There was every reason to believe it was nothing but a sure thing. Indications before the day led us to think it was merely a matter of going through the motions and victory would be ours.
In fact, with the close of the polls in some places celebrations had begun. To say our candidate was feeling cocky was understating our expectation of success.
Initial results pointed to a clear and decisive win.
Our vote count illustrated what we knew was the obvious. Our man was on the path to victory.
An hour into the count, the first indication that things were not going as expected began to emerge.
Our opponent in the election, a slimy big talking used car salesman, whom we didn’t think anyone in their right mind would vote for, was gathering votes faster than we ever anticipated.
Three hours into the count, and it was neck and neck. Celebrations came to a shuddering halt. Supporters gathering around television sets, whispering to each other, “what’s going on”, “how could this be happening”, “everything pointed to a win for our man.”
By midnight it became clear that the count was not going in our favour. Our opponent had leaped ahead by a margin that made it clear this was not going to be our night.
Our confidence was shattered.
Our man was a shell of his former self.
People gathered in the streets, in the town square, to celebrate. To us, it was unfathomable.
We had to endure the smug winning candidate, and his victory speech, the wild cheering of his supporters as we made our way home.
It was galling that so many people had voted for a candidate we knew was only in it for the glory that would be bestowed upon him and that all his claims of what he’d do in office were nothing but his way of pandering to the section of society he needed to appeal to.
Once home I turned off the news, I couldn’t bear hearing of a result we thought was a sure thing.