By Cde Patriot Sunungura
On October 17, war veteran and former ZANU PF committee member Blessed Geza called for mass protests — a supposed Million Man March that turned into a One Man Jog.
Ironically, the hyped protest came right before President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s administration announced a US$150 “Special Presidential Bonus” for civil servants — a timely tranquiliser that soothed tempers and emptied the streets.
Geza, our self-proclaimed freedom runner, found only his will and weary hopes pacing the streets like a lost prophet in search of disciples who had already switched off their data to save bundles.
Once upon a time, in November 2017, Zimbabweans marched in millions to remove Mugabe.
Now, they march to Chicken Inn and Chicken Slice — because hunger, not politics, remains the only unifying struggle.
Geza’s march was billed as the mother of all protests, but it ended up resembling a family meeting where only the chairperson showed up.
The masses were busy minding their own survival in a system designed to keep them alive, not thriving — vending, hustling, and negotiating with landlords.
In this economy, marching has become a luxury pastime for those with spare shoes.
Those who were supposed to join him spent the day typing “✊🏾” emojis on WhatsApp, followed by “We stand with you, comrade,” from the comfort of their couches.
Zimbabweans have perfected the art of revolutionary commentary without movement — a patriotism that fits neatly between TikTok videos, Facebook posts, X tweets and Whatsapp texts.
It’s not that the people didn’t understand the cause, they did.
But in a land where hope has been repossessed and courage is on hire purchase, few dare to test the wrath of a system that still owns the police, the army, and the airtime.
Fear has become the new national currency — stronger than the bond note and more stable than the ZiG.
Even those who agreed with Geza’s message whispered their support like they were confessing sins.
“Mudhara Geza ane point, but haa, let’s wait and see first,” they muttered — the national motto of the Republic of Maybe.
Meanwhile, at ZANU PF’s conference in Mutare, the ruling elite popped champagne and declared the failed march a triumph of “peace and stability.”
They toasted to calm streets and quiet citizens — forgetting that silence is not peace; it’s paralysis.
The irony is rich.
The same citizens who once filled the streets chanting “Mugabe must go!” now fill comment sections, sceptical of Agenda 2030 — a scheme critics say aims to unconstitutionally extend Mnangagwa’s term to 2030.
Truth be told, Geza’s march was never just about Mnangagwa or Vice President Chiwenga.
It was about us — spectators of our own suffering.
A people so exhausted that even outrage now needs a permit.
As one vendor near Copa Cabana put it, “Haasi kutaurira ini. Ini ndiri busy kutsvaga mari yekutengera muri yangu chingwa.”
Geza marched not against soldiers but against silence — a silence so thick it could choke hope itself.
His lonely footsteps echoed the national condition: one man moving forward while the rest watched from the comfort of their social media platforms of choice, asking, “Ko zvino chii chaanoda kuzviitira ega?”
Maybe Geza didn’t have the best plan.
Maybe the messenger was mistrusted — another politician in civic clothing.
But what the million who stayed home don’t realise is that apathy is the regime’s favourite citizen.
The government no longer fears riots — it fears awakening.
As long as people remain busy chasing deals, forex, and followers, the system will continue to feast on obedience disguised as peace.
Geza may have marched alone, but in his solitude lies a sermon: that freedom doesn’t need crowds — it needs conviction.
That cowards die a thousand WhatsApp deaths before they ever stand.
Sometimes, the truest protest is not the noise of the masses but the silence of a man walking through a city that forgot how to care.
One day, this nation will tire of swallowing silence.
But until then, the only million marching will be the dreams we’ve buried — one hope at a time.
