Fellow countrymen, ZANU PF elites and compatriots, it’s that time again I rise from the grave to share my unparalleled wisdom.

Yes, even in death I still clock in, because Zimbabwe is the only country where ghosts are more consistent than institutions.

My people, I woke up this week to shocking news.

Not inflation, not corruption, but Muti items at Parliament.

Ahhh, So we have moved from democracy to traditional medicine.


From votes to bones.


From manifestos to mhembwe fat and red cloth.

When I warned you that politics without ideology would end in witchcraft, you laughed.

Now Parliament looks like a midnight shrine where Agenda 2030 is being cooked with roots, powders and constitutional shortcuts.

My children, when leaders start consulting spirits instead of citizens, it is because even lies have stopped working.

And speaking of lies wrapped in hope, let us talk about Nelson Chamisa, that gentle pacifier of the masses.

Ah, Chamisa.


The man who keeps people calm the way nurses calm babies — with promises, prayers and warm words.

He disappears for two years, says nothing, does nothing, builds nothing — and yet people are told, “Relax, he is strategic.”

Strategic, my foot.

My people, Chamisa is not fighting the system.
He is lulling it.

While ZANU PF sharpens knives for 2030, 

Chamisa sings lullabies about 2026.


While Parliament is kneaded like sadza dough, he tells supporters, “Keep mobilising.”

Mobilising what exactly?

Hope, faith, X (formerly Twitter) and WhatsApp messages?

He vows to return, always tomorrow.


He promises action, always next year.


He keeps the people peaceful, prayerful, and perfectly useless.

I know this trick — I perfected it.


You keep the masses hopeful so they don’t become dangerous.

Chamisa is ZANU PF’s most effective calming tablet.


No teargas required.

Now let me turn my skeletal finger toward my former party.

ZANU PF under my successor, Ruka Chivende, is no longer run by cadres, war veterans or even ideologues.

It has been captured by Zvigananda.

These are not revolutionaries.


They are tender spirits — born in boardrooms, raised in procurement offices, baptised in inflated invoices.

They made millions from state tenders, then returned to buy the party like groceries.

Votes are now purchased with boreholes.
Loyalty is paid in Land Cruisers.


Structures are bribed with fuel coupons and “transport refunds.”

When I ran ZANU PF, corruption was hidden under slogans.


These ones invoice it openly.

Zvigananda no longer influence the party — they own it.

They fund campaigns, decide candidates and capture commissars.


They whisper instructions louder than constitutions.

ZANU PF has become a marketplace where ideology is out of stock, but loyalty is always on sale.

And when Zvigananda fight, the party bleeds — but nobody calls it violence.

They call it “internal processes.”

Now let us address the biggest comedy troupe 

of them all — ZACC.

Ah, ZACC.


The anti-corruption body that cannot see corruption unless it is written in crayon and delivered by donkey.

They looked at Wicknell Chivayo — a man who flies in private jets, owns more Rolls Royces than a funeral parlour, and breathes tenders — and said, “We have nothing to go by.”

Nothing to go by?

Millions flowing from Ren-Form.

Leaked financial intelligence reports, partners jailed, and invoices inflated like maize meal during drought.

And ZACC says, “There is no contract.”

My peope, in Zimbabwe, corruption does not need a contract.


It only needs permission.

ZACC tried to wash Chivayo cleaner than a politician before elections.


But you cannot sanitise corruption with press statements.

Mpofu and Chimombe rot in jail — not for stealing goats, but for bleating too loudly.

They spoke, they leaked and named names.

And suddenly justice woke up like a jealous husband at midnight.

Chivayo walks free, polished and vindicated.


ZACC applauds itself, ZEC denies reality and 
the public is told to move on.

My people, this is not law enforcement.

This is theatre.

A bad play where the thieves write the script, fund the actors, and clap for themselves at the end.

Meanwhile, rituals are performed at Parliament, constitutions are stretched like old underwear, and the people are pacified with prayers and promises.

This country is no longer governed.
It is managed — by spirits, money, silence and fear.

But remember what the ancestors taught me in the grave that “Mashiripiti haadzime moto.”

You can bury truth under rituals, arrests and commissions — but it will burn through eventually.

Until next time, Asante Sana!