Fellow countrymen, compatriots and ZANU PF elites, allow me once again to rise from the grave—dust on my bones, but clarity sharper than a razor sold by informal traders at Mbare Musika.

From the afterlife, I watch you stumbling like drunkards on cheap illicit beer, and I cannot resist chuckling.

Ah, Zimbabwe, my beloved theatre of contradictions!

Let us begin with this matter of succession—the poisoned chalice that still haunts your politics like tokoloshe at midnight.

I, Robert Gabriel Mugabe, made a grave mistake in not anointing my dear comrade Sydney Sekeramayi publicly.

Instead, I dallied, hesitated, and before I could tighten my shoelaces, my own lieutenants rolled tanks through Harare.

History is cruel, comrades.

Even in death, I kick myself under the coffin lid for letting ambition fester in the dark.

Now Emmerson Mnangagwa, my crocodile apprentice, repeats my error.

Whispers say Kudakwashe Tagwirei—yes, the fuel magnate turned shadow president, a man with more diesel than ideas—is the chosen successor.

Eh-he! Ndichati zvangu, succession haidi kudyirwa mumakuhwa, you must announce it clearly before knives, poison, and coup rumours turn State House into a wrestling ring.

Already the corridors are buzzing with tales of mysterious illnesses, shifting alliances, and generals sharpening their bayonets under candlelight.

One wonders, will ZANU PF ever learn, or is factional bloodletting now part of the constitution?

While you argue over who will inherit the presidential chair, the Americans arrive with their own circus.

Washington now says they will repeal sanctions, but only if Zimbabwe first compensates former white farmers.

Imagine that! For years, they branded me a dictator, froze the economy, and starved my people.

Now they dangle credit like a carrot, but only after we pay back those who stole the land in the first place.

My Pan-African legacy is dragged through mud while colonial descendants are given fresh polish.

I confess that tge land reform was indeed chaotic but to be honest there were more squatters than planners, and some comrades turned farms into weekend braai resorts.

But the principle was correct.

How dare America ask Zimbabwe to reward the beneficiaries of Cecil John Rhodes’ and Ian Smith’s theft?

That is like telling a man robbed of his goat that he must first buy milk for the thief’s grandchildren before he can enjoy his sadza.

Utter nonsense!m

Still, Mnangagwa’s government seems ready to negotiate.

I watch from the grave and wonder—what is Pan-Africanism worth if it can be sold for a few loans from Washington?

My bones ache in shame.

Yet, in the midst of this political comedy, hope sprinted out of the blocks.

One young Tapiwanashe Makarau carried the Zimbabwean flag to the global stage with the speed of a commuter bus fleeing a police roadblock.

Seventh in the world! Seventh!

Never before has Zimbabwe run this fast without an election rigging scandal pushing it forward.

My people, when I saw Makarau storm down that Tokyo track, I almost jumped from the grave in joy.

He reminded me that Zimbabwe is not only about tenders, coups, and corruption.

This young man has given us a reason to cheer beyond politics, beyond scarcity.

His legs are now more famous than half your cabinet, and certainly more efficient than ZESA.

I salute you, Makarau.

You have shown that while our leaders may limp with greed, our youth can sprint with pride.

Let this be a lesson to all aspiring athletes—and perhaps to our politicians: sometimes, instead of crawling in factional mud, it is better to run forward with discipline, vision, and speed.

So, my dear people, as Mnangagwa wrestles with succession ghosts, as America pretends to teach us justice, and as our youths carry the flag with honour, remember this, history forgives mistakes, but it never forgets cowardice.

Until next time, Asante Sana!