Fellow countrymen, comrades, and beloved survivors of this glorious struggle, it is I — your eternal Founding Father, Baba Bona — who has risen once more from the Great Beyond to offer you unparalleled insights into the latest chapters of our revolutionary saga.

I must admit, even from my resting place, the spectacle unfolding before me tests the limits of my patience and faith.

The same old faces, dressed in tailor-made suits from Milan, assembled in Johannesburg for what they grandly called the Liberation Movements Summit — a gathering meant to honor our sacred struggle but which I see plainly for what it is: a congregation of ageing elites plotting how best to cling to power and protect their offshore fortunes.

From ZANU PF to ANC, FRELIMO to SWAPO, CCM to MPLA — all the old warriors of 1975-1980 — they strutted like rockstars on a farewell tour, their revolution long sold off for personal estates and luxury cars.

My own successor, comrade Ruka Chivende, blessed the summit with fiery words borrowed — or perhaps butchered — from Fanon, proclaiming the sacred duty to “retain power to advance the people’s agenda” — even as security forces stand ready to crush any anti-government protest or dissent.

He spoke proudly of his “liquid empowerment” strategy: 35,000 boreholes, 35,000 ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and zero maintenance.

A promise of water that flows as freely as empty slogans, leaving rural voters hydrated only with hope and disappointment.
Meanwhile, in South Africa, comrade Cyril Ramaphosa called for “economic emancipation,” conveniently ignoring his party’s electoral hangover and Eskom’s latest blackout symphony. The ANC’s famed Zondo Commission continues to gather dust, much like the court summons ANC leaders consistently avoid.

Mozambique’s FRELIMO blamed social unrest on Artificial Intelligence disinformation — yes, comrades, the robots are to blame! — while 400 Mozambicans perished quietly, lost beneath a cloud of Western and TikTok conspiracy theories.

President Daniel Chapo, master of dictator-speak, warned against “regime change” — which really means: “Don’t vote us out, or else.”

He called on liberation parties to unite, not against hunger or poverty, but against “far-right populists” — code for any opposition brave enough to promise honesty.

And Angola’s MPLA, Tanzania’s CCM, and SWAPO — recently caught in the Fishrot scandal — nodded along, practicing the sacred art of deflection through liberation nostalgia and Pan-Africanist emojis.

If Fanon were here, he would storm that summit, screaming, “This is exactly what I warned you about!”

Yet here they sit, new colonizers in black suits, riding the same Mercedes, living in the same mansions, singing a slightly newer anthem.

As the youth rise — from South Africa’s EFF to Mozambique’s restless cities — the revolution’s slogans have become punchlines, and these “colossal parties” are bloated relics struggling to stay relevant.

But while the elite feast on stolen riches and catered leftovers boxed for first-class flights, back in Chitungwiza, tragedy struck in grim silence.

15 souls trapped in a horrific kombi accident, crushed inside a twisted metal coffin. No emergency rescue. No cranes. Just bystanders clawing desperately with bare hands.

And what did the municipality do? They delivered funeral water.

Yes, dear people — after years of drought and dry taps, residents were granted two days of running water — not as a constitutional right, but as a bereavement package.

“To help with funeral arrangements,” they said, as if dignity can be rationed and mourners scheduled.

Our national tragedy is now a watered-down joke — where water flows only for the dead.

Remember that power without water is only a dry promise.

Now, what is this I hear about comrade Christopher Mutsvangwa playing bouncer, trying to enforce lines and rules on a party that’s been skipping queues since day one?

Didn’t he advocate for and sanitize a coup that dethroned me?

Ah yes, comrades, let us stroll down memory lane to 2017. The year tanks rolled into Harare like kombis during rush hour, and the great general in camo booted me out with more ease than a conductor ejects a passenger with a torn note.

No primary elections, no congress, not even a campaign poster — just straight from KG6 military barracks to the Vice President’s office.

Even the constitution sighed and said, “Zvangu zvapera.”

Now he wants to play custodian of the ZANU PF constitution, yet his real target is Kudakwashe Tagwirei — the fuel baron swinging golf clubs and political deals in the president’s personal space, making tongues wag faster than payday kombi touts.
Until next time, Asante Sana.