perennial

I had planted my garden ready for the spring. But the winter was long and bitter and spring bought nothing but devastation. Only chaos flowered that year. It was a wretched, anxious state of affairs. It had happed before and we knew it would happen again. I was in a vile and violent frame of mind. As you know, that was when my troubles started.

It was that first phone call. They played me so well. They tempted me, offered me, promised me. That first phone call: if only I had spoken to you then. Their second call persuaded me and from that moment the snakes and ladders had hold of me.

The evil was seductive and I was defenceless. My anger and ego combined exquisitely to lead me astray. If only I had not been so wearied, and impatient, I could have resisted.

They made such eloquent promises to me.

Meetings replaced phone calls. Assurances of powerful connections and monetary support emanated from those gatherings. I did not question. Always they said it was my choice, but soon it became impossible to say no. My hopes were like a balloon following its’ string. A string held by them. 

My descent was steady, sneaky, the irresistible type. It masqueraded as patriotism. Was I naive? Yes, because I wanted to be. Was I trusting? Yes. Did I understand where the path led? Of course I did. 

Once they had me painted with their mire it was impossible for me to do anything other than continue. They knew that. They had picked their mark well. They knew my type. I was never wrong. I prided myself on being smarter than everyone else. 

You tried to warn me. I would not listen. They dared me, challenged my intellect as you once had. I twisted towards them, turning away from you and your judgment. Your way was too slow for me.

I took offence at you not seeing it my way. I favoured my new friends and their ambitious plans. What had become a polite quiet between us deepened into profound silence. We had taken different paths. Our lost friendship was a desolate mirror of the politics consuming us.

I did not understand that it had become dangerous for you to know me. You were not theirs and for that they would hunt you down. Your ideas threatened them. Threatened me. I treated you as harmless, hoping that they would see you that way to. In truth though, it fell to others to protect and shelter you.

Then I made my biggest mistake of all. I took power. They told me it was the right time and I agreed. What else could I do? 

From then on more, always more they asked of me. There was no compromise; there was only dominance and brutality. 

I had not changed anything. I was the very creature that I had sought to replace. I was in a trap. I had trapped myself. There was no one else to blame and that was the hardest bit. 

I started speculating about where the next ‘me’ would come from, it was only a matter of time. They would have placed a phone call already. Sleep, like you, was lost to me. Ghosts encircled me, calling me to dance with them, whenever I closed my eyes.

On the first anniversary of my dictatorship you sent me a pot plant; it was a hibiscus with buds that were yet to open. It arrived anonymously but I knew whom it was from. I knew what you meant.

That day, pot plant day, I changed. I was no longer going to be theirs.

They were not prepared and they hated me for it. They worked on me incessantly. Relentless cycles of guilt and cynical praise, feigned disbelief and open aggression were inflicted on me. I kept watering your pot plant, each year nurturing it into full flower. We met many times in secret.

You knew it all along but I had to realize it for myself. We did not need a change of governor; we needed a change in how we governed. 

They fought hard. You and I fought harder. We held elections. Votes bloomed bright before our eyes.

They could not withstand us. Not all of us. 

Most of them are gone now, discarded parts of the discredited machine. I find it astounding that I am still here though - serving as best I can, as your Prime Minister. 

This spring my garden is handsome again. The winter was mild and predictable. In spite of my long neglect the perennials survived. 

Your hibiscus, unconstrained by its’ pot, is now one amongst many joyous flowers. The ghosts are still with me and they often walk with me in my garden. They no longer hunger to dance with me though. They are quieter, calmer companions now.

When I tend our hibiscus, or drink the tea I make from it, there is only one living soul I will tolerate to be with me.

That is you - my friend, our president.