Neighboring villages envied how Shamakhokho village square came alive, with people chatting, arguing, and laughing like it was a big family gathering. Hawkers shouted, arguing with buyers who wanted everything at half price.

Old men sat on benches, debating politics like referees in a never-ending match.

Campaign posters plastered to mud-stained walls—some peeling off, others slapped on top of old promises that had never been fulfilled.

The battle lines were drawn. Shamakhokho was choosing its next MCA.

Mzee Lubisia, the retired teacher, stood under the old mango tree, nodding gravely as elders whispered their grievances into his ear.

Across the square, Mr. Otiato, the rich businessman, lounged under a bright red tent, his supporters chanting his name between mouthfuls of “firimbi”(whistles). They had seen his money, and they knew what it could do.

And then, there was Wambilianga.

I still don’t know when the madness started. Maybe it was when he saw Otiato’s team tossing cash around like roasted groundnuts. Maybe it was when he overheard a boda-boda rider say, “This election is just about who can talk the loudest.”

That was all Wambilianga needed to hear.

By midday, the entire village was talking.

“Wambilianga? For MCA? The same one who was washing sufurias at Mama Atoti's hotel llast month?” “He says he represents the youth! And he’s promising free boda-boda fuel every Sunday!”

“Fuel? From where? Even Kasongo himself doesn’t give fuel for free.” But Wambilianga didn’t care about doubters. He had already gathered a small crowd outside Mama Atoti’s hotel.

And me? I stood beside him, arms crossed, shaking my head as he raised his hands like a prophet about to deliver the gospel of Shamakhokho.

“My people!” His voice rang out, cutting through the chatter of the square. “For too long, we have suffered under the same old faces! We need new blood! A leader who understands the real problems of Shamakhokho!”

The crowd murmured, uncertain but curious. Wambilianga scanned their faces, sensing the doubt hanging in the air. He took a bold step forward, his voice rising with urgency.

“Otiato has money, yes. But where did he get it? Lubisia is wise, yes. But when did wisdom ever fix our roads? We need action! And I, Wambilianga, am the man to bring it!”

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Wambilianga, do you even know what an MCA does?”

He ignored me, eyes blazing with something between conviction and pure nonsense.

“I promise you a borehole in every corner of Shamakhokho! Our youth will get jobs! Our mamas will have free maize flour every week!”

A man in the crowd chuckled. “And where will this maize come from?”

Wambilianga’s smile didn’t falter. “My friend, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And I have a way!” Some people clapped, others shook their heads, but one thing was clear—Wambilianga had captured their attention.

I exhaled, watching him bask in the moment. This fool was going to embarrass himself.

Or was he?

Because if there was one thing Wambilianga knew how to do, it was turning nothing into something.

And this time, he was playing the biggest game of his life.

To be continued…