They never believed in democracy; rather masked their faces with colors of the flag; preached hatred in the form of nationalism. They impressed the youth with motherly affections; with crocodile tears at the death of their party foot-soldiers.
Their own children were playing cricket or badminton in the green lawns of palaces; palaces built with the red bricks marking blood and tears of those who sacrificed their lives for democracy and the right to vote; vote that is kept unknown to Gen-Z, as they don’t need votes to rule a banana republic.
Banana farmers die in hunger, yet banana traders buy rose gardens in the land of democracy. They are fond of democracy as lip-shiners on their voluptuous TV table dances.
Royal soldiers guard the palace of the banana republic, where the dead autocrats society appears at the royal dinner table filled with lamb roast fried in fat and dressed with development salad.
Development is the dream that keeps the colony awake till midnight. GDP dance, Bank reserve poetry and Vision 2041 opera keep on performing the lullaby in the makeup of VIP red light areas.
Red sparrows sing love songs for the banana traders holding love sticks of Helen of Toy. It takes a huge toll to lie all day long, so Helen appears at the truth chamber showered in blood red wine. Banana trader offers Helen a rose garden in Belarus; a haven of table dance and lie-lullaby being sung since 1994.
The dream of Belarus travels from palace to palace; from pillow to pillow, from throne to throne, from lip-service to lip-service, from swiss account to swiss account and from the horde of elite force to elite force.
People disappear in the banana republic; people who don’t forget the history, culture, dream and promises of their motherland. The elite force works as an eraser of the past. In a banana republic there are new historians who write history for the neo-colonizers, who praise the king and queen with their magical lie-pencils, who sing and dance to the tune of the banana traders.
People struggle to remember their past; as Banana secret service (BSS) distributes food to the hungry audience of “revising the past” at the townhall gathering. Every time they meet, BSS appears with a smile and a white micro-bus that whisks away the past, takes the past to a mirrored room; interrogates the past, and at midnight they take the past to a lonely highway near the red river.
Next morning, the past is reported sleeping on the banks of the red river. People murmur, the past has been killed.
The media table dance starts immediately, Helen appears as an embedded truth teller: the dead body you see was a traitor, he was conspiring against our smart-development.
The table refuses to carry the heavy weight of Helen of Toy and the word “smart”; it breaks down into dust. Helen sits on the floor, the dust of the shattered table slashed on her face, her Belarussian wig flown towards the master control room; piece to lie (camera) uttered once again, Helen of Toy, Red-light television signing off.