Ah, the tragedy of the perennially displaced political soul—adrift, unmoored, blown about by the fickle winds of expediency. You once wrapped yourself in the proud banner of the OLF, championing its cause with a fervor that, at the time, seemed almost convincing. And then—poof!—the call of PP rang out, and suddenly, ideological fidelity became a quaint relic of the past. Off you went, defecting with the enthusiasm of a man who had just discovered that principles are best traded for power.
Ministerial post secured. A seat at the high table. A warm embrace from the very regime that once stood in opposition to everything you purported to believe. For a while, the meal was lavish, the company agreeable—until, alas, the inevitable discard. The hand that once fed you suddenly found you inconvenient, unnecessary, surplus to requirements. And now? Now, you return, crestfallen, clutching your wounded pride, railing against betrayals as though you had not pioneered the art of betrayal yourself.
So, tell us—what is this lament about the OLF vis-à-vis the OFC? A moment of belated realization? An awakening so rude that even hypocrisy itself winces? Do you now fancy yourself a voice of reason, an oracle of political decency, a man wronged by the very machinery you eagerly helped to oil?
You cannot, dear sir, eat your cake and keep it whole. You chose to dine at the PP banquet, chose to discard yesterday’s convictions for today’s conveniences. And now, as the political tables turn, you decry the unfairness of a game you once played with such relish?
Spare us the performative indignation. You are PP. You were PP when it suited you, and you are PP now, even as it discards you like an expired pamphlet. The rest is just theatrics.
