For a brief and magical moment, the Republic of Uncommon Sense reduced itself to a small, important number. Not the population. Not the voters. Just delegates.

Suddenly, grown men lowered their voices, seasoned politicians rediscovered patience, and the nation leaned in to watch a handful of people think very carefully on behalf of millions.

This was primary season. Not the agricultural kind. The political one—where democracy briefly abandons crowds and places its faith in a select few with ringing phones and full calendars.

In the beginning was the Primary.

And the Primary was with the Party.

And the Primary was God.

The Candidates Arrive

Almost overnight, the grassroots—previously a poetic concept—became sacred ground. Convoys learned humility around speed ramps. Handshakes became longer. Smiles became national assets. Every promise was firm, visionary, and subject only to future clarification.

The candidates arrived like characters from a familiar folktale. One spoke the language of charts and confidence, sprinkling percentages like holy water. Another spoke in thunder, truth, and carefully timed outrage, each sentence landing like a talking drum that had drunk palm wine.

“No one insulted anyone. They only clarified—with passion.”

The Polls That Multiplied Like Loaves

Then came the polls. Scientific polls. Strategic polls. Polls conducted by people who had ‘done their own research.’ Every candidate was leading comfortably. Some were leading so comfortably they appeared to be resting.

Percentages crossed 100 with confidence. The same delegate voted in multiple surveys across different regions and still had energy left for a WhatsApp poll conducted by a concerned nephew.

In the Republic of Uncommon Sense, polls are not designed to predict outcomes. They exist to encourage belief.

The Peace Pact That Needed Security

Eventually, the party gathered to sign a peace pact. A beautiful moment. Photogenic. Historic. Smiles were exchanged—some natural, others clearly hired for the occasion.

Security was tight. Because nothing reassures the public like a peaceful agreement surrounded by men trained for emergencies.

Delegates: The Most Courted Species in the Savannah

Meanwhile, delegates entered their brief season of glory. Phones rang like church bells on Easter morning. Long-lost classmates remembered birthdays. Old rivals rediscovered forgiveness.

In the Republic of Uncommon Sense, when the soup is sweet, even the spoon gains relatives.

Social Media: Where Everyone Is a Delegate

Online, the nation voted repeatedly. X became a think tank. Facebook turned into a prophecy center. TikTok delivered political analysis through dance. WhatsApp groups leaked leaks about leaks.

After the Noise

Behind the laughter hovered the real question—the morning after. Not who wins, but who stays. Because parties survive primaries. Egos take longer.

We do not whisper our democracy. We announce it. With sirens. And a press conference.