Of politics, politicians and public emotional healing

When some scholars and political analysts gathered in Katholike Universiteit, Leuven, Belgium, in September 2009 to debate the prospect of a “world without politics” – at a conference of the same theme – they were imagining what was quite conceivable. The world can limp along with or without politics.

But can anyone imagine for a moment a world without politicians?

The recent fall from grace of US politician Anthony Weiner over indecent self-exhibition, and of former Nigerian House of Representatives Speaker, Dimeji Bankole, over allegations of fraud, bring home the point that in these tough times,  we probably owe our emotional well-being more to politicians than to counseling psychologists, pastors, spiritualists and standup comedians put together.

Research has established that we live because we laugh. Life stops – life as we know it, that is – when laughter stops. As one counseling psychologist recently said on a radio magazine programme, probably the most efficacious test of our emotional well-being is for everyone to ask oneself the simple question: “When last did I laugh – really laugh?”

For our present purposes, this question will be phrased thus: “Who last made me laugh?”

Stand-up comedians and humorists would like to see themselves as the world’s laugh-merchants and demand that we credit them for giving us much needed emotional support. They are not be wrong.

But it is politicians that should be making that claim. Have you watched them at political rallies? Have you listened to them? What would you say about the exuberant dancing, singing, and incredible ability to cram a thousand empty promises into one A4 sheet?

Have you watched them backstage? As in, have you seen what they do off-stage, how they do it – and how they figure out what to do next?

Reflect for a moment on what is now better known as the “Weiner scandal”. Different accounts of it no doubt exist, but there is at this moment no doubt that Anthony Weiner (fallen US House of Representative member) had somehow reached a point in his career when he regarded the internet as a private space, where lurid intimacies could be exchanged at whim with an “unknown” other.

We learn for instance, that after it dawned on him that he had “inadvertently” posted near naked images of himself – for the pleasure of a “woman I had never met” – he then attempted to shut down the internet by “deleting” the image from his twitter “sent box”, little knowing the picture had already arrived at the other end – and everywhere else.

The humor (and public emotional healing) value of this scandal lies not in the sordidness of the idiocy, but in the personage and career of this interesting cyber citizen. A standup comedian would struggle in vain to extract laughter from you and me on the basis of an act of this nature. Only a politician of such national standing, and mayoral hopeful of no less a city than New York, would.

Unlike the hard fact (excuse the pun) of Weiner’s indecencies, the humor in Mr Dimeji Bankole’s predicament revolves around allegations – the substance of which a court of law now has the duty to establish. So we’ll limit ourselves to the laughter-inducing value, the only “public property” dimension of the scandal, at this stage.

The Nigerian media commonly refer to the whole affair as a scam. We learn that in a bid to make the working conditions in Nigeria’s national assembly a little bit bearable, the former speaker succumbed to pressures from his colleagues to obtain a N10 billion (approximately 67 million US dollars) bank loan and to share the money among the members (or perhaps a section thereof).

According to media reports, the ex-Speaker allegedly received a share of “about N100 million whereas his deputy got N80 million”, while other officers received amounts ranging from N20 million to N60 million.

If these allegations are eventually proved, the scam would be laughable indeed. Which other professionals share the belief that a loan could be obtained in the name of the public and shared among a handful of individuals for no other reason than that they were the ones who obtained the loan?

In these hard times, when tears flow faster than laughter, politicians must be commended for giving us a reason to laugh. From Libya to Syria, America to Afghanistan, Pakistan to Nigeria, Zimbabwe to South Africa, we have politicians to thank for the daily opportunity of giggling in front of the television and roaring with laughter at the foibles of those who govern.

I have found a particularly hilarious dimension of the Nigerian “borrow-and-share” allegation, and it is in the attempts by bloggers and commentators to ethnicise the joke.

While one commentator to a PM News (Lagos) report is of the view that perpetrators of this scam deserve capital punishment, another responds by asking: “were your so-called brothers killed when they embezzled public funds?” [Blog comment edited for readability].

The frenzied debates, whether about personal indecencies, sexual infidelity, or public financial improprieties, remind us that there is no dull moment in politics.

Which is why I admire the genre of humour called puppet satire and why I believe the politician’s worst foe is not the media, but the puppet satirist.

When taken together, however, the only thing that is not funny is the name we like to associate with being a politician. Policy maker.  Problem solver. Leader. Development advocate. Public representative.