It’s about 3:45 in the afternoon and one of Mugabe’s jet fighters is buzzing our Harare skies. As much as I hate it my skin involuntarily goose pimples. It’s intimidating, it’s threatening and it’s a fucking waste of fuel. Here on the ground, we breathe in deeply, swallow our distaste and we get on with our work.

And, we have a laugh . . . Mugabe: R.I.P (Rigging In Process)

My Radox Stress Release bubble bath has run out, and so has my patience.

In no particular order, I’m fed up with:

a) vendors selling me over priced trays of eggs whilst I’m crossing the road
b) dead of night tsotsis stealing telephone cables rendering all phones kaput
c) my hunting dog waking me up at 4am, 3 nights in a row
d) civil society fear merchants who say Don’t Do A Damned Thing, or we’ll provoke a state of emergency in Zimbabwe
e) Mugabe
f) waiting

An old woman asked me the other day: “What is happening my son? When is the old bugger going?” I almost lost my step, but quickly recovered as it occurred to me that this was one election whole generations had not seen in a long time. But to have an old woman who has since retired from her vending outside the local pub and is looking after a brood of grandchildren asking about the hottest news story at the moment meant “the old bugger” had indeed stepped on the toes (some say hearts) of people who in the past would not have been bothered about the politics of this House of Stones.

Then I remembered the women who had been battered by riot police as they marched across the country taking the regime to task about issues ranging from starving children to sanitary ware to a new constitution. Some of these valiant women had indeed met their death as they marched for a better Zimbabwe, and it got me thinking. This old woman concerned about post-election Zimbabwe, and evidently concerned about her own future and that of her grandchildren, could easily be one of those many women who in the recent past took to the streets to have their voices heard. But by the belligerence we have seen and heard with the pugnacious veterans of the 70s bush war declaring once again they will not allow imperialists to take over the country, the poor old granny could just find herself on the receiving end of booted feet, clenched fists and spiked cudgels.

And for what? For daring to demand their inalienable right to choose the political leaders they want. Does this man ever sleep? If he does, we can only guess what he dreams about. But the granny proffers a clue about what SHE dreams about. She still has hope for a better Zimbabwe.

I’ve just been into my bank and the conversation went something like this

“Are you online?”
- yes

“Do you have cash?”
- no

“Is the ATM working?”
- no

As Comrade Fatso reminds us in his blog below, our streets are now our supermarkets, and our banks are dealers on corners.

Torn posters of presidential candidates on durawalls. At every intersection. At every street corner. It feels like something from the past, from another era. But this is the era we are in now. Still hanging on the sun-soaked slogans of these ripped-apart politicians. The fist and the fury is our daily bread, our breakfast. As we sit at the robots, the traffic lights. Still. Not moving.

As they decided to invade farms and arrest election officials this past that we are living in just became a worse future. The parallel realities we live in have become the only reality now. The other one is paralysed. So bread is now hustled on street corners for two US dollars. Like an illegal drug. Milk has also joined the list of ‘goods’ that are sold in our parallel economy. Not in the shops but on the streets. And if you’re looking for toliet paper then just drive to the nearest ‘Give Way’ sign, a Zimbabwean ‘Stop’ sign.

In our country survival was criminalised a long time ago. We don’t know what is upside-down or downside-up. Normal means no electricity and a drop of water from the tap. Yet our rulers fill the news with talk of the need for a re-count before Zimbabweans know the-count. Filling the news like cramming empty shop shelves with toilet paper. A disgusting illusion. A lie.

This lunatic competition has taken another crazy turn.

According to the MDC’s latest press statement the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission (ZEC) has disbanded the National Command Centre and shifted the ‘verification process’ to an undisclosed location.

“The MDC secretary-general told journalists in Harare that Lovemore Sekeramayi, the ZEC chief elections officer, had told President Tsvangirai’s chief election agents Chris Mbanga and Morgan Komichi, that verification was now being at another place outside the Harare International Conference Centre. He refused to disclose who was now carrying out the collation and verification exercise and the place where the exercise was now being carried out.”

At this point, only one candidate could benefit from this chicanery – Robert Mugabe.

It’s time he was disqualified. Thabo Mbeki – please raise your red card.

Chirikure Chirikure is one of Zimbabwe’s leading performance poets. His work is featured on a number of web sites including Poetry International, one of the best poetry sites on the Internet.

Here is a poem written in 1998 which gives some pause for thought today.

We fought the war

Inzwai!
We, in diaspora, overseas, fought this war,
We sourced donations and mobilised foreign support
Yet we never lagged behind in our studies, preparing for the future of our country

Aiwa!
We, the boys in the bush, fought the war,
We pulled the trigger, politicised the masses
We slept in the bush – cold, rain or shine.

Bodo!
We, Mujibha and Chimbwido, fought this war
We were the beasts of burden, carrying arms, reconnaissance,
Washing the fighters’ clothing, cooking for them.

Nyangwe!
We, your parents, the peasants, fought the war.
We supplied the clothes, we sold every beast we had.
We supported with morale and prayed to the ancestors.

Yes, we thank you!
The war was fought, blood flowed, homes were destroyed,
The country we fought for, is now ours, we liberated it.
Now, whoever among you has got the key,
Let him open the granary of the country and give us a little grain to cook the little ones a little sadza.
See how parched their lips are?
Like refugees of war.