If you think the auction ends at our borders, you are wrong. The hammer falls not only in Gítithia or in the counties — it echoes far beyond, across oceans, in foreign capitals where the real bidders sit. Governments, too, are hawked overseas. Yes, abroad. What many call “meeting our people in the diaspora” is often not diplomacy — it is international marketing of power. Behind the smiles, the photo sessions, and the flag-waving dinners, the government is once again on sale — only this time, the buyers wear suits tailored in London, New York, Beijing, and Dubai.
Every administration comes to power already indebted to foreign hands. The deals start quietly, long before campaigns begin — loans disguised as “partnerships,” donations masked as “development aid,” and endorsements framed as “international goodwill.” But every handshake carries a hidden clause. Foreign governments and corporations invest in candidates the same way they invest in stocks — not for democracy, but for returns. They study who is likely to win, who is desperate, and who can be bought cheaply. And when they find the right one, they invest — not in vision, but in influence.
I once watched a presidential candidate travel abroad before elections, posing for photos with foreign dignitaries and business leaders. The local press called it a “diplomatic tour.” But those who know the language of power knew it was a pitch meeting — the kind used to assure foreign investors that their interests would be safe under his rule. “We welcome partnerships,” he said publicly, but what he meant privately was, “We are open for purchase.” The currency of this auction is not votes or contracts; it is sovereignty.
This is how nations are colonized without a single soldier landing on their soil. The new colonizers do not carry guns; they carry briefcases. They come with promises of infrastructure, loans, and technology, and leave with control of ports, highways, and industries. They call it “mutual cooperation,” but the cooperation is always one-sided. We trade independence for convenience and sovereignty for debt. And just like that, the auction spreads — from parliaments to embassies, from ministries to consulates.
Even our ambassadors, appointed with fanfare, often become sales agents for the government auction. They are sent abroad not just to represent the country, but to market it — to find “investors,” to negotiate “partnerships,” to attract “development.” But behind those elegant words are the same transactions that sell us at home: tenders, concessions, and access. A port here, a power plant there, a highway, a forest, a resource — all auctioned to the highest bidder in the name of progress.
And what about the so-called diaspora meetings? The speeches about unity and patriotism? I have attended a few. I have watched as leaders address Gítithians abroad, talking of national pride and opportunity, while their real purpose is to attract financiers, to show foreign interests that they can mobilize global networks. They speak to the crowd, but they sell to the sponsors seated in the front row — investors, consultants, and representatives of multinational corporations waiting to hear what slice of Gítithia they can own next. The people clap, thinking they are being recognized, but in truth, they are props in a global transaction.
Governments today are traded like multinationals. Presidents fly across continents not merely as heads of state, but as chief salesmen of their nations. They negotiate deals that sound noble — “public-private partnerships,” “foreign direct investments,” “strategic cooperation” — yet they sign documents that mortgage generations. They sell land, resources, airwaves, and even national data. They pledge loyalty not to their citizens, but to creditors. They borrow not for development, but for dependence.
I once read a report showing how foreign companies quietly influence local policy through “advisory partnerships.” They fund think tanks, sponsor research, and pay consultants who shape the laws we live under. By the time those policies reach Parliament, they are no longer Gítithian ideas — they are imported instructions dressed in local language. Even the laws of procurement, the designs of our infrastructure, the contents of our curriculums — all sometimes bear fingerprints from foreign boardrooms. This is what I mean when I say the auction has gone global.
The irony is that these foreign buyers understand us better than we understand ourselves. They know our leaders’ weaknesses — their hunger for prestige, their addiction to loans, their fear of economic isolation. They exploit those weaknesses ruthlessly. One delegation offers a loan for roads; another offers training for civil servants; another offers “budget support.” Each favor comes with invisible strings, and soon our leaders cannot make a decision without consulting their sponsors. Sovereignty is lost, not in battle, but in negotiation.
Even our foreign missions — the embassies and consulates — have become auction booths. Ambassadors spend more time courting investors than protecting citizens. When Gítithians abroad cry for help, their pleas are drowned out by champagne toasts at diplomatic dinners. Our image overseas is polished for sale, not for pride. The Gítithian flag waves not as a symbol of independence, but as an advertisement for investment.
We have become a nation that sells its own reflection — a government that trades not just offices and contracts, but identity itself. The auction has no borders now; it floats across continents, conducted in currencies we can barely pronounce. It is run by economists who speak of “fiscal discipline” while drafting new debts, by diplomats who praise “partnerships” while watching sovereignty fade like an old photograph.
But here too, awakening is coming. The youth studying abroad are beginning to ask hard questions. They see how their homeland is portrayed, how foreign interests shape its destiny. They are learning to connect the dots — between the loans that build highways and the taxes that bury citizens, between the foreign contracts signed abroad and the corruption that grows at home. They are realizing that the auction is not an economic strategy; it is a slow surrender.
One day, when Gítithia finally stands up to reclaim itself, the world will be shocked — not because it happened suddenly, but because it was long overdue. The same hands that once sold the country will tremble when they realize that the people have stopped clapping, both at home and abroad. For no nation can be free while its sovereignty is up for sale. And when that day comes, when the last deal is refused, and the last loan declined, Gítithia will stand tall — not as an item in the global market, but as a nation reborn. That will be the true end of the auction — not just in Parliament, not just in the counties, but in every foreign hall where our flag once waved for sale.
Every administration comes to power already indebted to foreign hands. The deals start quietly, long before campaigns begin — loans disguised as “partnerships,” donations masked as “development aid,” and endorsements framed as “international goodwill.” But every handshake carries a hidden clause. Foreign governments and corporations invest in candidates the same way they invest in stocks — not for democracy, but for returns. They study who is likely to win, who is desperate, and who can be bought cheaply. And when they find the right one, they invest — not in vision, but in influence.
I once watched a presidential candidate travel abroad before elections, posing for photos with foreign dignitaries and business leaders. The local press called it a “diplomatic tour.” But those who know the language of power knew it was a pitch meeting — the kind used to assure foreign investors that their interests would be safe under his rule. “We welcome partnerships,” he said publicly, but what he meant privately was, “We are open for purchase.” The currency of this auction is not votes or contracts; it is sovereignty.
This is how nations are colonized without a single soldier landing on their soil. The new colonizers do not carry guns; they carry briefcases. They come with promises of infrastructure, loans, and technology, and leave with control of ports, highways, and industries. They call it “mutual cooperation,” but the cooperation is always one-sided. We trade independence for convenience and sovereignty for debt. And just like that, the auction spreads — from parliaments to embassies, from ministries to consulates.
Even our ambassadors, appointed with fanfare, often become sales agents for the government auction. They are sent abroad not just to represent the country, but to market it — to find “investors,” to negotiate “partnerships,” to attract “development.” But behind those elegant words are the same transactions that sell us at home: tenders, concessions, and access. A port here, a power plant there, a highway, a forest, a resource — all auctioned to the highest bidder in the name of progress.
And what about the so-called diaspora meetings? The speeches about unity and patriotism? I have attended a few. I have watched as leaders address Gítithians abroad, talking of national pride and opportunity, while their real purpose is to attract financiers, to show foreign interests that they can mobilize global networks. They speak to the crowd, but they sell to the sponsors seated in the front row — investors, consultants, and representatives of multinational corporations waiting to hear what slice of Gítithia they can own next. The people clap, thinking they are being recognized, but in truth, they are props in a global transaction.
Governments today are traded like multinationals. Presidents fly across continents not merely as heads of state, but as chief salesmen of their nations. They negotiate deals that sound noble — “public-private partnerships,” “foreign direct investments,” “strategic cooperation” — yet they sign documents that mortgage generations. They sell land, resources, airwaves, and even national data. They pledge loyalty not to their citizens, but to creditors. They borrow not for development, but for dependence.
I once read a report showing how foreign companies quietly influence local policy through “advisory partnerships.” They fund think tanks, sponsor research, and pay consultants who shape the laws we live under. By the time those policies reach Parliament, they are no longer Gítithian ideas — they are imported instructions dressed in local language. Even the laws of procurement, the designs of our infrastructure, the contents of our curriculums — all sometimes bear fingerprints from foreign boardrooms. This is what I mean when I say the auction has gone global.
The irony is that these foreign buyers understand us better than we understand ourselves. They know our leaders’ weaknesses — their hunger for prestige, their addiction to loans, their fear of economic isolation. They exploit those weaknesses ruthlessly. One delegation offers a loan for roads; another offers training for civil servants; another offers “budget support.” Each favor comes with invisible strings, and soon our leaders cannot make a decision without consulting their sponsors. Sovereignty is lost, not in battle, but in negotiation.
Even our foreign missions — the embassies and consulates — have become auction booths. Ambassadors spend more time courting investors than protecting citizens. When Gítithians abroad cry for help, their pleas are drowned out by champagne toasts at diplomatic dinners. Our image overseas is polished for sale, not for pride. The Gítithian flag waves not as a symbol of independence, but as an advertisement for investment.
We have become a nation that sells its own reflection — a government that trades not just offices and contracts, but identity itself. The auction has no borders now; it floats across continents, conducted in currencies we can barely pronounce. It is run by economists who speak of “fiscal discipline” while drafting new debts, by diplomats who praise “partnerships” while watching sovereignty fade like an old photograph.
But here too, awakening is coming. The youth studying abroad are beginning to ask hard questions. They see how their homeland is portrayed, how foreign interests shape its destiny. They are learning to connect the dots — between the loans that build highways and the taxes that bury citizens, between the foreign contracts signed abroad and the corruption that grows at home. They are realizing that the auction is not an economic strategy; it is a slow surrender.
One day, when Gítithia finally stands up to reclaim itself, the world will be shocked — not because it happened suddenly, but because it was long overdue. The same hands that once sold the country will tremble when they realize that the people have stopped clapping, both at home and abroad. For no nation can be free while its sovereignty is up for sale. And when that day comes, when the last deal is refused, and the last loan declined, Gítithia will stand tall — not as an item in the global market, but as a nation reborn. That will be the true end of the auction — not just in Parliament, not just in the counties, but in every foreign hall where our flag once waved for sale.
