Dear Mr Big Man aka Morgan Tsvangirai

Dear Mr Tsvangirai

Let me set the scene for you. It's 5am where I am and I am supposed to be sleeping but here I am sitting at my desk thinking about you. Please disabuse yourself of the notion, I am not thinking of you in that way, God forbid. No I am thinking about you in a more banal and more realistic way especially now that I read you have been suspended from your own party. I am thinking of all your successes and failures. Especially the failures. Yes, to be quite honest, I am having a very difficult time coming up with the successes.

Let us see dear Sir, let us count them off one by one. You founded Zimbabwe's biggest opposition party and for what seemed like the first time it had ever happened, you stood up to Robert Mugabe and his party, ZANU PF. I remember the strikes, the protests and the stayaways you organised in those forgotten years of Zimbabwe's history, that autumn before the winter that would find us holding the remnants of a country. But how were we to know back then that the dollar would collapse, that we would wind up in queues queuing for our own currency, for sugar, for bread, for water, for dignity. Yes, perhaps in that autumn of our country you were the only one who could see that far ahead. You led, you protested, you told us to vote for you and those few that saw your vision voted with you for what you said would be change and a brighter future.

Change did not come.

Through no fault of your own Mr Tsvangirai. Understand this, we saw you beaten, we saw you holding your bloody head in front of the camera's. We read about your MP's who would be dragged out of their homes in the middle of the night only for their remains to be found days or months later. Or never found at all. We saw the offices of the Daily News bombed and then closed down, we read about your offices being raided and we saw the horrors you went through Mr Tsvangirai. How could we fault you? You more than anyone knows what it is like to sit within the walls of a Harare jail for having spoken truth to power. But already the tendrils of your downfall were planted back then. You see Mr Tsvangirai, people saw you as a plaything of the West, a puppet and not your own man. You know how hard it is to convince Nationalists in any country and any era to see beyond the borders of their country.

Even then there were whispers that you were not that clever a man, that your deputies fought with you and more. But we were entranced bythe image of our country go up in flames like rabbits caught in the headlights of a car hurtling at it. Some of us left. Some of us stayed. You stayed and you vowed to fight. And you fought.

And change did not come.

By then things got worse Mr Tsvangirai. Your own party had split into two distinct pieces, ostensibly over the issue of contesting the Senate elections at the time but there were whispers of tribalism and authoritarianism. You failed there. You failed to provide leadership in your parties greatest test against no other than itself. It would only get worse from there on. Confusion on exactly where your party was heading, your own leaders who seemed at times to contradict themselves, and just the general malaise that somehow Robert Mugabe seemed the more skillful statesman all 'other things' discounted. Even Ambassador Dell in his email to Barack Obama, which Wikileaks so helpfully provided the world with access to, described you as:

Tsvangarai is also a flawed figure, not readily open to advice, indecisive and with questionable judgment in selecting those around him

He ended his scathing analysis with the summation: "Zimbabwe needs him, but should not rely on his executive abilities to lead the country's recovery." You laughed it off but as The Guardian put it, those  "... cables were written by Americans, to be read by Americans and they form the undigested raw material of American policy." What should our policy have been then as we saw you raise your clenched fist for us to follow?

Then change almost came.

The 2008 elections failed to follow the normal course of elections. People vote. One person wins. One person loses. In our case, people voted and you and Robert Mugabe for all intents and purposes won and became the strange bedfellows that was ingloriously referred to as the Government of National Unity, though united you were not and governing was a side hobby to your principal pastime: fighting. Much has been written on how you could have handled an impossible situation better and I will not rehash it or even pretend how it must have been to work in a partnership with a partner who made every effort to pretend you were a nuisance that would go away if they closed their eyes and pretended hard that you did not exist.

But I will note that you spent those crucial years criss crossing the globe, meeting world leaders and making speeches from the podiums that stand at the centre stage of global politics. Unfortunately Mr Tsvangirai those podiums did not stand at the centre of Zimbabwean politics. You left a fractured party at home which you seem to have never tried to heal. You left voters to themselves and off you went on taxpayers money to beg for more money. You also spent those years embroiled in one scandal after the next. Someone was pregnant by you, another claimed to have married you and there were rumours of yet others. If you do not have the panache of the French, where Holland can be photographed on a scooter on the way from a night of pleasure with his mistress and still not only survive politically but be admired, I would have advised you to keep your laundry clean. Nothing riles a good Anglophone like the stench of a scandal in a politicians bedroom. Just ask Bill Clinton.

And there was more Mr Tsvangirai; the mansion, the perks, the money and grandstanding over what I called a flawed constitutional process. Mr Dell's words seemed to have become prophetic; you had become an albatross around our necks and as I listened to Freshlyground's Big Man, I thought of you: "Wear fancy clothes, drive big expensive cars...You do for you, just what you want to do.What's the solution? Material pollution!" Those suits fitted you quite well Mr Tsvangirai but perhaps they fitted you too well. No longer did we see the man who had raised his fist to the heavens in fury and promised change to the masses. No longer did we see any change at all. Instead we saw more of the same. A party riveted by fighting, an opposition that failed to present a united front in any sense of the word, we saw and heard fights between yourself and your deputies and we wept. How could you unite a polarized country when you failed to unite your own party? Perhaps when you met Angela Merkel you should have asked her how she united the opposition in Germany and swept into power. And perhaps asked her why she still refused to live in the Chancellors residence but remained in her modest home. There is power in symbols Mr Tsvangirai. You seem to have missed all the lessons.

Then change finally came.

But it wasn't the change you had promised Mr Tsvangirai. It was a change back to the way things were. A change that saw Robert Mugabe tell Grace to start redecorating because they were not moving out of State House any time soon. You lost the elections. Again. And those who had voted for you wept. And those who had believe in your promises wept. And those who had listened to you turned to you and preached to you what you had preached to us for so long and so consistently.

Change.

And you refused. You dug in your heels and refused. You blamed everyone from heaven's gate to the foundations of hell. Everyone except yourself. There was some brouhaha where people were beaten up in your party's headquarters. Yet more brouhaha saw those people suspended from your party for asking for a change in leadership. It has been a remarkable and spectacular failure of leadership Mr Tsvangirai. You failed to unite your party. You failed to lead it. And now that it was breaking apart you stood and looked surprised. Unfortunately Mr Tsvangirai, we are not. How can we trust you to lead us through the finer points of our country's great constitution when you seem not be able to agree on the broader points of your own party's constitution? What is change if it is not what you act? What is wisdom if you fail to learn tomorrow from today. What is leadership if you have failed to lead.

Bigger men have resigned over smaller things. Germany's President resigned over using his credit card while on holiday. What action do you propose for wasting the political capital you had gained and using it to beat Mr Mangoma to a bloody pulp? Bigger men have resigned over things distantly related to them. South Korea's Prime Minister today resigned over the ferry disaster that claimed the lives of at least 187 people. What action do you propose for drowning the dreams of millions of people Mr Tsvangirai?

Nelson Mandela stepped down to let those who followed him to continue his struggle for him. Mr Tsvangirai, follow his footsteps, gigantic though they must be for you. Resign and let us finally see the change you have promised to us for the better part of two decades.

Africa needs Great Men not Big Men.

Yours,

Bongani Ncube-Zikhali
A concerned Zimbabwean citizen

Happy Harare, Zimbabwe

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UWC Scholarship : Deadline 28 February

United World Colleges Scholarship Award

UWC is a worldwide movement of senior-secondary Colleges promoting international understanding through education. The Colleges follow the 2-year International Baccalaureate curriculum, an alternative to A-level as a university entrance qualification. Students from all races, religions and backgrounds live and work together, and engage in a wide variety of community service and other activities in addition to the rigorous academic programme.

Partial scholarships are available to Zimbabweans for colleges in Armenia, India, Norway, Germany, USA and Swaziland for entry in August 2014 (January 2015 for Swaziland). These scholarships are awarded on the basis of demonstrated need, i.e. families will be expected to contribute the equivalent of what they would have spent on sixth-form fees in Zimbabwe; candidates should therefore discuss this with their parents before applying.

Applications, in the student’s own handwriting, from those with excellent 2013 O-level results (7+ A grades), a good record of extra-curricular and service activities, and a commitment to the UWC ideals and to representing Zimbabwe in an international community, should reach the address below before 28 February. They should include full biographical and March contact details (e-mail address, if possible), exam results and a covering letter giving the reasons for the application. Only short-listed candidates will be contacted, and interviews will be held in Harare in March. No further correspondence will be entered into, and no documentation can be returned to applicants.

UWC Zimbabwe National Committee
38 Broadlands Road, P O Box EH 49
Emerald Hill, Harare

On Your Knees Myth! Whore of Zion

Taken from scenes of my life. To prove a point. [Translation: heavy doses of irony]

It's Paris. The sun has long set, the stars are struggling to make themselves seen through a veil of fog so persistent you hardly notice it's there except when you see the pollution warnings in one of the daily's. Add that to the dazzling gaze of the lights and hardly any stars can be seen at all. Not that you are looking for them. You are tired. So tired. You woke up before dawn to catch the train to school. It's now almost midnight and you are only leaving work. You are running to catch the train home. Everyone seems to be running. Running to work the night shift. Running to relieve the baby sitter. Running to keep ahead of the looming tide of bankruptcy. Running past the white women sitting by the sides of the Metro stations with plastic coffee cups in one hand extended in a plea for anything to eat. Running past the dignified old blue eyed lady sitting wrapped in aluminium foil to keep her warm from the assault Winter will launch all throughout the night. You are all running so fast you can't even smell the dank urine that permeates some of the seedier Metro stations like the breath of a dead demon forgotten in the darker reaches of hell.

You feel like God. Standing on the edge of the mountain, you look down at the city cupped in the warm embrace of two oceans. She is beautiful. Beautiful in a way that you had never expected it would be. No wonder those white men had come here to fight wars for her land. The air is crisp and fresh against your face, the delicate scent of the mountain flowers adding to that heady feeling you have when you stand at great heights. You can see the Victoria and Albert Waterfront where you gazed at gadgets and fashion too expensive to even think about. Way on the other side is Carlton Beach with its white sand laid out like the carpet some sea god first steps on as they make their way onto land, make their way into Cape Town. Between here and there is a hodge podge of buildings, of homes of townships, alive in only the way South Africa is alive, only the way South Africa can dance for joy at Mandela's funeral. Only the way happiness makes it alive.

"It is the West!! It is the West!!!" He cries. His arms flap around him like the wings on a chicken, too stupid to know that they cannot fly. The West has done this. The West hates us. The West is evil incarnate, the West and its people the Whites. You look at him, half listening as you stare outside the glazed windows at the streets carpeted in purple blossoms, the Jacaranda's are in bloom again and Harare is as beautiful as a virgin awaiting her husband on her wedding night. But then again everything in this country is beautiful you think. From the Falls in the West that made Livingston stare in wonder and angels forget their hymns of praise. All the way to the East where mountains reach for heaven like fingers reaching up to scratch the underbelly of heaven. A land that is yours, a land that you call home. You turn your eye back to him. You feel like screaming at him:
Nothing is simple you fool. Half the problems you are screaming about are caused by you and your idiotic party.
Half the horrors you have listed come from the fact that there are not two brain cells to rub together to form the spark of an idea between the lot of you.
The remaining half of them because you never listen do you? When they told you devalue your currency or risk hyperinflation what did you choose? Print more money. When they told you invest in repairing energy infrastructure or risk power shortages what did you choose? Rural Electrification Programme. When they told you don't chase out skilled Farmers or risk a ruined agricultural sector what did you choose?
You don't even bother to answer the question.

This is the West you think as the bus drives along the highway. This is Merry Old England, the great colonizer who went through the world and arrogantly made it bow to her Queen, or King depending in which era you decided to pop out of your mothers womb. (Yes you Britannia who deigned to think herself superior to almost every country on earth, let us forget about the thousand or so years you were colonised by Rome. Not even Italy. Just Rome)
You look for the tell tale signs of superiority. Surely there somewhere amongst the sheep and cows grazing in the meadows of the Midlands there must be gremlins busy at work trying to trample all down. But all you can see are cows and sheep. Once or twice you see an old woman tottering on her stroller on her way to the grocery shop round the corner. Families walk through the greenland on their way to a picnic or church, heaven knows which of the two are holier persuasions. All you see is people where you had expected to see towering machines of war waiting to rain down fire and oppression, you press your face puzzled to the glass, its bitter coldness waking you up from your reverie just as the white hostess comes to your seat to ask if you want something to drink, "Sir" she adds in tones as respectful as if she was addressing a person who hadn't needed to save up for six months for this trip. You smile and decline. You wish you could ask her where they are hiding the guns aimed at Zimbabwe 24/7. Then you realise she probably doesn't even know how to spell Zimbabwe. Nor does she care.

They are a living, breathing mass. A swarming, convoluted being spread out over so many miles yet one. They are an angry being. An avenging thing. They scream and they shout, their rage as apparent to you, as potent as scorpions and just as lethal. No to Gays! No to Homosexuality! Gay Wedding is an Abomination! Everyone should be Born to a Man and A Woman! The Eiffel Tower stands as a silent witness to their anger. Is it conducting their anger straight to God? Can he hear them and reach down to stretch a finger to bless them all?
Yes?
Perhaps not.
It starts drizzling on them, just as they have drizzled on your illusions of them. Back home they are known as they pedarasts, the immoral West come to corrupt the pure African and his pure ways (forget the killing of twins at birth tradition, or the killing of Albino's for black magic, forget that Christianity is a Western import as well) yet here they are screaming blue murder at a government that is trying to legalize what is legal in South Africa. Something is wrong here you think. Something is very wrong. But you remember the headline about the gay couple who were attacked a few weeks ago in the centre of Paris for holding hands and you realise that in the end, nothing is as what it seems.

You dream you are in high school again. Mr Tshili using his wooden ruler to mark off the angles of the triangles he is drawing on the blackboard. The swift accuracy of his hand as it describes arcs with the compass and then joins them with the ruler is nothing less than witchcraft. You watch fascinated as you listen to his explanation, his voice as swift as the path of the chalk he holds in his hands. In your dreams you note his voice, it's perfectly accented tones rising and falling in the silent class of students. Discipline is taken for granted here. No children throwing paper at each other, no one dares to pull out a phone in class, no one even dreams of school shooters. 98%. That's the literacy rate in Zimbabwe your dreaming self remembers. And it starts in classes like this. Classes littered all over the country, in beautiful private schools and underneath trees, in low density government schools and township schools like the one you are in: all filled with hard working men and women imparting their knowledge and skill as selflessly as they can, considering. No wonder certain Austrailian Universities consider a ZIMSEC D as equivalent to a Cambridge C. You smile smugly to your self satisfied self in your dream. That will teach those Western idiots who ask you were you learnt to speak such good english as if schools are as foreign a concept as beggars to the streets of Paris.
Oops.

"People are people. I see very little difference between Romans, Greeks, Carthaginians, Syrians, or any other you care to name..." - Julius Caesar in The First Man in Rome by Colleen McCullough

"The problem with blaming the West for ALL our problems is the subtle implication that we are not clever enough to create problems of our own let alone solutions" - Bongani Ncube-Zikhali