Fellow Countrymen, ZANU PF elites and compatriots, it’s that time again I rise from the grave to share my unparalleled wisdom and political insights.
Yes, it is I, Baba Bona, still watching, listening and shaking my head.
Before the usual accusations begin, let me place a disclaimer upon the table of history that this week’s edition is not a lecture, but a tribute.
I speak today not to scold, but to remember.
I pause the sermons to honour my erstwhile comrade, Blessed Runesu Geza, Comrade “Bombshell,” a man whose final acts sought to return the nation to itself.
History is rarely polite.
It records betrayal in ink and redemption in footnotes.
Geza, like many of us forged in the furnace of liberation, once walked the corridors of power with confidence, sometimes arrogance, sometimes blindness.
Yes, he aided and abetted my own ouster.
Let us not pretend otherwise.
But from beyond the grave, where grudges lose their appetite, I say this plainly “I forgive Cde Bombshell”
Equally, Cde Bombshell, I must also ask your forgiveness.
For in the arrogance of incumbency, we confused loyalty with virtue, power with wisdom, and the state with the party.
Under my rule, corruption became organised, patronage was sanctified, and governance lost its moral compass.
I was not merely a spectator; I was the conductor.
History will judge that harshly, and rightly so.
Yet nations, like people, are not sustained by perfection but by conscience.
Cde Geza, in your final chapter, you became precisely that, the conscience of a wounded republic, the soul of a nation struggling to remember itself.
When others clung to silence, Geza spoke.
When others defended the indefensible, he broke ranks.
When ambition demanded obedience, he chose reckoning.
His defiance of the “2030” project was not merely political, it was moral.
He recognised it for what it was, an attempt to fossilise power, to convert the republic into private property.
In naming the zvigananda, the ticks feeding on the state, he did what many feared to do and what too many pretended not to see.
He reminded Zimbabwe why arms were taken up in the first place, not to replace white privilege with black plunder, but to restore dignity to the many.
Cancer claimed his body, but not before he unsettled the comfortable and disturbed the corrupt.
In his final exploits, Geza attempted the most dangerous act of all in Zimbabwean politics which is to awaken the people.
He called for unity across generations, for veterans and youth to speak the same language of accountability.
That alone made him a marked man.
History will remember him not for where he started, but for where he stood at the end.
From the grave, I tell you this: redemption matters.
A nation survives not because leaders are flawless, but because some find the courage to change course before the curtain falls.
Geza did. In doing so, he restored something we had misplaced—the idea that the liberation struggle was meant to serve the people, not devour them.
To the living, learn this lesson well: power without conscience rots.
Loyalty without principle enslaves. And silence, in the face of injustice, is collaboration.
To my departed comrade, go well.
You fought when it mattered most—at the end.
Until next time, Asante Sana.
