As usual, every Miting de Avance held in the evening was preceded by a motorcade and house-to-house campaign in the morning and afternoon.
Today's destination: Barangay Jefmin and Barangay Santiago, Sitio Ligaya.
While i was on my way to meet Team Anjo before the motorcade began, I noticed the growing presence of people on the streets. Some were already waiting outside their homes—elderly folks, young children, mothers carrying babies. A few brought out chairs and sat in the shade; others stood in the heat without complaint. The weather didn't matter. What mattered was catching a glimpse of Mayor Andy.
When Mayor Andy and the rest of Team Anjo finally arrived, the motorcade immediately rolled out.
Residents began pouring into the streets—waving, running up to the vehicles, and smiling with pure joy. Every street the motorcade passed felt like a festival.
Some people handed out cold water and candies to the volunteers. Others displayed their own tarpaulins and handmade signs that read, "YOU'RE NUMBER ONE, MAYOR ANDY!"
This was no longer just a campaign—it had become personal. One woman even offered Mayor a white towel, saying, "For your sweat, Mayor. Don't overwork yourself, okay?"
The house-to-house campaign continued until nightfall. Just before we wrapped up for the day, at the end of a narrow road, a woman suddenly got off a motorcycle. She wasn't even from the area—but she ran up to Mayor Andy, threw her arms around him, and broke into tears.
"Mayor, I'm from Almendras! I came all the way here just to see you," she cried, overwhelmed with emotion.
Mayor Andy embraced her back. They stood there for a few moments—in the middle of the road, surrounded by people, in a scene more powerful than any campaign speech.
Everything fell silent. Everyone around them seemed to pause and feel her emotions.
"Thank you," Mayor whispered softly but sincerely. "You don't know how much this means to me. Truly, thank you."
Before the woman left, Mayor gently placed a hand on her shoulder and said, "Take care going home, okay? Thank you for coming."
She nodded, unable to speak anymore. She left still crying—but this time, with a smile on her face. The people around them began to clap, not because they were prompted to, but because they were moved by the moment.
It was one of those scenes you'll never forget. One of those moments that remind everyone why so many people love Mayor Andy—because he isn't just a leader. He's someone who listens, understands, and knows how to be grateful.
He looked at me, placed a hand on his chest, and smiled—a smile full of emotion, thankfulness, and something so raw, it couldn't be captured in words. His eyes said it all: "I'm so happy. These people—they fill me with so much joy."
—
At exactly 7:00 PM, the Miting de Avance began at Sitio Ligaya, Barangay Santiago. One by one, the leaders and councilors spoke. Then, of course, Mayor Andy took the stage.
The setup was simple, yet each message carried undeniable weight. This wasn't a show—it was a vow.
When we arrived at the second venue, Barangay Jefmin, I was caught off guard by what I saw. I was stunned—completely overwhelmed. I stood frozen by the sheer number of people present.
No celebrity guests, no raffle, no free food—but the venue was packed. There weren't enough chairs, so others stood, some sat on curbs, and others climbed onto tricycles and walls just to get a view.
When Mayor Andy arrived, the crowd swarmed him. He looked like a celebrity, but this wasn't showbiz—it was the community's pure love and gratitude pouring out.
He stood on a chair, raised his hand high, and on his face—you could see it. The emotion. This wasn't a campaign with barriers between a leader and the people. Tonight, every hug, every call of "Mayor!", every glance—it all proved:
They weren't following a politician. They were standing with someone they already considered family.
—
After his councilors had spoken, Mayor Andy stepped up to speak. Despite the late hour and the exhaustion of a full day of campaigning, his face still glowed with energy—energized by the crowd's warmth. He stood at the center of the stage, took the microphone, and once again, poured out his heartfelt gratitude.
"Thank you so much to all of you," he began, looking around at the people who remained even at midnight. "I know it's late. I know you're all tired. But you're still here—listening, nodding, clapping. It's overwhelming. I'll never forget this."
The crowd erupted in cheers, but fell silent once more as he continued.
"Some say I've never received any awards. No trophies, no titles. But I always say—the trust, love, and support you've given me, that is the greatest award I've ever received. And every day, I strive to be worthy of that."
Applause broke out again. People at the back shouted "Wooo!" while elderly women waved toward the stage. Some mothers wiped sweat and tears from their eyes, nodding in agreement.
There were no grand decorations, no showbiz glitz—but the night sparkled because of the sincerity in the air.
Mayor paused for a moment, as if taking it all in—the full venue, the people who never left, the spirit of unity that no money or trophy could buy.
"Thank you, Barangay Jefmin. Thank you for the love. You are my inspiration. You are the reason I never give up."
And on that night, one thing was absolutely clear: in the hearts of his people, Mayor Andy had long worn a crown—not of gold or crystal, but one made of trust, principle, and genuine compassion.
And in every barangay, one question is always answered by the crowd:
Who does the people truly love?
And every night, the answer is always the same.