By Shem Onderi
Delegations arrive—
one after another—
to the State Office,
speaking of country.
Salutes snap from men in uniform.
Their presence presses in—
overwhelming,
filling every corner of my space.
The delegates are neat for the occasion,
their language polished, deliberate.
Documents await my signature;
diplomats praise their motherlands.
Another meeting gathers—
party delegates draped in ruling colours,
chaotic in energy,
yet urgent,
for they carry the weight of leadership.
The President’s meals are rationed, balanced—
yet the table glitters
with bottles of many brands
as discussions stretch on.
My handlers move with precision.
A bodyguard shadows me—alert, unblinking.
Someone adjusts the microphone to my height.
And I wonder:
what do I do for myself?
I cannot walk freely in the streets.
My handshakes are measured, rationed.
A siren clears the road—
even when I am in no hurry.
The national anthem trails me daily—
for I am patriot number one.
The presidential pilot stands ready;
I may fly to a rural event.
An advance team has already gone ahead
to prepare my landing.
Then, the quiet ritual—
a presidential dinner.
In a moment—
the dream dissolves.
I wake,
and write it down.
A writer, as president,
can live a day
and document volumes.