ZANU fought ZANU and ZANU won.
-The Real Story of The Un-coup
END OF 2017
I remember asking what, exactly, was being celebrated.
‘Let us live,’ they said. ‘Let us be happy. It is a new day.’
They cheered and cheered and called him ‘saviour who restored the dignity of the nation.’ In their revelry they forgot who it was in the first place who brought shame upon the Houses of Stone.
They forgot his past, his true name, and fooled themselves into forgetting his true intent: the point of power is power. And because they forgot they thought he too forgot but he did not forget where he came from or where he was going. The long game. He played it.
Had they remembered that history repeats and people don’t really change they would not have been so foolish as to expect kitten antics from a crocodile.
But they forgot.
‘We will not accept any result but the one we want,’ they said, as if 2008 did not happen, as if 2013 did not happen. Independent observers they demanded and received, perhaps thinking observers would make a difference, as if observers independent or otherwise have ever made a difference.
Define, if you will, ‘observer.’ Remember, if you will, ‘sovereignty.’
They thought, perhaps, that the crocodile had become a gecko in old age; that time had brought forth a repentance from violence and nullified degrees in the same.
Perhaps they thought a house-lizard of unfailing tameness now stood in the crocodile’s place.
HOW TO ZANU
Drink enough tea out of tiny enough cups with enough cameras pointed at you and they’ll pull the wool over their own eyes and forget who was sitting where when history unfolded. When 2000 happened. When 2002 happened. When 2008 happened. When 2013 happened.
Send somebody to selfie with the masses on a tank, send somebody else to fist-bump a few natives and the stench of decades of murder will be remembered no more. And when you sin (not if) they will say of you not that this is who you are, but that you have changed so much in such a short time.
Decades of sin remembered no more. Because selfies and fistbumps, because tea in Borrowdale.
They thought to bend the tea-drinker to their will. They tried with the eager sincerity of amnesiacs tilting at windmills. They approached the tea-drinker – but where were their leaders? – they stepped to his doorstep thinking him a tame lizard to allow such liberties, only to find grinning back at them the bloodied jaws of the Butcher Crocodile of ZANU, jowls glistening and teeth dripping with the blood of his children.
Harare’s children murdered in the streets while pretend surprise and shock litters social media. It’s sickening and I am disgusted and disappointed.
‘But…but…selfies, fistbumps, how could they?!…’
You know what ZANU is. You know what ZANU has done. Do not act brand-new when ZANU does what ZANU does. We mourn the lives lost. Do not dishonour them by pretending to be surprised.