Our leaders and their cakes!

                                                                                                                                   Pic: Sunday Mail

This, above, is Robert's rather freakish birthday cake. A dead-looking crocodile, mutupo wekwa Gushungo.

And, this, below, is a photo of Morgan's own birthday cake.

Enough said!

The prophet and the one night stand...

Now, don’t get me wrong.

I don’t hate our new breed of prophets and apostles. In fact, I said here recently that I want to be one of them.

But these must be tough times in the prophecy business. Competition heating up.

So, can't have just ANY poster. Even standing next to your prophetess – that skin lightening cream model – is no longer enough.

Also looks like conferences with thunderous titles like ‘Fire Holy Power Explosion’ don’t cut it anymore.

So you have stuff like this here, ‘The One Night Stand Conference’.

Now, I was saying to myself, Cynic, easy old boy, watanga, you are being dirty. Not everyone is a sicko like you. The sexual imagery here is just coincidental. Sit down.

But then, right at the bottom, the poster says, ‘One night only, when you wake up, we’ll be gone’.

Who, me? Judge? No, never. I refuse to judge.

Besides, long ago, before I became a man, I too had a few one night stands. Much less than I wanted, I confess.

But, at least, I had the decency to stay long enough for breakfast.

Single people, if strange things appear in your bed to have sex with you,
you know where to go!

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.

Starting your own church. Your ultimate guide!

I am starting my own church. Especially now that I have a pink suit and pink croc shoes.

I mean, surely, how hard can this be?

Check-list:

THE SHINY SUIT: White one. Or Silver. Or the pink kit I'm wearing above. I look pastoral. Double vent, so it bobs around when I swing about on stage. Silver waistcoat inside.

Some 13 minutes into the sermon, remove jacket and hand it to sycophant helper. You know, the brother who wears a red shirt with his collar outside his jacket to church and is always following the pastor around? Yes, that one. The old ‘mufundisi vabvisa bhachi manje’ tactic has been known to whip up the crowd. It says ‘look, the pastor has taken off his jacket; he's about to make a real go at it now’. Even though you’re talking shit.

THE POINTY SHOES: White in colour. Or beige. I’ve seen red. But even the weirdest nutjob pastors stay the fuck away from red shoes. Especially pointy, red shoes. White socks too.

THE CHURCH'S NAME: Now, whatever you do, remember, this part is important. Under no circumstances must the name of your church not have a ‘Ministries’ or an ‘International’ in it. I mean, where the fuck is your ambition? ‘Anglican Church’? How boring is that name? Really? Try Soul Crying to Heaven Ministries International, you bastards! Or Holy Overflow Deliverance Ministries Global International. Christ Intersection Global. Heaven Embassy. Or something.

THE POSTERS: Wear your suit. Stand next to a woman. She must be light skinned. All pastors’ wives are light skinned. Ehe. Fact! Not one poster have I ever seen with a pastor next to a dark skinned woman. Print gazillions of posters. Paste them, by night, on street lamps, trees. On the durawalls. Outside seedy bars like Vito Red Room in Mbare. On the toilets at Copacabana taxi rank. Everywhere.

This dude I saw on First Street in Harare is on the right track!

THE BAND: Can’t form a church without a band, now, can we? Get a few sisters. You know the ones, handiti? The ones that can’t sing for shit but because they are “sisters in the Lord”, no one says a word and people suffer in silence every Sunday and they call themselves the Holy Sweet Melodious Voices of Heaven group and are always asking for offering money to record? Yah, those ones. Get a few guys who can hold a guitar. They don’t really need to know how to actually play. And, the most important one, the key board! Amplifier, speakers, even if you meet in a classroom so tiny that the brother in the back is so close he can smell your sweat.

THE LINGO: Church people have their own language. Like, they don’t say, ‘ngatisimuke tinamate’. They say ‘mumwe nemumwe asimuke netsoka dzake (?) akotamise uso hwake achisvika pakunamata.’ ('let's stand on our feet ...') Tell people what they want to hear. Tell the poor they are poor because they aren’t praying hard enough. Or are not 'giving' enough. Tell them to believe for a Benz. Then make them buy one and tell them you'll drive it on their behalf.

THE OFFERING BASKETS: Do I need to spell out the importance of these things? Do I? No? Good.

Almost set. And now, another important part; Do you have a local language name? No. That won’t do. Remember, from now on, you shall be known by your first name. And it must be English. Always. Pastor John. Pastor Peter. Pastor Ron. Ever heard of Pastor Ticharwa? No. Ok, there’s Pastor Mboro, but that doesn’t count.

Now, go out there and perform miracles.

I will stop when I'm President - PM promises

Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai has promised to stop all this nonsense once he becomes President.

Some critics say his recent behaviour is not fit for a President.

But addressing journalists, The PM responded cleverly: “I will stop this nonsense once I become President. So this question of whether or not this is good behaviour for a President is a silly question because I'm not yet President. As soon as I am President, I will stop.”

His promise to stop should put an end to all the bad talk in the undemocratic newspapers, which have been saying Mr Tsvangirai will not be a good President if he keeps sowing where he refuses to harvest.

This is also The Pry Minister's first public admission. Initially, The PM’s office had denied the reports. His spokesman, Luke Tamborinyoka, said this week: “My brother, if you believe that The PM knows Locadia, you will believe that he also knew about the election runoff clause in the constitution.”

Tamborinyoka had also said that anyone who believed the reports would believe that Mandela was 12 years old and that Jonathan Moyo was white.

Quizzed by a  silly journalist whether The PM's admission means, inversely, that Mandela was now indeed 12 and that Jono was white, Tamborinyoka looked down at his toes, scratched his bum, picked his nose, and said: "At the time I said it, it seemed a very clever thing to say." He now realised it was pretty fucking dumb.

No, this is not what a 'diplomatic charm offensive' looks like'..This is the PM
with the unidentified woman whom The Herald has come to identify as 
the 'Unidentified White Woman'

Some commentators have been saying Mr Tsvangirai needs to cage his dragon pronto because it will devour his political credibility. This is not true, it turns out.

Random impregnation of women outside wedlock may actually be the first sign that he is in fact qualified to be President.

“Now he looks very presidential,” said a political commentator who refused to be named for fear of victimisation and stuff (ah, fuck it, the commentator is John Makumbe).

Soldiers and pees in the garden

So the woman, who was once married to an army general but now is clearly not, and who once threatened to cut off an opposition leader's manhood, and who once scared all those poor white people by revealing a 20-year thirst for ‘white blood', has had her swimming pool peed in? Yes. By soldiers.

"Right now, as we speak, I have soldiers in my garden, peeing in my swimming pool. He (former Hubby General) put them there and I have to make a court application to get them out," she told The Standard.

It's a world where various torture and punishment methods are available to the vengeful; electric shocks to the dangly bits. Waterboarding. Mariah Carey. etc.

But, no, we must pause. And we must take in the image of a soldier, AK47 in one arm, weapon in the other, leaning back, peeing into a Borrowdale Brook pool. Pause. Take it in.

Then we must all marvel at the callous cold geniusnessity of it all.

Heard about the country where soldiers piss in the pools of their generals' lunatic ex-wives? Yes. That's where I live. Wouldn't wanna be anywhere else.

The revolution will be virtualised!

See that guy in the photo? Yeah, the one with the red cap. That, right there, is your regular Zimbo! That's like me, right there. Riots? What riots? Me? Join in? Fuck it. Sorry. I'm having my Schweppes Lemon!!

Yesterday, soon as I heard, from the excitable types, that the Arab riots had come (you see, they have to be 'brought') to Zimbabwe, I did not abandon everything, rush off to wear appropriate clothing – maybe like a red T-shirt with some open palm on it or sumthn - and then rush, singing and screaming, into the CBD to join in the ‘Arab-style’ riots that the MDC keeps praying to their MDC gods for.

No. I didn’t.

I, like the regular Zimbo that I am, did what every regular Zimbo does when they hear something's brewing - drive home and turn on the TV.

And, no, the revolution was not being televised.

None of the "massive riots in Harare!!" the twitterati and other desktop revolutionaries had been orgasming over was on TV. Not on eNews or CNN or stuff. Only Kim Kardashian and her ass.

Ah, yes, I said to myself. This is just how I like my 'riots in Zimbabwe'. Only on the excitable internets. Only on the Twitters and Facebooks. At worst, only on the TV, and done by someone else. On my behalf. Never in my street. Never me.

So I switched the channel. And I chilled.

Nothing here. Move right along.

When you're ready to revolt, tell me what time it will be televised. And I will be there in a flash. Right there. On the sofa. Twitter in one hand. Schweppes Lemon in the other.