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.
Dust still clings to my bones, but my spirit remains restless, wandering through the chaos of Africa’s politics like a ghost at a family meeting where no one wants to admit who ate the inheritance.
From this grave-side balcony, I have been watching the unfolding drama in Madagascar, and I must say, it is both tragic and instructive. There, a young generation — calling themselves “Gen Z Madagascar” — has risen against President Andry Rajoelina, demanding an end to corruption, poverty, and daily power and water shortages.
It began, as most revolutions do, with small grievances: dry taps, dark nights, and hungry bellies.
But soon the frustrations boiled over into a fire that now threatens to consume the entire island.
When your people can’t drink, eat, or dream, they stop fearing your uniform and start rehearsing your downfall.
That is how it begins — the spark of rebellion hidden in a bucket of uncollected water.
Emmerson, my crocodile apprentice, take note. I see you sitting in that golden chair, smiling behind those dark glasses, surrounded by comrades fattened on tenders, fuel coupons, and Chinese handshakes.
Do not be fooled by the silence of the streets — silence, too, is a language of warning.
Madagascar’s youth are shouting what your own people whisper: that a nation strangled by patronage, looting, and empty promises will one day bite the hand that feeds it poison.
You cannot govern forever on slogans and security forces.
A hungry citizen is more dangerous than a tank — because he will fight not for power, but for dignity.
In Madagascar, Rajoelina tried to reshuffle his Cabinet to calm the storm, even brought in a general as prime minister, but the protests only grew louder until the army itself joined the mutiny.
Soldiers turned their guns away from the people and towards the palace.
Ah, history repeats itself, doesn’t it?
The moment your own lieutenants start polishing their medals more than your shoes, you must know your days of command are numbered.
I learned that lesson the hard way in November 2017 — when the tanks I bought for “sovereignty” rolled straight to my gate.
So, my dear Emmerson, never assume loyalty in a hungry barracks or patience in a starving city.
Now, while Madagascar burns, I turn my gaze to my beloved Zimbabwe — the land I once called the jewel of Africa, now treated like a pawn in a crooked game of chess.
My heart bleeds when I see the crimes of our so-called “all-weather friends” from the East.
Ah, China, my comrades from the Long March of diplomacy — I once praised you as brothers in liberation.
But from where I lie, I see something far darker.
Your miners shoot our citizens, poison our rivers, and dig our gold as if they are burying our sovereignty with every shovelful.
In Mutoko, one of your nationals, Quijun Yu, allegedly shot dead an unarmed man, Fungai Nhau, a local who dared to question your authority.
In Zhombe, Filabusi, and Shurugwi, your fellow countrymen have turned our mines into killing fields — while our government, my dear Emmerson, smiles and issues fines so small even a chicken would laugh.
What kind of independence is this, where foreigners shoot our people and still get diplomatic dinners?
I fought the British empire; now you entertain the Chinese empire in new suits.
Do not mistake “investment” for invasion. These are not comrades; these are colonisers with credit cards.
They came with promises of partnership but left us with polluted rivers, cracked homes, and graves of villagers shot for asking to breathe.
And you, Emmerson, what have you done?
You have turned your back, whispering “strategic partnership” while the Chinese turn our land into a scrapyard.
I would rather wrestle with an imperialist I know than a friend who stabs me with a smile.
I say this not as an enemy but as an ancestor disappointed in his heirs.
I fought for a Zimbabwe where no foreigner would dictate the price of our minerals or the value of our lives.
But today, we have become beggars in our own fields — our mountains bleeding lithium for other nations’ electric cars while our own children can’t afford a bicycle.
My spirit weeps every time I hear of villagers walking kilometres for water while Chinese companies build dams to wash their ore.
Tell me, Emmerson, where is your Pan-Africanism now?
And inside your own party, I see a fire smouldering beneath the carpet.
The factional wars between your camp and Chiwenga’s are no longer whispers; they are battle drums beating beneath the conference tent.
I see ambition dripping from every handshake, betrayal hiding behind every smile.
You may call each other “comrade,” but the knives are already sharpened.
Chiwenga’s faction grows restless — some say he has the soldiers, you have the politicians. But remember, Emmerson, I once had both, and still, the coup found me unguarded.
Factional wars are like termites — they eat quietly until the house collapses.
War Veteran-cum-content creator Blessed Geza, has made another public address, calling for a national shutdown, a strike against your rule.
Perhaps this Geza chap draws lessons from Madagascar, Kenya, and Morocco — where citizens refused to live as spectators to their own suffering.
I listen from the beyond and wonder: will this strike succeed where others failed?
Will Zimbabweans finally trade prayer for protest, or will they once again continue to endure their corruption induced poverty and keep faith in miracles?
Ah, the Zimbabwean spirit — resilient, patient, but dangerously patient.
When it breaks, it does so without warning.
So I speak from the grave, not as a ghost haunting, but as a father warning.
Do not take the people for granted.
They may clap for you in daylight but curse your name in the dark.
Do not let the Chinese turn your independence into dependency.
Do not let factional wars become civil wars.
And above all, remember that power without accountability is a disease that even death cannot cure.
Govern wisely, my successor, before your own generals begin to dream, before your people begin to march, and before your friends begin to loot your legacy.
The storm in Madagascar is not foreign news — it is a mirror, reflecting what happens when leaders confuse endurance with obedience.
Till next time, Asante Sana.
