The 88-year-olds that I know...and this one.

Dude, gotta hand it to you.

Today, you turn 88. EIGHTY-EIGHT!! Congrats man.

Me, reach 88? Singing Coolio: “…the way things is going, I don’t know”.

Why? Coz I eat beef, you see. And I drink. A lot. In fact, I’m drinking right now as I write. Just the kind of shit you said will shorten my life.

Good thing is I don’t do ‘little houses’, as you put it. Why? Well, I’d like to say it’s because I think it’s immoral and an affront to our cultural mores. But it’s simply because I can’t afford one.

Brazilian weaves. Manicures. Pedicures. Facials. Massages. Pubic shaves. Shit.

But once I am rich and fat like Obert Mpofu, I am getting me one of them ‘little house’ skanks. Get her to rub Dairibord yoghurt on my big belly and have her friends lick it off me while I call some Israeli on my phone to buy my diamonds. That’s what I’ll do.

But not yet. Right now all I can do is look at you in admiration.

88?! Man, I wanna get there. But I want to be your kind of 88, not the 88s I know.

The 88-year-olds I know? Spent old coots. Sit all day pasi pemu-mango kumusha, talking shit.

You do gym. All they do is pick flies drowned in their masese. And fart.  

But you?

Here you are, 88, and still ruling a whole country.

The 88-year-olds I know wear 17 jerseys and the torn elbowless jackets they brought from Wenela to stay warm. You? Saw you on TV last night. Burberry shirt, red tie. If I’m not mistaken, from the broad cuts on that suit’s lapels, that’s a William Fioravanti? Or at least one of those Savile Row jobs, like the Huntsman or the Anderson & Sheppard or some such swanky shit? Right?

VaMugabe likes nice things.
Here, in a New York store,
shopping for nice things. Nice.

And, nigga, them cufflinks! Shiiiiiit. Needed shades to watch TV man. Blingin’. What are those? Artelier Yozu cufflinks? I hear those babies can set you back a few thousand.

But, hey, what’s a few thousand for our last remaining slayer of imperialist dragons. No, we won’t begrudge an old revolutionary a few luxuries.

But, eish, I gotta ask? 88 years here vakomana? 32 years pabasa! Hazvigwadzi here?

Believe me, my Commander in Chief, I’m as pan-Africanist as they come. Which is why I can smell Zanu’s fake nationalism from a distance. Or the MDC’s sell-out politics.

But, 88?

Now, I get your dilemma. I heard you when you said your party would be divided if you left. Like, “my party is divided because of me, but if I go, they’ll be divided”.

Twisted, but makes sense. I mean, who from your lot would take over? Thief here. Killer there. Idiot over there.

Even a faggot or two that would bitch our country off to the next foreign dick that asks them to bend over.

(Figuratively, Cde, figuratively. I see you sitting up in your chair ready to swat the homos)

But, eish, 88? Clearly, all that health stuff is bullshit. But, surely, the back must hurt a little sitting up in that leather chair all fucking day?

The meetings must be longer and boring now, surely?

Straining your giant intellect in Cabinet against all those pea brains in there? And the kids, they need you home man. Looks so bad they get U’s at A Level, where the F is usually the worst grade.

Hazvibhowi here? 32 years, same thing? Swatting imperialists? Punching the air? Walking past those smelly horses at army parades?

I don’t know man. Maybe I'm just impatient. I can’t sit through a TV soap. Sometimes I get bored taking a piss and I stop midstream and walk out the loo.  It's that bad. Let alone stay in a job for 32 fucking years. Especially if the job is ruling a country full of cynical ingrates like me.

Been fun. People won’t admit it, but we’ll miss you when you’re gone. Your speeches – that “so, Blair, keep your Britain and I keep my Zimbabwe” shit must be cast in fucking stone man. And, look, you are just about the only Afro talking The Truth to the West.

But 32 years? Let it go man.


 I swear we won’t let your successor or Morgan try some silly Charles Taylor shit on you. Besides, Morgan’s too busy with whatever freakish shit he’s been doing in bed lately that breaks legs.

I wanna be 88 too, man. A respected 88. Not like the old farts kumusha. But, now that I think about it, not like you either; caught in a trap – damned if I stay, damned if I go.

Anyway, Gushungo, Happy Birthday.