Zanu-PF stalwarts have allowed themselves to be found frolicking naked in the pool
As you walk out of the small ravine, up the well beaten scotch-cart track you see the tree. Branches clawing scraggly at the sky, the mutamba (wild locquat) tree stands forlornly and is if in lonely perpetual prayer. It stands in Sekuru Matambo's field, scattered with dry maize stalks from last year's crop.
Your tired feet scuff the earth, battling step by step eating away the the distance, perambulating you past the tree towards the Muketa homestead. Further down is Mudhara Hahuhunanzvi's homestead. His name means "you will not lick the beer" and I am not offering any prizes for guessing his favourite passtime.
You lurch past the Muketa homnestead towards the headman's homestead. Nobody has ever seen him behind the wheel of a motor vehicle but he is popularly known as Driver. He is a wizzened wise old man, Mudhara Hahuhunanzvi's older brother. Driver is Chararamiro village's very own Google search engine for wisdom.
You saunter past the headman's home, past of that of his younger brother popularly known as Ngundu, also another eternal fountain of wisdom. As you stroll out of the village, you stumble into the thicket of mutondo shrubs. In the distance you see the snaking dark vegetation marking its course.
You are coming to Nyamhere River.
Its flow is seasonal, but there are a few deep pools that do not go dry throughout the year. One of them is Chembiti. Its banks are lined by evergreen grass, a couple of rocks jutting into the pool like a jetty.
Chembiti was our favourite spot for swimming and bathing. We would discard our clothes, draping them over the mutondo and acacia shrubs lining the river bank and spend most of the day splashing about in the pool.
It is a pity we knew nothing about the Olympics. There were a couple of swimmers like Fortunate Maputi and my best friend Stanford Chiraramiro who would have made the cut in any Olympic team.
Now let us the depart the realm of fact and delve into imagination. Suppose a madman, happened upon us as we splashed naked in Chembiti pool on Nyamhere river. Unseen by us, he tip-toes among the shrubs collecting our clothes, stuffing them in his dirty bag.
Suddenly we see him!
"Hey!" goes out the collective shout. "What are you doing? Leave our clothes!"
Instead of heeding our calls the madman heads off across the short grass of Muchovhu plain. His legs windmilling faster than an aeroplane propeller, he runs fast away from us. We all take off after him trying to get back our clothes.
Suppose a stranger spies this scene, a bunch of naked people running after a fully clothed man, what is their conclusion likely to be? Who are they going to call mad? Mapenzi ndeapi?
Now imagine a bunch of Zanu-PF stalwarts running after Grace Mugabe for power. Mapenzi ndeapi? Who are the mad people here?
I have a question for the stalwarts. Where were you and what were you doing while your legacy was being taken from you?
Why was Zanu-PF formed? Was the party not formed to serve the interests of the people? How could you allow the party to be personalized in front of your eyes.
The stalwarts have been found naked because their political lives are no longer clothed with the people's interests. All they ever talk about is themselves getting into power. "When I rule. When I rule." that is all we hear from them.
The stalwarts have been frolicking naked in pools of luxury while the people suffer in the wilderness of an economic meltdown.
If you are not clothed with the people's interests you will never walk the road to power the same way I can always walk the road to Chembiti.
These stalwarts are mapenzi evanhu. Hamuna kushonga zvido zvevanhu saka muchitorerwa masimba.
Pamberi nevanhu veZimbabwe yese!!!
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