Fellow countrymen, compatriots and ZANU PF elites, it’s that time again I rise from the grave to share my unparalleled political wisdom and political insights.
On September 6, you remembered my death anniversary, since 2019.
But alas, my children, no one has yet written a convincing obituary.
Some of you wrote tributes shorter than a delinquent kombi driver’s work plan, others longer than a ZBC jingle, but none captured the full movie of Robert Gabriel Mugabe.
So, from the afterlife, I have decided to write my own.
Let us begin.
I was the liberator who told Ian Smith to pack his bags and the British to keep their England.
My beloved people, I gave you land — yes, violently, chaotically, and sometimes with more drama than a wedding in Mbare — but I gave it nonetheless.
That, my children, is why you can now eat your sadza without bowing to a white man. Do not forget this gift, even as you curse my ghost in your empty fields.
However, I was also the tyrant, ah, the master of survival!
When Joshua Nkomo tried to challenge my one-party state ambitions, I of course unleashed the Fifth Brigade.
When MDC danced, I broke their legs.
Some accuse me of masterminding the Gukurahundi massacres of 1983–87 and Murambatsvina in 2005, but I say those were “national projects” to ensure I stayed in power.
History calls it brutality.
I call it governance with discipline.
My legacy, like a plate of sadza with beef bones, is mixed.
Sweet meat for some, choking cartilage for others.
Borrowdale elites drank champagne in my name, while Mbare mothers buried their children in my silence.
Do not lie to yourselves, my comrades.
Mugabeism did not die in 2019.
No! It lives in your “new dispensation,” with its golden scissors cutting ribbons on empty projects, and its ministers who see tenders as dowries.
You replaced the headmaster, but the cane remained.
Even from this dusty eternity, I laugh when I see my disciples now struggling to outdo me in corruption.
They borrow billions, lose them faster than ZESA loses power, and still say “Nyika inovakwa nevene vayo.”
i perfected that script.
They are poor imitators.
But I must also confess, I left wounds.
Ndebele graves unhealed. Harare streets littered with broken vendors.
Political opponents who vanished like bond notes.
I signed the Unity Accord, but unity never truly came. Instead, divisions were baked into the national DNA like groundnuts in peanut butter.
So, my children, remember me not as saint or devil. Remember me as Robert Gabriel Mugabe, the teacher who wrote his own exam, set the marking scheme, and awarded himself 100%.
Until next time, Asante Sana.
