Fellow countrymen, compatriots, and ZANU PF elites — once again, I rise from the grave to sprinkle upon you my eternal wisdom. 

From the world beyond, I gaze upon Zimbabwe and, ah, I shake my grey head until even the ancestors complain of the dust.

My people, let us begin in the classroom, or rather, the ruins that used to resemble classrooms. 

The mighty BEAM programme, once a lifeline for orphans and vulnerable children, has now become a ghost — like me, except I still have more impact. 

Since 2023, Treasury has not paid the schools, leaving headmasters begging like kombi touts at Mbare rank.

Imagine, over 1.5 million learners were promised assistance, but instead their schools now resemble cattle pens — no chalk, no textbooks, toilets without water, teachers without pay. 

Parents whisper: “Zvino vana vedu vanodzidza sei?” And indeed, how can they learn when even goats are now refusing to use some of these collapsing classrooms for shelter?

The minister, poor Edgar Moyo, told Parliament that Treasury is “committed” to releasing funds. 

My children, when a ZANU PF minister says “committed,” it means prepare to wait until the next generation. 

By the time those arrears are paid, the learners will be grandfathers, telling stories of how they once dreamt of passing Grade 7 while using tree bark as exercise books.

Ah, but while schools crumble, our ever-faithful praise-singer Webster Shamu has dusted off his old hymnbook. 

Once upon a time, he said he wished he were my son. 

Today, he croons lullabies for Emmerson, declaring him the SADC messiah. 

My people, if praise were maize, Zimbabwe would be exporting sadza to the moon. 

Shamu has now rebranded my successor Mnangagwa as the great builder of highways, airports, and power stations — forgetting, of course, that none of these will help the child in Rushinga who cannot pay fees because BEAM is stuck in arrears thicker than GMB queues.

Yes, Emmerson chaired SADC, shook hands, and smiled for the cameras. 

But what good is a shining VIP pavilion at Robert Mugabe International Airport when children at St. Giles or Jairos Jiri are waiting for a single cent from government to survive? 

“Kudya kunobva kumusha, kwete kumaposter eSADC.”

The contradiction is laughable, if it were not tragic. Zimbabwe boasts of “regional integration” while its own classrooms integrate bats, cockroaches, and snakes as substitute teachers. 

The graduates of tomorrow will know more about survival skills than mathematics. 

Perhaps that is the true curriculum of the Second Republic — resilience studies with a minor in disappointment.

And the people endure. 

Some sell tomatoes to pay levies, others herd goats to raise exam fees. 

Meanwhile, ministers sit in air-conditioned offices waiting for “weekly engagements with Treasury.” 

My people, that is government-speak for, “We are playing draft, come back next year.”

As I said in life, power in Zimbabwe is never about solving problems, it is about announcing them loudly, blaming sanctions, and then waiting for citizens to miraculously adapt. 

From the grave, I remind you: the struggle is no longer just about land or independence. It is about classrooms with roofs, about children with textbooks, about a nation where education is not just ceremonial but functional.

Until then, my compatriots, the legacy of the ruling party shall remain a cruel comedy — praise singers in Parliament, children out of class, and ministers still searching for “commitment.”

Asante Sana!