This is Zimbabwe, We should back Strive Masiyiwa

Children of Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana and King Lobengula Khumalo can you hear the new Zimbabwe echo from rock to rock and shrub to shrub in the wet and weathered hills and ridges and slippery slopes that form the mysterious and otherworldly Mount Nyangani? Children of Musengezi and Wedza can you dance and scream like traditional African men and women and shake loose from the wild and malicious spirits that poison the crystal clear water and sparkling fresh air in Chipinge and Chimanimani? The water no longer has the semblance of clean and bubbly taste and the fresh mountain air has no real ambiance breathing life in it.

Children of Mvurwi can you hear our smile less children bellow in indescribable agony and whisper random revelations of hurt-soaked admissions and colossal remorse in the relentless anti-climax Zimbabwe has become? Children of an unreal and fantastical land where sweet honey flows in the cream-filled milk and fresh drops of bountiful wealth lie in every sun scorched savannah in Esigodini and Plumtree: can you hear the fiery and restless cries from countless ancestral spirits that roam haphazardly in these bewildered and rudderless times we live in?

Children of King Mzilikazi will you extradite the foreign cries of three million exiled souls and box them in a silent cell of undecorated authoritarianism and unparalleled animosity for no plausible reason? Children of Gwanda and Gwai do cry out aloud when hunger pangs fracture your rib cages and large blisters crack the soles of your harassed feet wide open. Do run hard and unendingly from legislated dilemmas until you can see a new epoch of honest richness for all. Do not be flat defeated when baton-wielding militias of mythical champions and self-declared heroes remodel the shapes and colours of your battered bones and distressed heads with disorderly dogma and boorish power. Do run hard and fearlessly until you the cross the line that disconnects the underfed here and now from new and plentiful tomorrows.

Listen closely and pay careful heed to the pulsating sounds in the distance. Can you hear the hopeful and colourful hum of African drums call on lifeless limbs and exhausted minds and shattered souls to escape the dark and dirty dungeons that assault and molest the land of bankrupted wealth? Children of the land north of the Limpopo River where time has stood still in enforced silence and paused for our wasted pasts and fuzzy futures to become clearer visions all can hold high and believe in: can you see and hear the slow rush of shallow minds drown the healthful smiles of earthly angels who crave brighter halos and lesser harassment from we-know-it-all types?

Can you feel the embers of ashen denial and unsophisticated annihilation lash mild and passionate acquiescence upon old and dilapidated rows of hushed masses that stand ready to crumble like African dominoes? Can you hear the boisterous silence catapult unsuspecting children into famished neediness and deplorable adolescence and crushed growth? Can you see the multicolour flag flapping to the stale winds of a long and habitual African salsa of heedless abundance within the secure boundaries of thoughtful desolation? The flag has done the Kenyan and Egyptian dances very well and kept classlessness docked in an orchestrated paramilitary sick bay. The flag has shilly-shallied in the windswept shadows of Gambian and Ghanaian warriors and dabbled with enlightenment beyond the daily darkness that asphyxiates harmless humanity.
Children of Josiah can you bleed and bleed until the bleeding bleeds dry of fresh wounds and fresh sacrifices? Carry your souls high on the wounded wings of prayer and sprinkle that palpable and laudable spirit on the rich remains of fresh aspirations. Men and women of Gweru and Karoi can you see the children who play pada all day long and hop, skip and jump to the nefarious sounds of the coldblooded river nearby? Oh Bulawayo and Mutare, will you protect the chirpy and wonderful children from the unsympathetic appetite of the predatory crocodile in the sin-infested river of Amazonian aspirations? Where the crocodile prowls in the dark and daylight: disaster will strike. Where the crocodile rules: beastly hunters will prey on innocent intentions.

Oh children of Sekuru Kaguvi: can you see the tireless and enraged spirit of a son of Mount Darwin and Lupane spread Ubuntu and happiness and wealth in Harare and Nairobi and Gaborone? Oh Children of Joshua: can you fly high and carry him beyond the claws of rabid chancers and all the way through to our communal exhilaration everywhere?