By Cde Bekezeka Mkonto KaMthwakazi
Presidential mouthpiece George Charamba took to X (formerly Twitter, now the arena for political bloodsports) and unsheathed his digital machete at Temba Mliswa, who had accused him of betraying President Emmerson Mnangagwa.
In his usual venom-laced eloquence, Charamba accused Mliswa of auditioning as Mnangagwa’s saviour—complete with cape, ego, and invisible spandex—while fishing for relevance in the swirling cesspool of ZANU PF factionalism.
Charamba, in a heavily worded statement dripping with sarcasm and political venom, dismissed Mliswa’s criticism as desperate grandstanding before unloading a barrage of verbal jabs that left no doubt about his disdain.
“I hardly have time for a failed opposition figure who seeks to play saviour to my principal or to ZANU PF, which he is yet to re-join.
“I will only take notice of his errant views when he becomes a member of ZANU PF, or an MP after winning a seat in a free and fair electoral contest,” Charamba thundered.
“For now, he is a mere talkative nobody who has no lessons for me! You can advise him to go hang on a banana tree if he has any, or runs an orchard!”
True Patriots, and just like that, the “banana tree” entered Zimbabwe’s political lexicon—another insult immortalised by Wi-Fi.
If you’ve followed Zimbabwean politics since before your last electricity bill, this showdown feels like déjà vu with new wigs.
Mliswa accused Charamba of serial betrayal, invoking Grace Mugabe’s 2017 tirade when she too labelled Charamba a snake in the grass for turning on her late husband.
History, it seems, has a long memory—especially for men who speak for presidents.
Back in the Mugabe twilight years, Charamba mastered the art of survival.
When others like Jonathan Moyo sprinted into exile, Joji stayed behind—unbothered, polished, and perpetually employed.
Mliswa’s not-so-coded question—“What dark arts saved you when your co-pilots jumped ship?”—was met with a reply that sliced like a bureaucratic scalpel.
Charamba didn’t explain. He doesn’t explain. He fires, logs off, and leaves the nation to argue in the comments.
The “banana tree” barb mushroomed instantly.
Memes sprouted faster than maize at Heroes Acre—one even depicting Mliswa swinging like Tarzan while Joji sipped Mazoe in presidential shade.
Banana farmers are reportedly still debating whether to demand royalties.
But beneath the comedy lies political rot.
Charamba’s jab came as Mliswa had recently called Vice President Chiwenga prideful and suicidal, accusing him of digging his own political grave.
Everyone’s now throwing stones, but no one remembers they live in glass State Houses.
This feud isn’t just a playground spat—it’s a symptom of a party nervously rearranging its furniture before another purge.
Rumours from the just-ended ZANU PF National People’s Conference in Mutare suggest Mnangagwa may soon reshuffle his cabinet and politburo—tightening the leash on restless comrades and extending his own stay beyond 2028.
Amidst these factional brawls, names are already being floated for influential positions in government—Christopher Mutsvangwa is tipped to replace Oppah Muchinguri-Kashiri, Owen ‘Mudha’ Ncube may be sneaking back into Cabinet, and even businessmen like Kudakwashe Tagwirei and Paul Tungwarara are allegedly being lined up for ministries.
In ZANU PF, money commands more loyalty than ideology
True Patriots, of course, Mliswa’s name appeared in the same rumour mill as a possible Sports Minister—a delicious irony for a man currently wrestling online with the presidential spokesman.
Charamba’s message to Mliswa was clear stay in your lane.
The irony, is that his own lane is paved with accusations of betrayal.
His rebuttal—“I’ve been accused before and I’m still here”—is either proof of resilience or a pre-emptive confession.
One X user summed it up brutally: “Joji anenge atumwa. Nick naJoji muri ma-suspects to ED… muri safe coz hamuna threat yakanyanya. Otherwise pakubudisa sensitive info, you’ll see the exit door.”
Translation: you’re only safe till you’re not.
If Charamba intended to silence Mliswa, he failed spectacularly.
Instead, he reignited old factional embers and reminded Zimbabwe that insults in this regime are never random—they’re coded smoke signals from an ongoing palace war.
In the current ZANU PF factional wars, Charamba plays the jester who mocks others to mask the king’s paranoia.
His jokes are daggers wrapped in velvet, and the crowd—long-suffering Zimbabweans—can only laugh while guessing who the next punchline will bury.
Because in Zimbabwean politics, the joke always ends up on us.
