No warning. No mercy.
It wasn’t just rain—it was reckoning. The water rose like judgment, seeping through every crack and memory. It didn’t merely soak—it exposed. It sickened. It outraged.
And while families fled barefoot through flooded streets, headlines screamed of another kind of flood—one made not of water, but of cash.
“Piles of cash normal at DPWH-Bulacan office, says former official.” (Philippine Daily Inquirer)
Bundles of money, casually stacked on tables, were described as routine at the Department of Public Works and Highways in Bulacan’s first engineering district. During a congressional hearing on the flood control scandal, a former official admitted:
“Your honor, I do not know who will receive it. We were just ordered to fix the money. This amount is for this, send here, this is allocated for someone. That’s it—we just segregate the money.”
Meanwhile, Philippine Star reported that public works officials laundered hundreds of millions of pesos in kickbacks from ghost or substandard flood control projects by placing them as bets at casinos. Senator Panfilo Lacson explained:
“How so? They would exchanged cash into chips, and if they lose a little, they would go to the cashier to make cash-out and declare the chips they had exchanged to be winnings. Smart? Your guess at this point is as good as mine.”
Citing casino records from 2023 to 2025, Lacson alleged that DPWH district engineer Henry Alcantara, one of the Bulacan Group of Contractors (BGC Boys), in his casino visits, converted P1.4 billion cash to chips, and converted chips to cash worth P997.8 million.
“Yes, you heard it right,” Lacson added. “B as in billion.”
Bulacan Group of Contractors
Now, hold that image—of cash sorted like cargo in a warehouse of impunity, and of cash played in chips laundered in a “casino spree”—against this scene:
Maribel stood in her doorway, watching the river creep up the street. The rain had been falling for days. Now the floodwaters reached her knees. She knew it was time to leave.
“There was no warning from the government,” said Maribel, 49, a mother of six. “We just looked outside and realized we didn’t have any more time.”
Soaked. Overcrowded. Cramped living space
They left on foot—barefoot, soaked, carrying what little they could. Turned away from one shelter, her family found space at an overcrowded elementary school. Every classroom was full. They ended up in a room with six others, laying out thin mats on the floor of their cramped new living space.”
(From When the River Overflowed by Jennifer Anne Mendoza, CARE)
As the waters receded, something darker surfaced: a nearly P2-trillion scandal involving ghost flood control projects, budget insertions, and a web of corruption misappropriated over 15 years—reaching deep into the halls of Congress and the Executive branch.
And then God sent a different kind of rain. Purpose-driven. Unrelenting. Revealing.
A Pact of Power Revisited: The Rise and Fall of the UniTeam
Looking back, the UniTeam was hailed as a symbol of unity. But beneath the campaign slogans and choreographed rallies lay a Faustian bargain—a marriage of convenience between two dynasties long shadowed by allegations of plunder and impunity.
• Bongbong, heir to a dictatorship that looted the country billions.
• Sara, daughter of a strongman whose war on drugs left thousand dead, and whose family’s grip on Davao politics remains ironclad.
The UniTeam, once a fortress, had become a battlefield. It cracked, and ultimately, collapsed.
The Flood as Revelation: A Spiritual Perspective
“They tried their best to hide their corruption. And then God sent the rain.”
These words, shared by my Facebook friend Mils, in response to my ATABAY piece The Mirror and the Rolls-Royce, now read like prophecy.
What began as literal floods—devastating homes, displacing families—has become something more: a divine deluge. Not just water, but revelation. Not just destruction, but exposure.
The rain unveiled what was hidden. It washed over what was defiled. It refused to be ignored. It marks the breaking of a pact built on illusion. It signals the shattering of a narrative long sustained by silence. It, unmistakably, the beginning of the reckoning.
What If The UniTeam Never Broke?
Imagine if Bongbong and Sara still stood side by side today—smiling for cameras, trading compliments in press releases, their alliance unshaken by scandal, their dynasties still dancing in step.
Imagine if the floodwaters that swallowed homes and livelihoods were met, not with repentance, but with rehearsed deflection. If the cries of families wading through waist-deep water were drowned out by the clamor of political theater.
Imagine if the pact held.
The Fortress of Denial
In this imagined present, the UniTeam remains unbroken—its walls reinforced not by trust, but by a pact of silence. And perhaps that silence is strategic. For if either dared to speak, it would trigger the old proverb: the pot calling the kettle black—and both, unmistakably, covered in soot. Yuck! In public eye, it would be nothing short of mutually assured destruction.
So, the flood control scandal is downplayed as isolated. Ghost projects are brushed off as technical errors. Contractors are recast as misunderstood.
Investigations are launched, yes—but only to pacify, not to prosecute. The real culprits—their loyal foot soldiers—remain unnamed, untouched, unbothered.
And when one dynasty is accused, the other rushes to defend. When one is exposed, the other distracts. Projection becomes their shield, deflection their strategy.
The fortress holds—not because it is strong, but because both sides fear what its collapse might reveal.
Toward 2028: A Race Without Reckoning, A Rain Without Cleansing
As 2028 looms, the UniTeam prepares its next act.
Rumors swirl of a role reversal—Sara for President, Bongbong as kingmaker. Their campaign slogan? Tuloy ang Pagbangon—a promise of continuity, a revival of the rise they declared in 2022.
But beneath the billboards and jingles, the nation trembles. The flood control scandal has cracked open Pandora’s box: budget insertions, contractor monopolies, dynastic collusion.
The headlines grow louder. The protests more frequent. The bishops more vocal. And yet the UniTeam presses on—unrepentant, undeterred.
In this imagined future, the 2028 race becomes a referendum not on vision—but on memory.
Will the people remember the deluge? Will they recall the barefoot flight of families like Maribel, whose suffering was met with silence? Or will they be “mabubudol ulit”—lulled by the illusion of unity, seduced by the choreography of power?
And if the pact holds, what then?
The rain may come again—but not to cleanse. It will be diverted. Denied. Politicized.
The UniTeam may survive, but the nation will not heal. The alliance may endure, but the people will remain submerged—in corruption, in grief, in the slow erosion of hope.
This is the danger of forgetting. This is the cost of silence. And this is the storm we must not sleep through.
A Blessing in Disguise: Invitation to Renewal
The collapse of the UniTeam is a blessing in disguise. It reminds us that no alliance built on deceit can endure. That dynasties—no matter how entrenched—are not immune to truth. That when it rains, it pours—and sometimes, that pouring is heaven’s way of saying: Enough.
Let this be a moment not merely of outrage, but of awakening.
Let citizens reclaim the public square.
Let truth be spoken, even when inconvenient.
Let integrity be restored, even when costly.
And let us remember:
When God sends the rain, He is not merely punishing.
He is preparing the ground for something new.
Content & editing put together in collaboration with Bing Microsoft AI-powered Co-pilot
Head image created by Bing; design by Canva
Still photos courtesy of Gabriel Lalu/INQUIRER.net, Philippine Star, Getty Images, Church news, Green Left, Facebook, Showbiz Philippines, Sky News, 8List.ph, Dreamstime.com, & Bing image creator.
