vision are hard to find these days.
Still, I want you to come to my wedding.
On numerous occasions I have heard your wish that all Ugandans should obtain an education, marry young, procreate and build this country. I apologize that I’m starting late. 34 years … it’s not only my mother who’s concerned. The clock is ticking for me, Mr. President, but by all means, take your time. I’m a patient woman.
I dream of my wedding, Mr. President. It’s a beautiful dream. A congregation full of people cheering me on, praising me for my poor dress sense, clapping at my unwise decision to choose a five-time divorcee as my marriage counselor. As we leave the church, smiling hoards bless my man and I, ignoring the fact that he is a known thief and scoundrel. It’s beautiful, Mr. President.
Of course there’s a small group of dissenters in my dream, but I shut them up. They stage a massive walkout, protesting loudly, but who cares? The House can do without them. The majority knows, the majority shows, the majority loves me.
Am I deluded Mr. President? I don’t think so. I learned from the best, you see. You’ve taught me to ignore the times, to dismiss the facts and to rewrite history if I must.
So won’t you come to my wedding, Mr. President?
I promise it will be great. There’ll be no vulgarized version of a matrimonial ceremony. I’ll ring-fence the speech slots, reserving one just for you. I’ll smile as you go on and on and on about how great your resistance movement was and how much you struggled for me. I’ll laugh as you misquote the Bible. I’ll nod knowingly as you smuggle in a misplaced Runyankole proverb or two. I’ll kneel in gratitude as you remind me that were it not for the NRM and the peace you brought, I’d never have been married.
My life right now is comfortable and I wonder sometimes … Mr. President when I look at the hassle-free life I have created for myself, I silently chant ‘No Change’. A husband may very likely mess up my happiness. The thought of giving single life another kisanja is often appealing.
But what am I saying? I want to get married and it all depends on you.
Our destinies are linked, you and I, Mr. President, and I look forward to the day. Make me a blushing bride, Mr. President, but not too soon. By all means, take your time.