Because we live in a small matchbox, sardine tin, fig leaf (lesser than a banana republic) we have a crab-in–the–barrel psychology. We fight for space as if oxygen is running out and we can’t inhale let alone exhale.
Thus, our human resources personnel continue to place square pegs in wrong holes – i.e. those who have the prerogative, the power to employ, almost yeah the the outlet in the room there is a power in it power outlet apparently the breakfast always select the wrong persons because too often they are guided, influenced, by pettiness, jealousy, racial bigotry, stupidity and plain bad mind.
Manning advised against making Rowley PM and what we do we give not one term but two terms to ruin our country and our happy-go-lucky-lives. He in turn appoints Imbert as the man in charge of our billions knowing that he has no knowledge or experience in running a roadside parlour. He makes Faris AG although he must have known that amongst the legal eagles of this country, the fellow would have got in only as an OJT in the filing room below the basement.
And then Kamla puts in charge of a national security agency Reshmi Ramnarine, an OJT herself; archaeologically extracted out of some remote, alien land, Barry Padarath and makes him the candidate for Princes Town on the basis that it is a safe seat and this blue-eyed boy toy of hers is sure to get elected as an MP to do her future bidding; has as a rolled over Senator, term after term, Wade Mark even though he is not even good enough for street corner comedy.
So while Kamla self-righteously pontificates about who might have been put, she in that same position might have chosen, say, her hair dresser as president and justified it on the ground that she is a fashionista par excellence, so why not?
Christine Kangaloo is chosen by Rowley not because this woman has distinguished herself in anyway except to treat opposition Senators as Kindergarten school children with her being the tyrannical school mistress who cowers them into sitting down as she stresses she’s standing on her legs – black sage or whatever physiological quality it’s up to the lumberjack’s sense of aesthetics.
Now, we the people, must we continue as Wussies and let Imbert sneer at us or should we now stand and order Kangaloo to sit?
L. Siddhartha Orie
