Dr Luncheon scratched his head. What was going on? His 40-year experiment to create the ultimate political machine was going seriously awry. Some of the clones had disappeared.
For months there had been no sighting of the Party Clone. The one who caroused at the Latino bar; nor had there been any sign of the Baby Loving clone, the one who went into villages and picked up infants for the cameras. It seemed that they were either locked in their pods at State House or worse yet had been destroyed.
For those of you who do not yet know: For the last eight years Guyana has been ruled by a series of Jagdeo clones, who were created by mastermind Dr Luncheon and his accomplice at NARI, Dr Oudho Homezero. Each clone has a special expertise and this explained how Jagdeo was able last year to simultaneously tour flooded areas (the Wellington boots clone) and be in Washington at an IMF meeting (the number cruncher version).
But of late there had been a change in his behaviour. From a leader who rose above slurs to one who picks a fight over his clothing; from one who said he had faith in his ministers’ abilities, to one who consistently hijacks their portfolios; from one who laughed at reporters’ questions to one who dismisses them as “silly”.
And then one day in February, he had come to Luncheon’s laboratory and demanded the master codes to all the clones. Luncheon had initially refused until Jagdeo had broken his arm.
The next day Jagdeo flew to the Land of his Birth, Russia, and more specifically to the Patrice Lumumba Institute for Political Bio-engineering. (His visit with Putin – himself a clone created by the KGB – had been a cover) Jagdeo underwent reprogramming and was sent home with two new uber-clones who would help him rule the country with an iron fist.
Luncheon had little control over these new creations save for a device he had adapted from a DIRECTV remote.
Now the three clones flourished. Clone MMII, otherwise known as the micro manager would sweep along the East Bank examining each billboard to see if it was legal, and inspect the grassy knoll at the stadium.
Then there was the Statesman 302 model. The one who loved to mingle with foreign dignitaries – to raise his profile in the name of raising the country’s profile. Yes, even to host them at massive expense thereby creating traffic jams, cancelling flights and inexplicably having every roadside structure painted in white to a height of five feet.
And finally there was the Depressed Clone. The one who appeared at Buddy’s. The monotone low pitched voice was a giveaway that he would soon explode into a rage over the “can’t doers” – better known as any critic. Luncheon watched from a balcony for 20 minutes in deep alarm as Jagdeo ranted at the naysayers – better known as those people who refused to compromise their principles – at what was supposed to be a joyous occasion for the host – a man “who can do anything he likes.”
At one point the clone overheated and began repeating, “no apologies, I have no apologies” until Luncheon came to his rescue and pressed the fast forward button.
Because despite his ambivalence over the new Jagdeo, and the ingratitude towards him and the party, Luncheon still loved his creation like a son. He knew that his boy was becoming a monster he could no longer control, indeed that no one could control, and he worried what might be the outcome. After all having tasted such power, having had such command over his subjects would Jagdeo be willing to step away from politics in five years or was he now seeing himself indispensable to the country’s welfare?
Editorial
Corporate colonialism
Our Trinidad correspondent Mary Williams reports that at Monday’s South Africa Ireland CWC warm up match, patrons were being charged $3.00 for a warm beer; and US$2 for a bottle of water. No one was allowed to bring water into the ground and worse yet some people were actually sent home to change their shirts because they had some rival sponsors’ logo.
So this is what the World Cup will be all about. Send home the little West Indian boy who came to school in the wrong shirt, while using his islands as a backdrop to sell more cars, soft drinks and insurance. Be prepared for a month of unashamed Corporate Colonialism and watch as the romance of West Indian cricket -the world of Tante Merle at the Oval, a bottle of rum done before even one ball is bowled, and friendly pitch invasions – is hit for a six.
They could have held the World Cup on a Hollywood back lot, replete with plastic palm trees for all its respect for the region’s cricketing customs.
Of course it will be hailed as a huge success but what will the average citizen gain from it? Forget the flimsy rationales that it will kick start tourism, raise the country’s profile or showcase its products. Instead expect more tax payer-funded debt and insane traffic jams.
