Fellow countrymen, ZANU PF elites and opposition sellouts—it’s that time I rise from the grave again to share my unparalleled political wisdom and insights.
As I peer from the afterlife, sipping celestial tea and leafing through reports of what has become of my beloved Zimbabwe, I must admit—hell hath no fury like a revolutionary betrayed by his own protégés.
What is this I hear about Kudakwashe Tagwirei, a man who used to whisper in the corridors of capital, now marching boldly into the Central Committee, flinging around luxury SUVs like confetti at a wedding?
Unity, he claims. Unity?
My comrades, I led a liberation war, not a loyalty-buying auction!
When we spoke of unity during the Chimurenga, we meant shared sacrifice, not shared vehicles.
Today’s “unity” seems to come with leather seats and tinted windows.
Back in my day, comrades earned their place in the struggle with blood, not by booking hotel conferences and donating Prados.
What is this new formula? One V8 equals ten votes? I must say, the mathematics of corruption have evolved beyond even Jonathan Moyo’s PhD.
Speaking of betrayals, what madness is this about black farmers being evicted to make way for Mnangagwa’s white business allies?
My land reform program, though imperfect, was about correcting historical injustice—not transferring land from black hands back into the arms of apartheid’s cousins.
Rautenbach again? For the revolution’s sake, the man has more farms than I had ministries!
I died believing in the principle of one man, one farm. Now it is one cartel, one province.
War veterans, youth leaders, former MPs—all being politically exorcised like demons in a Pentecostal crusade.
My dear Tagwirei, let me address you directly: You are no saviour.
You are a merchant of influence, a political fuel attendant dispensing power by the litre.
You can’t donate your way into revolutionary history.
The people remember those who gave them land, not those who gave them keys to borrowed vehicles.
You are not the second coming; you are simply the best-funded distraction.
And Emmerson… ah, Emmerson. My once-loyal deputy.
You have turned the party of liberation into a laundromat for tenderpreneurs and mafioso.
You say you are the “listening president”—yet it seems you only hear the sound of crisp US dollars rubbing against your re-election campaign.
Even the ancestors are embarrassed.
They refuse to share a hut with you up here.
Zimbabwe does not need another fuel tycoon with a messiah complex.
It needs a return to principle, to sacrifice, to comradeship—not this grotesque ballet of bootlickers and billionaires.
In closing, let me assure you: I may be buried, but I am not blind.
From my eternal rest, I will continue to haunt you with the truth you refuse to speak.
Till next time, Asante Sana.
