A country of sickly men

This is a country of sick men. They deny it though. 

President Mugabe does not admit it.

The main opposition leader Tsvangirai vehemently denies it. And now Biti says he is not sick.

So if these three are not sick, honestly, who is? Mugabe flies out now and again for first class treatment. That is not a secret. He is human after all. And old too.

Tsvangirai bolted out of a private hospital in Harare. That is not a secret. Unlike Mugabe who flies out for treatment at expensive and world class private hospitals in Asia, Tsvangirai had to pay after discharging himself. His wife too said Tsvangirai is sick. Who knows a husband better than a wife? And who are we to say she is lying?

Biti denies sickness but his body talks a different language. Just last year, he was robust. Full cheeks and energetic. With suit jackets threatening to burst on the shoulders. Today, the same suit jackets hang as if they are on wire hangers. Still he denies being sick.

No wonder why the three sick men are fighting over the carcass of a country that would need decades to be buried. A country lying in its own vomit. Under the feet of sick men and women who are determined to drag it into their graves.

Around a sick Mugabe are other sick men and women. They too are fighting over a sick aging party. A party still scouring in the ashes of the liberation struggle for relevance. Yes, just listen to them talking. The venom in their words. The anger in their voices. Watch them limp on through whatever is left of their days. Still trying hard to warm up their lives from the coldness of death.

Yet still none of them admit being old and sickly. The small boys and girls in them scream ENERGY! But the bones do not agree. The lethargy creeps in. It's not 1975 any more. It does not matter how much viagra the men swallow just to take on girls young than their granddaughters. It matters not how young the boys are the aging women bed. Age is like a sickness. Incurable too. It eats everything. In our case, it is eating us too. Once age is done with them, the sickness will seek other hosts. More victims.

And Tsvangirai. Sick in the mind. And the loins. Presiding over a cancerous party that needs to lose limbs in order to survive. First, Welshman Ncube. Then Job Sikhala. And now Biti. Of course, Job has returned like a fresh cut from the thigh to fill up a gap left by a cut limb.

Even those around Tsvangirai are sick in the mind. Rabid like dogs. Wailing and howling threats. Tearing each other apart. Fighting over a rotting party. Blind men and women groping their way through time. Confused lawyers who do not understand themselves.

Renewal. What renewal? Renewal from what? To what? For who? Just another chant that will soon be sucked up by the silence. Change. Chinja. Guqula Izenzo. And now renewal. I wonder what's the hand sign to that renewal chant is.

Stillbirths in our life time. Sickness in our days. These sick men carrying the sign of death over our land. A country of sick men indeed.