Fellow countrymen, ZANU PF elites, and compatriots, it’s that time again I rise from the grave to share my unparalleled political wisdom and insight.
From beyond the soil, where ambition finally tires, I observe the living stumble through their own drama.
My people, and what a performance it is.
Take Vubachikwe Mine.
Once a quiet source of gold, now a stage for ZANU PF youth to play at power.
Front-end loaders, tippers, compressors—violent seizure without a shadow of legal right.
Moses Langa and his gang declare immunity from arrest, flaunt political connections, and dig as if the earth owes them.
Is this mining or a rehearsal for the next political audition?
One wonders.
On the other hand, football’s golden boys retire not to pensions, but to the ruling party loyalty.
Sunday “Mhofu” Chidzambwa receives a Toyota Fortuner and a thick envelope of cash from tenderpreneur Wicknell Chivayo.
Retirement, in Zimbabwe, is less about legacy and more about optics.
The pitch ends; the political feeding trough begins.
Legends are paraded like trophies—visibility matters more than dignity, loyalty more than achievement.
My people, and then, the economy.
Finance minister Mthuli Ncube announces inflation is now in single digits.
Rejoice!
On paper.
In reality, salaries vanish before the month ends.
Poverty deepens.
Ordinary citizens squint at numbers as if they were abstract art.
Stability, it seems, is reserved for the well-connected; the rest live on faith and imagination.
Observe the pattern, political entitlement, strategic generosity, and statistical sleight of hand.
Mines are seized, coaches are paraded and
Inflation is tamed in theory.
The machinery of survival hums quietly, uninterrupted.
Laws are negotiable and pensions optional.
Public trust is of course expendable.
Spectacle replaces substance.
Performance substitutes accountability. And yet, the system works beautifully—for those who understand its rules.
Loyalty is currency, fear is a tool, and optics are everything.
Critics call it chaos; I call it design.
Power is never surrendered; it is redistributed surgically.
Every youth invasion, every luxury gift, every “economic miracle” is calibrated to maintain equilibrium at the top.
In reality, living scramble, hope endlessly, and debate endlessly, blind to the script behind the stage.
The truth is unavoidable: structure beats sentiment.
Planning beats slogans.
Strategy beats spectacle and those who rely on emotion, hope, or headline miracles are left holding crumbs while the elite dine.
From the grave, I see it all.
The drama is predictable, the tactics recycled, the slogans enduring.
Yet the fundamentals never change: preparation, patience, and cunning ensure survival. Everything else is theatre.
Until next time, Asante Sana.
