I listened with disgust the other day to a woman and two men justifying why one of the men had fondled a woman’s breasts in public. The woman in question was a total stranger. While the young man claimed he was drunk when his hands strayed and groped a strange woman’s bosom – an offence that subsequently saw him do community service as his just desserts – the young scoundrel still insisted he believed what he had done was not wrong. His female interlocutor agreed.

They all agreed the woman had invited it, and I could only guess if she had with her a sandwich board with an appeal to that effect! The female in this conversation incredulously asked why the offended woman was the only female “who is always” molested. It turned out one of the men who had groped her for free thrills was an off duty cop at the local drinking hole where the second incident had also occurred. So she invited it! I suppose the violated woman must have had that voluptuous, nubile, adrenalin-rushing, eye-popping, pant-bulging, curvy body that screamed for men to fondle her, so who could blame these men if they only responded in the manner nature ordered?

There was outrage in South Africa recently when touts and taxi drivers thought they could define women’s dress code and punished “skimpily dressed” women by stripping them, then pointing laughing at the naked woman. It is such behaviour that was being extolled by these people.

I sat and listened silently and my mind went on overdrive as I made parallels with our present political circumstances where men, women and children have “invited” the wrath of Zanu PF militias by simply voting for a party of their choice. As the discourse on Zimbabwe’s post-2000 political narrative that has been defined by coercion rather than persuasion and has rendered all democratic precepts – fundamentally that of the ability to exercise one’s franchise without paying for it with brutal violence – the woman’s body as an object of men’s sexual pleasure presented for me a fascinating analogy.

While attitudes have changed among progressive African societies that wife battering belongs to the annals of those Neanderthal men (perhaps a la that cute Flintstone dude dragging the wife) the very fact that there still exists folks who justify these acts surely strengthens the case for those radical courts that would demand the amputation of that part of the anatomy that would compel one to rape.

Same with politics: how do we justify the battering of opponents on the sole “charge” that they decided to take destiny by its horns and vote for a better future. If these acts can be justified, then surely we can justify the violation of women in the manner of that imbecilic young lout.

And these louts abound these days and are giving fashion a bad name donning party regalia emblazoned with that mustachioed and bespectacled darling of the international talk shops. They have also been spotted running their hands all over stupefied teenagers also wearing those loud t-shirts, and a friend quipped the other day that the pregnancies in the making will produce nothing but more fist-waving!

But back to the lager lout. How would he feel if his own sister came home shedding tears and telling a story about having been groped by some drunk? Would he not take an axe and spear and confront the pervert? Stories abound about the circumstances under which recent elections were held, and these are stories that bring tears to one’s eyes even though the testimonies are from total strangers.

The violation of human rights exists on many levels, and wherever such violations occur, it can only be described as tragic if not moronic if justifications of any sort are brought forward. If a woman can be fondled by a stranger in public for whatever reason (as if any is needed), if a voter can be clubbed to death on allegations they did not vote wisely, does that not scream for the total revisiting of what makes a superior being in the whole created order.

The intolerance of alternative views in Zimbabwe’s political discourse as defined by the so-called veterans of the struggle has obviously cascaded down to the lowest echelons of our society. It is just as that great wise soul Confucius noted many ages ago that the model of good behaviour begins at the top.

This is as morbid as it gets. Bellicose men known for their viciousness on the receiving end of hate vigilantes? You must be joking! This is not a moment of misplaced glee, but someone could not help but wonder whether the reports were true. A sad twist of irony perchance? That particular death – the newsmen from another planet prefer to call it murder – becomes national news because of the political hue of the fallen comrade. The other fella next door is only killed by “unknown people” when everybody else seems to know the face of that hand that rocked the cradle and took a life. Is that what we have become, a nation whose collective conscience has been overthrown by this diabolic callousness and where nonsense is celebrated as sense? A nation that regrets one death and celebrates another? Is that what we have allowed other mortal men to turn us into? Other beloved nations have cried, but ours seems to be on the indefatigable attempt to be the stentorian equivalent of the town criers of yore. But it is the screams of latter day fallen heroes that will ring in the ears of evildoers, driving them insane down to their dark places of repose. “Repose” because perhaps they will make peace with their Maker when that light visible only to people staring that inevitable crossover shines in front of them. And then with clear consciences, the remaining souls tormented by the Devil they knew get that morbid satisfaction. “Vengeance is mine said the Lord.”

Burnt buttocks, fettered feet, singed hair, charred homes. Cruel men play dentist. And without anesthetics, they forcibly extract healthy teeth from screaming patients. Patients who put their “X” on the “wrong” space. “If they do not understand, we will beat them until they understand,” a dead former minister said with glee at the height of farm murders circa year 2000 referring to white farmers. Today, the wrath is directed at fellow former comrades. We now “understand” what that dead man meant. Who said dead men tell no tales? Are dead men nothing but pictures? Turning in his grave? No, perhaps laughing all the way to that fiery place for souls unfavoured by St. Peter. Another said “we died (sic) for this country”. And that gives them that unique privilege to take lives, kick butt, pull the ears of infants, apply pliers to the genitals of sworn foes. A wise guy said: Not until all the so-called heroes of the struggle are called to the other life will we know peace. All heroes become a bore at last, another said. Burnt buttocks, fettered feet, singed hair, charred homes.

Run-off. That is in the in-word. Confusion reigns as the people try to decide and dictate the verdict that fits their circumstances. That is to say what “they” say they voted for in the past election. Not just that, but also what they believe they deserve. And then what after THE election? What election? And then the people, the so-called masses, get the little pleasures from their already wretched existence after THE election. They know what they want. Feed the kids, send them to school. Have a job. Have access to ARVs. The other day a toothless grannie said: why this stubbornness? She should know. She is from that generation that hid the present oppressors from the other oppressors. And then what? No one knows anymore. A good man gone bad? Ask the Jesuits perhaps? A freedom fighter gone anonymous? Ask Twoboy? Once upon a time a “people person?” A toothless old man said: “Is this old man still in charge?” He spoke b’coz he knew. Questions. Questions. Questions. But when the old people start cursing, perhaps someone should pay attention.

Slowly, the public discourse is being laced with radical tones and themes; they talk rebellion; they talk about someone being taught a lesson; they talk about an impoverished uniformed man in the neighbourhood; in a commuter omnibus they take to task a lone uniformed female; why are thing this bad, tell us; why are your colleagues this corrupt; when is HE going; show us your payslip; we know you are not going to pay any fare; a billion dollars from Harare to Bulawayo; 100 million for quart of beer; do you drink?; this is as daring as it gets; no response from the hapless uniformed one; other passengers laugh; the uniformed one fails to see the joke and stares blankly ahead: “if only the earth could swallow me, damn these daredevils;” it is the politics of the stomach; the devil is dared; noone cares about “suffering the consequences;” signs of worse things to come? sticks and stones, do they still break bones; they sure do not break the spirit; batons and barrels, do they triumph over people power; pens and swords . . . ah well; sit up and listen.

Went to the biggest supermarket in town this morning.

Shoppers curse as they pass aisles of empty shelves; cotton wool here, baked beans there, snacks here, stacks of beer there; young men pass the crates of lager and salivate; they head for another section where they grab the take-me-quick-liver-melting spirits; they curse the president; none pays attention; they move on; next, fetid empty fridges; once upon a time the home of cheese, ice cream, fish, beef, pork, offals – that old favourite of many, chicken – why did the chicken cross the road; why did the chicken leave the supermarket fridge; used to be music serenading shoppers from an in-store record bar; all is gone; who can afford to buy music; can you eat a CD or cassette; 28 tills, only two being manned by tired looking operators; give us a re-run, I heard them say; a replay of shelves perhaps?