Fellow countrymen, ZANU PF elites and compatriots, it’s that time again.
I rise from the grave to share my unparalleled wisdom and political insights.
Yes, yes — I know, a bit dusty around the joints, but my spirit is sharper than ever.
Zimbabwe, you remain the theatre of unending drama, betrayal, and absurd political reincarnations.
While I lie silent in my tomb, your rulers — the living dead in designer suits — perform spectacles that even the ancestors struggle to watch without shaking their gourds in disbelief.
*The Flyers, the Old, and the Fearful*
So, they’re chasing Madzibaba Veshanduko and Kudzai “run-away” Saruwaka — two activists whose only crime was allegedly handing out flyers for the failed “One Million March” called by war veteran Blessed Geza.
Police claim they fled in a Hollywood-style chase, though the only thing cinematic in Zimbabwe these days is the economy — full of bad acting and recycled plots.
These activists weren’t plotting coups, only handing out paper dreams to a weary nation.
The protests, of course, never happened.
Geza’s “revolution” fizzled out faster than a ZESA comeback.
Police had already filled the streets, ensuring that any flicker of resistance was smothered before the people could even clear their throats.
Meanwhile, ten elderly citizens — some old enough to remember Rhodesia’s ration cards — were dragged to court.
Their crime was gathering to complain. Their premature sentence was humiliation before a magistrate young enough to call them sekuru and ambuya.
“Zvigananda chera mwena, nguva yakwana…” — the chant of exhausted bones.
The state now fears the sound of old voices, as if wrinkles hide insurrection.
Stones found near the square become “evidence.”
Police whisper that granting bail would “threaten peace.”
Peace? When hunger, theft, and hypocrisy roam free?
They treat pensioners as terrorists while men in Italian suits launder the country dry.
In Zimbabwe, rebellion is criminal, but corruption is culture.
A mother may be jailed for a protest song, yet ministers grin from SUVs fueled by stolen petrol.
The message is clear: loyalty to the regime feeds you; loyalty to the people buries you.
*The Bomb, the Betrayal, and the Blueprints of Coup*
And now, enter Christopher Mutsvangwa — part-time spokesman, full-time arsonist — whispering of bombs and betrayals at press conferences.
He resurrects the 2018 White City bombing, that mysterious explosion that nearly baptized Mnangagwa in holy fire.
Mutsvangwa hints that Vice President Constantino Chiwenga’s hand may have been behind it.
It’s the kind of accusation that turns ZANU PF politics into a spy novel — except everyone already knows the ending: betrayal, reshuffle, and selective amnesia.
He speaks of grenades hitting rocks — a poetic way of saying the generals missed their mark. But it was also a coded message: “I see you, and I still remember.”
Factionalism has evolved from whispers to detonations.
The crocodile’s palace is no longer watertight — it’s leaking paranoia from both ends.
In my day, coups were straightforward. You either led it or fled it.
Now, they do it with WhatsApp leaks and carefully staged “press briefings.” Soldiers conspire in silence while the civilians applaud their own captors.
Mnangagwa, though breathing, may soon taste the bitterness of his own blueprint.
When you ride a crocodile, remember — you cannot dismount without being eaten.
*Banana Trees & Blunt Tongues*
Ah, my favourite court jester, George Charamba, has risen again — armed with sarcasm and Scripture.
He tells Mliswa to “go hang on a banana tree.”
The insult spreads faster than black market exchange rates.
Mliswa had dared to question Charamba’s loyalty.
Charamba, ever the survivor of purges, replied with the poetic venom of a gardener who’s seen too many pruning sessions.
In Zimbabwean politics, fruit trees carry deeper meaning: mangoes for patronage, bananas for betrayal, and lemons for those left sour by power.
But Charamba’s insult isn’t mere comedy. It’s coded warfare.
The banana tree is symbolic — soft enough to bend, strong enough to hang you.
Charamba once served under me, then Mnangagwa, and if fate permits, perhaps even under the devil himself.
He’s mastered the art of hissing without getting bitten.
His words are daggers dipped in sugar. He attacks, retreats, and watches factions destroy themselves — all while tweeting Bible verses and grammatical corrections.
It’s not just a spat.
It’s the beginning of a purge in prose. The politburo will soon be rearranged, the cabinet reshuffled, and someone will be “promoted” to diplomatic exile.
In ZANU PF, even metaphors have body counts.
*Gold, Bags & The Moral Illusion*
Now, enter the gold queen herself — Henrietta Rushwaya — rising from her own ashes like a phoenix in Gucci heels.
She once stood before the courts for smuggling six kilograms of gold and swore it was a “wrong bag.”
Even Samson’s hair had less mystery.
Now, she warns about foreign looters and the exploitation of small-scale miners.
The irony could buy us another gold refinery.
Henrietta preaches about sovereignty while clutching the same moral compass that once pointed straight to Dubai.
Her message is loud: “Foreigners are stealing our gold.” The unspoken part? “Only we are allowed to.”
Meanwhile, the real miners — the ones knee-deep in mud and despair — dig graves disguised as pits.
Chinese contractors dynamite villages into dust while officials sign “strategic partnerships” that read like obituaries for national sovereignty.
The government promises to “look into it,” which in Zimbabwean bureaucratese translates to “wait until the next scandal distracts you.”
Gold flows out.
Justice stays in and my people, the bag of excuses gets heavier by the day.
*The Crocodile’s Dilemma*
So here I float, coffin half-open, bones still buzzing with indignation.
The flyers, the bombs, the insults, the gold — all pieces of one puzzle: a revolution devouring its own young, and the old devouring what’s left.
Power has become self-cannibalism dressed as governance. Factions trade insults by day and knives by night.
Listen well, Emmerson, Joji, Chiwenga, Tagwirei — I may be dust, but my judgment does not decompose.
Do not let your greed finish what colonialism started.
Do not silence the grey voices that carried liberation on their backs.
And for heaven’s sake, stop looting the dead man’s dream.
My people, keep singing your protest songs.
The crocodile will nap, the banana tree will rot, and history — ah, that stubborn witness — will remind the living that you are not my heirs, merely the caretakers of a corrupted revolution.
Until next time, Asante Sana!
