I am a man of my threats Bisa. Always have been.
When I threaten to do something, anything…. I usually make good of my word.
One way or another.
I just do it at a time of my own choosing. Not at the whim of Wandale, some dead chaps wearing red garments, John the little whistle or the adulterous Catholic “fathers” who sometimes have no children.
I am a firm and decisive leader Bisa so I do not bend over just because some horny chaps on Viagra who think from the groin have decided to protest by stripping any las they can find. I do not bend over that way Bisa. It is called stoicism.
My leadership is not about mental gymnastics on social economics with dunderheads like Raqif and his colorful ugly shirts. I am a man of action Bisa. I take out gas and bring it back. Just like that.
Bottom line is that Gasoline is back in the village. Look around you young man. Gasoline is back in stucks.
At my whim of course.
My enemies must choke on it. These miscreants now have nothing to say apart from tucking their tails between their legs and walking heads down away in search of another governance misdemeanor to torment me with.
We are in the land of Gasoline plenty now. Thanks to my wise, visionary, dynamic leadership (just like all my clowns are ordered to say in every sentence on national TV). The idiot villagers can now afford to buy the essential liquid in smaller quantities.
Granted, it was not easy to solve this mess Bisa.
That nonsense of devaluing our money was sensible but ridiculous in my world. I couldn’t leave with that because it could have meant backing down on a position I have held strongly and dearly for so long. That just not presidential.
You know how it is Bisa for geniuses in my position. Never back down we say. You can not apologise, admit guilt or responsibility. Once you take a position, hold on to it. It has never been about being wrong or right or reasonable or logical. Even if it takes you to the ends of the earth.
I mean never change a position or apologize Bisa. You can only quietly reverse the situation but never admit you were wrong. Stick to your rubbish if you have to.
I had gone too deep with my position on gasoline to change my mind. From broken bridges in Mozambique to Chigubu rascals to Lucifer and dark angels. It would have been embarrassing to change the story once more. A compromise had to be reached.
Watch and learn Bisa. Pay attention young man.
I am not just large, round and grey in a Chinese suit for nothing youngman.
I slept over the matter for months. Over a cocktail of Tiquila, Jack, Mojito, Sour Monkey, Hennessy, KD and Rider. With a pinch of lemon off course.
In the end Bisa, we simply had to drive our village into more debt. More debt until the villagers are dead. The villagers needed Gas so the solution was more debt for the villagers. More foreign debt to buy Gas. The villagers wanted gas so they must pay for it.The concept is called finding solutions from within. Wamva mmimba ndamene amatsekula kuchitseko. Good thing the villagers don’t know what debt I have plunged them into. Will never know. Somehow they will pay. By themselves or their children.
In the mean time my spin machine had to protect my Resume so Biltong the spy with severe appearance deficit and large red lips and his fellow not-so-pretty boys had to organize small time crooks to see what lies beyond beyond the village skirts.
The village’s attention was diverted for days by yapping ladies, radio phone ins, SMSs, Facebook, Twitter, a boycott campaign that never took off, prayers, a workshop on a rainy day and white Tshirts. School me young man, I still don’t get this thing about village protests and Tshirts. They have Tshirts for every protest and campaign these days. This time the Tshirts were white.
Shame. Even Joyce, Wanapo the silly young lawyer with equally silly neck ties and Atupele indulged themselves in this. It just gave this whole thing some legitimacy. I don’t know if they draped themselves in white Tshirts.
Amidst all that structured diversion and scorned and livid feminists on airwaves, Gasoline quietly crept in the Village Bisa.
My spin machine blamed the Chigubu boys and imposed a ban. To the dim wit villagers, the Gasoline is now available because the Chigubu chaps are now out of the equation.
So essentially, I did not cause this problem in the first place. QED.
Bisa, now all the moaning is gone. I feel like JC that magician from Bethlehem 3000 years ago who effortlessly calmed the storm on the lake.
We call this spin young man. No lies. Just untruths, innauracies, deception and avoidance.
Here I am Bisa. My troubles are over now. I am seating pretty, sipping Lebulo.
Back in the village, it is as though nothing ever happened. Just like a husband who goes AWOL for weeks and suddenly returns. The wife doesn’t ask questions because amidst the absence she won the lottery.
I only feel sorry for the dead chaps in red T-shirts. Life is meaningless.
Now that’s what is called wise and dynamic leadership.
Here is the rationale Bisa. My reputation is important to protect. It is the villagers who need gasoline. We did not have to devalue our currency. Chigubu hustlers are now way out of business. I have learnt young man that I don’t have to hang villagers these days. I just give them enough rope to hang themselves. I have given them an opportunity to bear the York of debt.
What is pissing me off is that instead of celebrating, you and your fellow perverts and philanderers are still complaining. I know you miss the queues Bisa. I know know you must think of other reasons to bolt from the house besides to queue.
You are a big boy. You will figure something out.
I had a dream Bisa.
I was on my way to Beira. Inspecting Gasoline reserves.
I was about to get off the plane when I saw tonnes of the town folks in white Tshirts.
The tshirts read: “Lero undimwetse mowa mawa undinamizire kuvula azimayi”.
Another read: “Tayamba kuziwona liti kuti tivule azimayi lero?”
I passes out. Again
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