When a Parliament Decides It Has Better Things to Do
1
0
By Sewasew Teklemariam Ethiopian Tribune Columnist
The Federal Republic of Megala Finfiney has, over the years, quietly normalised the extraordinary. Coups rebranded as “administrative reshuffles.” Budget speeches delivered entirely in metaphor. Ministers who vanish for months and resurface claiming to have been conducting “field research in remote spiritual zones” a phrase that, in any other country, would trigger a welfare check but in Megala Finfiney earns a ministerial commendation. The republic has absorbed all of it with the weary grace of a people who have simply seen too much.
But nothing, not the coups, not the metaphors, not the spiritual zones prepared anyone for what happened on Thursday 19th of March 2026 morning in Megala Finfiney, when the National Assembly failed to convene because the ruling party’s MPs were sulking.
Not a power cut. Not a security scare. Not a plague of locusts or an act of God, though God, at this point, could hardly be blamed for looking away. The Property Advancement Coalition a party that has governed Megala with the navigational confidence of a goat on a glass staircase, had published its candidate list for the upcoming elections. More than half its sitting MPs discovered they had been dropped. Not reassigned. Not “strategically repositioned for maximum national impact.” Dropped. Like a cracked clay pot from a great height, with no ceremony and no apology.
And so, in a collective act of professional abdication that would embarrass a toddler denied a biscuit, they simply did not come to work. The Speaker waited. The chamber sat empty. The microphones, accustomed to being slapped, were not even granted that dignity. The session collapsed, and the country inflation-battered, corruption-exhausted, perpetually patient, finally lost its sense of humour. Then found it again, sharper and meaner than before.
In the sprawling Merkato of Megala Finfiney, where the price of onions has risen 340% in two years and cooking oil now requires something approaching a mortgage, the reactions arrived fast and without mercy. “They didn’t come to Parliament?” said Almaz, a mother of four. “Good. They haven’t come to our lives either.” Bekele, a taxi driver with the political acuity of a man who has spent two decades stuck in traffic listening to everything, offered his own analysis: “Let them join the TikTok army. At least those boys show up.” University students nearby immediately began workshopping hashtags — #PACChallenge, #SulkingMPs with the creative energy of people who have nothing left to lose and an excellent data plan.
The Federal Bureau of Statistics, an institution that has survived three purges, two fires, and one “accidental” data wipe, had recently published figures that framed the sulk in its full, magnificent context. Inflation at 47%. Youth unemployment at 41%. The cost of a basic food basket up 137%. Corruption complaints doubled. PAC parliamentary attendance already down 36% before the MPs decided to make it a personal statement. The country was struggling. The economy was struggling. The people were struggling. The MPs were struggling with their feelings.
The government, rising to the occasion with characteristic flair, released a statement attributing the absence to “transportation challenges.” The public responded with the kind of sarcasm that deserves its own wing in a national museum. “What transportation challenges?” demanded a shopkeeper. “They have cars, drivers, fuel cards. The rest of us walk.” Another offered an alternative theory: “Maybe their cars refused to start out of shame.” This remains the most plausible explanation anyone has produced.
At the visa-processing queues where thousands of young Megala Finfiney Citizens wait in long, quiet lines for the chance to leave the mood was less comedic and more surgical. “They should go to the Gulf like the rest of us,” said Sami. “Housemaids, drivers, cleaners.” A woman nearby shook her head with the authority of someone who has considered this thoroughly. “They won’t survive. They’re too soft.” A man at the back added that asylum was always an option, before remembering that asylum seekers are no longer welcome anywhere on Earth, and quite possibly not on Mars either.
The opposition leader, MistreAbiyot Yachenfal of the Megala People’s Reform Coalition Party (MPRP), arrived at this catastrophe like a man who had been quietly preparing for it for years. Standing outside his crumbling headquarters with the composure of someone trying very hard not to skip, he delivered a statement of such cheerful devastation that it instantly achieved the status of national comedy. “These MPs were not working even when they were present,” he said. “Their absence is a public service.” He then proposed replacing them with miniature statues specifically, the same statues PAC has been installing throughout its corridor development projects, those grand national vanity exercises named, with escalating abstraction, the Corridor of National Unity, the Corridor of Corridor Planning, and the Corridor of Corridor Maintenance. “Statues don’t demand salaries,” MistreAbiyot Yachenifal explained. “Statues don’t sulk. Statues don’t flee to Dubai.” He paused for effect. “It will be the first time the chamber looks dignified.”
From Brussels, Gifty Ararssa of the Oronana Global Council took a more conspiratorial view. “It is impossible,” she said, with the measured certainty of someone who has been watching this republic for a long time, “for over 200 MPs to sulk simultaneously without coordination. This is organised. This is deliberate. This is…” she leaned forward, “Dubai.” She elaborated. The Prime Minister, she theorised, had taken them for special treatment, consistent with the national tradition of Megalan Finfiney officials disappearing to the Gulf for rest, reflection, and retail. The internet immediately obliged with memes: MPs receiving spa treatments, MPs riding camels, MPs attending a conference entitled “Healing Retreats for Disappointingly Dropped Politicians.” Her closing line entered the canon instantly: “A government that cannot face its people will always face the luxury boutiques of Dubai.”
Architecture students at Megala Polytechnic, inspired by MistreAbiyot’s proposal, submitted a formal academic paper titled “A More Reliable Parliament: Replacing MPs with Sculptural Installations.” Their suggested exhibits included The Honourable Member Who Never Arrived, The Representative of Eternal Absence, and The MP Who Voted Present in Spirit Only. They argued, with footnotes, that statues would improve attendance, reduce corruption, lower salary expenditure, and provide more honesty than the current arrangement. The Speaker has not responded, though observers note he appears to be thinking about it quite seriously.
At a tea stall near the Assembly, a group of pensioners debated the proposal with the gravity of constitutional scholars. “Statues won’t run away,” said one. “Statues don’t need per diem,” said another. “Statues don’t go to Dubai,” confirmed a third. The tea stall owner, who has been serving politicians and their critics for thirty years, offered the summation the moment required: “These MPs turned Parliament into a corridor. If the Prime Minister replaces them with corridor statues, at least the corridors will finally have purpose.”
Weeks earlier, the Prime Minister had declared that the next Parliament “would not look the same.” He was correct. It did not look the same. It did not look at all. Because it did not show up. In Megala, apparently, even prophecy has learned to manage its expectations.
———————//——————
This text is a work of satire created solely for fictional, humorous, and literary purposes. All names, characters, political parties, institutions, and events are entirely invented. Any resemblance to real persons or entities is purely coincidental. This work is not affiliated with or endorsed by Ethiopian Tribune, and no factual claims are made about any real political situation.
