So I’m sitting in my office the other day reading and digesting the many highly informative, not to mention insightful articles contained in our most widely-read daily newspaper The Herald. I thoroughly enjoy The Herald, and I can see why it’s Harare’s most widely-read daily, notwithstanding the fact that it’s Harare’s only daily. As I’m finishing off an article about Gideon Gono’s U-turn on the possibility of us adopting the South African Rand as our official currency, my friend rang me on my mobile. I said to him “Have you read the paper? Can you believe we may soon be using the Rand officially? Man, what happened to protecting our sovre-ne-ty?”
Yes, I said it just as I’ve spelt it. As soon as I uttered the word I almost punched myself in the mouth. What has this country done to me, I am an American-educated genius, for Pete’s sake. When I thought about it a little more, I decided to write a letter to Parliament requesting that they ban ZTV and all newspapers in the Zimpapers stable for the irreparable damage they have done to our English. When you hear the word “sovereignty” pronounced “sovre-ne-ty” on the news every day, you end up saying it, too. Bad English is like yawning, it’s annoyingly contagious.
As I started to bash out my letter on my PC I realized that while they’re at it Parliament should probably pass legislation to criminalize certain uniquely Zimbabwean phrases, otherwise they will never die and will haunt us and our children’s children long after George Charamba and his journalistic junta are dead. If I hear any of the phrases listed below again I’m going to slit open my stomach, rip out my liver and drink my own bile. Then I’ll puke myself to death.
On thee ground: as in, “Members of Parliament are encouraged to regularly visit their constituencies to assess the situation on thee ground…” Every time I hear this phrase I could punch a hole through my TV. This phrase is a favourite of underperforming ministers, the most memorable being former (and yet now current, again) Agriculture Minister Honourable Joseph Made, who went up in a plane to assess the situation “on thee ground” with regards to farming preparations countrywide. The Honourable minister declared that we would have our most productive agricultural season since Independence. He even went so far as to predict a bumber harvest, whatever that is. As it turns out, he was slightly off the mark – Zimbabwe recorded its worst harvest since Independence. So much for assessing what’s happening “on thee ground”.
Sovereignty: notwithstanding that no one in this country seems to know how to correctly pronounce this word, those that use it have totally lost touch with its definition. If there was a Zimbabwean dictionary, it would define this word thus: “SOVEREIGNTY (sov-re-ne-ty): the world records we currently hold in inflation, unemployment, poverty, and preventable deaths. These gains of independence must be defended resolutely, with blood and tears if necessary, from the imperialist colonialist masters.”
Of which: as in, “They want us to pay $2 for sugar, of which in South Africa it only costs $1.” Huh? Shoot me already.
Forget and smile: as in, “If Brown thinks he can come and take over now that we’ve invited the MDC into government, he can forget and smile.” I don’t know where this phrase originated from, but in my opinion saying it should carry a heavy prison sentence. People who use this phrase should be locked up in the basement of Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison so the rest of us can forget and smile.
Overspeeding: if you are driving at 70km/h in a 60km/h you are speeding. If you are driving 120km/h in a 60km/h, you are…overspeeding? Yes. Only in Zimbabwe.
Hail: Lately people and countries across the world have taken to hailing Zimbabwe and events in Zimbabwe an awful lot, according to The Herald. Here’s a sampling of a few of the headlines I have seen in The Herald recently: “SADC hails inclusive govt.”; “Liberalisation of economy hailed”; “Teachers hail vouchers”; “Argentina hails Zimbabweans”; “China hails Zimbabwean solidarity”. And these were all in a single issue of The Herald! Should these journalists be put in front of a firing squad or what? A cursory glance in a thesaurus reveals there are at least 11 other words that mean the same as hail. Surely if they wake up the Herald editor he can look through his copy and pick an alternative word.
Detractor: Please raise your hand if you are Zimbabwean and can give me a definition of the word “detractor” in 20 seconds or less without using a dictionary. Now raise your hand if you are a Zimbabwean and can say a sentence using the word “detractor” in 20 seconds or less without using a brain. Do you see a problem here?
GNU: Where did people, including the press and our supposedly educated political commentators, get this idea that we have a Government of National Unity in Zimbabwe? A GNU is an arrangement where feuding political parties decide to merge and govern as a single entity. An example of this is when PF-ZAPU merged with ZANU in 1989 to form ZANU-PF. PF-ZAPU at that time ceased to exist as a political party. Now, both MDC formations have been screaming from the mountain-tops about their independence from ZANU-PF. Prime Minister Tsvangirai has said, and I quote, “…this is a transitional arrangement. No one is joining anyone…” I would also tell you what Deputy Prime Minister Arthur Mutambara said about the arrangement, but I was so distracted by the impressive shape and contours of his head that I lost concentration while he was speaking. Besides, no one except fellow robotics professors understands what the hell he is talking about most of the time. Anyway people, pay attention because I will only say this once: what we have in Zimbabwe is an inclusive government. Don’t talk to me about a GNU again, I will walk away. I know it’s rude to walk away while someone is talking, but it’s also rude to be stupid while someone is listening. This is why I generally prefer to have tea with robotics professors.
Please join me in starting a petition requesting that all journalists employed by the Herald and ZTV News as of 28 February 2009 be put in front of a firing squad and executed. Only then can national healing begin, at least for me.
zakeozim@gmail.com
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Close Encounters of the Undesired Kind
I meant to update my blog Wednesday but I was held up by the police on my way from one of my branches. By the time I got back into town I was so frustrated I had high blood pressure and if I had tried to type an email my eyeballs would have exploded and damaged my keyboard. I had a highly unproductive but nevertheless lengthy conversation with one of Commissioner-General Chihuri's finest on whether or not I should be incarcerated for driving 20km/h above the speed limit. I don't know why people continue to heap criticism on our police force, they are just as professional as any I have encountered elsewhere in the world. The only difference is language, and if you are not careful you can take offense at things that are not meant to be insulting. Below is an actual transcript of that actual conversation that I had with that young constable. I have taken the liberty of including a direct translation for the benefit of the non-Shona speaking readers.
OFFICER: Eh, ndeipi m'dhara? Paka apa, paka apa. (Good afternoon sir, could you kindly pull over to the side of the road?)
ME: Horaiti. Ndimi munaroka basa, Officer? (Sure. How are you today, Officer?)
OFFICER: Hapana apa m’dhara. Kukwara nezuva nenzara chete. Mu-town hamuchatengeke kana drink zvaro. (May I see your license and registration please?)
ME: Ndiyo yaZimbabwe yacho. Zvakaoma. (Here you go.)
OFFICER: Tisu takaomerwa, kwete imi munofamba murimumvura so-o, he? Inonzi chiiko iyi? Prado? Ha, murikuzviita. Anyway, inzwaka m’dhara. Wanga uchimhanya kaiwe. One-twenty, iyi iri pamushini iyi. Limit i-eighte. (Sir, I stopped you for doing 120km/hr in an 80km/hr zone.)
ME: One-twenty! Handina kumbopfuura hundred shamwari. (Is that right?)
OFFICER: Eh eh, usade kundivhundutsira, nhaika? Pakanyorwa kuti chii apa? Buda mumota m’dhara, buda tinyatsotaurirana ka-air conditioning kari imomo kari kukufurira. (Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the car please.)
ME: Ayewa, ndobudire chii? Taura shamwari, ndirikumhanyira kubasa. (Ok.)
OFFICER: Manje m’dhara speed yako iyi haina ticket. Totoenda newe ku-station, tokuvharira, wozoenda kucourt mangwana. Hameno. Toita sei? (Unfortunately I have to write you a ticket.)
ME: Haa, ko ndozvinei? (I’m so sorry Officer. Can’t you just give me a warning this time?)
OFFICER: Saka toita sei manje, because apa tinenge takuto-impounda mota, torova paperwork dzacho dzese, tokuisa mumacells. Asi tokuvharira kuChitungwiza, hatisi vekutown, and then mangwana kana mota dziine fuel, woenda kucourt. Kana dzisina, unozoenda Friday. (I’m sorry sir, there have been too many accidents on this stretch of road lately, we are under strict instructions to not be lenient. Your safety and that of other drivers is our primary concern sir.)
ME: Unopenga! Ndingarire mumacells izvozvo? O, chitora two dollars iyi wozotenga quart shamwari, ndoyandinayo. (I understand.)
OFFICER: Eeee! Maita basa boss. Thenks so much mufunge, mwari akukomborerei zveshuwa. Handei hedu boss. (Here’s your ticket sir. Please slow down and drive safe. Have a good day.)
I know you probably think I’m exaggerating, on account of I exaggerate everything else (except for my intelligence, which is truly out of this world), but this is a real-life exchange that occurred. As an unflinching patriot, I am proud of our police force, which the Herald reliably informs me serves in strife-torn countries in far-flung corners of the world. If our force was so terrible, why would the UN continue to call upon them time and again to serve in Azerbaijan and Kyrgystan?
It is totally against my principles to bribe the police, or anyone, for that matter. However, my principles evaporate like a mist in the morning sun when I am confronted with the prospect of jail. You see, the thing about me is that I’m not a hero. I have been working on this though, and I'm close. I'd say about as close as Michael Jackson is to being white. The thought of some tall, dark and never-handsome resident of Chikurubi called Gidza cuddling with me in the middle of the night is enough to make my little yellow liver shrivel. I think my main problem is that I have a vivid imagination. I can imagine Gidza deciding that over this particular weekend, I would be his significant other. I can imagine him cracking stupid jokes and laughing dementedly, unleashing demons of halitosis into my delicate nostrils. Man, I would keep my bum so tightly squeezed I would produce diamonds from the carbon fibres in my jail suit. Eventually, like after about 10 minutes of being in there, I would decide I would rather die on my ass than live on my knees, and I would commit suicide by holding my breath until my soul departed my body. Then Gidza could have his way with my cold, lifeless corpse, if he can pry open my buns of steel. Is it really worth going through this kind of turmoil for $2? To those of you males whose principles are worth more than your posterior virginity, I say may God look upon you with unending favour, and may you be in heaven 30 minutes before the Devil knows you’re dead.
zakeozim@gmail.com
OFFICER: Eh, ndeipi m'dhara? Paka apa, paka apa. (Good afternoon sir, could you kindly pull over to the side of the road?)
ME: Horaiti. Ndimi munaroka basa, Officer? (Sure. How are you today, Officer?)
OFFICER: Hapana apa m’dhara. Kukwara nezuva nenzara chete. Mu-town hamuchatengeke kana drink zvaro. (May I see your license and registration please?)
ME: Ndiyo yaZimbabwe yacho. Zvakaoma. (Here you go.)
OFFICER: Tisu takaomerwa, kwete imi munofamba murimumvura so-o, he? Inonzi chiiko iyi? Prado? Ha, murikuzviita. Anyway, inzwaka m’dhara. Wanga uchimhanya kaiwe. One-twenty, iyi iri pamushini iyi. Limit i-eighte. (Sir, I stopped you for doing 120km/hr in an 80km/hr zone.)
ME: One-twenty! Handina kumbopfuura hundred shamwari. (Is that right?)
OFFICER: Eh eh, usade kundivhundutsira, nhaika? Pakanyorwa kuti chii apa? Buda mumota m’dhara, buda tinyatsotaurirana ka-air conditioning kari imomo kari kukufurira. (Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the car please.)
ME: Ayewa, ndobudire chii? Taura shamwari, ndirikumhanyira kubasa. (Ok.)
OFFICER: Manje m’dhara speed yako iyi haina ticket. Totoenda newe ku-station, tokuvharira, wozoenda kucourt mangwana. Hameno. Toita sei? (Unfortunately I have to write you a ticket.)
ME: Haa, ko ndozvinei? (I’m so sorry Officer. Can’t you just give me a warning this time?)
OFFICER: Saka toita sei manje, because apa tinenge takuto-impounda mota, torova paperwork dzacho dzese, tokuisa mumacells. Asi tokuvharira kuChitungwiza, hatisi vekutown, and then mangwana kana mota dziine fuel, woenda kucourt. Kana dzisina, unozoenda Friday. (I’m sorry sir, there have been too many accidents on this stretch of road lately, we are under strict instructions to not be lenient. Your safety and that of other drivers is our primary concern sir.)
ME: Unopenga! Ndingarire mumacells izvozvo? O, chitora two dollars iyi wozotenga quart shamwari, ndoyandinayo. (I understand.)
OFFICER: Eeee! Maita basa boss. Thenks so much mufunge, mwari akukomborerei zveshuwa. Handei hedu boss. (Here’s your ticket sir. Please slow down and drive safe. Have a good day.)
I know you probably think I’m exaggerating, on account of I exaggerate everything else (except for my intelligence, which is truly out of this world), but this is a real-life exchange that occurred. As an unflinching patriot, I am proud of our police force, which the Herald reliably informs me serves in strife-torn countries in far-flung corners of the world. If our force was so terrible, why would the UN continue to call upon them time and again to serve in Azerbaijan and Kyrgystan?
It is totally against my principles to bribe the police, or anyone, for that matter. However, my principles evaporate like a mist in the morning sun when I am confronted with the prospect of jail. You see, the thing about me is that I’m not a hero. I have been working on this though, and I'm close. I'd say about as close as Michael Jackson is to being white. The thought of some tall, dark and never-handsome resident of Chikurubi called Gidza cuddling with me in the middle of the night is enough to make my little yellow liver shrivel. I think my main problem is that I have a vivid imagination. I can imagine Gidza deciding that over this particular weekend, I would be his significant other. I can imagine him cracking stupid jokes and laughing dementedly, unleashing demons of halitosis into my delicate nostrils. Man, I would keep my bum so tightly squeezed I would produce diamonds from the carbon fibres in my jail suit. Eventually, like after about 10 minutes of being in there, I would decide I would rather die on my ass than live on my knees, and I would commit suicide by holding my breath until my soul departed my body. Then Gidza could have his way with my cold, lifeless corpse, if he can pry open my buns of steel. Is it really worth going through this kind of turmoil for $2? To those of you males whose principles are worth more than your posterior virginity, I say may God look upon you with unending favour, and may you be in heaven 30 minutes before the Devil knows you’re dead.
zakeozim@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Will the Real Zimbabweans Please Stand Up?
Personally, I don’t believe in power-sharing. What’s the point of power if you have to share it? It’s one of those ridiculous phrases like “You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.” Why the hell not? Why would I want to have my cake but not eat it? So I can grind it up, pour the crumbs in my fuel tank and hope the sugar can power my car? Or perhaps, I could just hold on to my cake and smash it into the face of the next imbecile who tells me the power-sharing agreement won’t work. Pessimists make me so mad.
Ah, you say, you contradict yourself, my brother. No no, gentle reader. I said I don’t believe in power sharing, I didn’t say it doesn’t work. Anything works, if the conditions are right. Well, except NetOne lines. Those just don’t work, plain and simple.
I am certainly praying this power-sharing works. Us poor sods still living and working in Zimbabwe don’t have the luxury of being pessimistic. There is such a dearth of hope-inspiring things in this country, we are elated when something remotely positive happens. So while we acknowledge the freedom of expression our fellow Zimbabweans living abroad have suddenly acquired, we would appreciate them not throwing cold British water on the few things that stop us from slitting our wrists with the jagged edges of our empty, torn Lion Lager beer cans (we have those now).
We must be honest; we have not actually worked in about two years now. Oh yes, most of us made money, but truth be told, we did not work. It was terrible. It’s hard to not work. The lower level Zimbabweans spent their time basking in the sun, waiting in lines to withdraw enough money to get home and back to the bank the next day. Others spoke ceaselessly about this RTGS rate and that cash rate, and made hundreds of US dollars daily by just filling in forms. Us higher level Zimbabweans, executives, I mean, remained cocooned in our plush offices, afraid to admit that our business had since folded and we were guarding the barn long after the horse had escaped. The few amongst us who recognized that the jig was up were far too petrified to go down and mingle with the great unwashed in a pathetic quest to stitch two dollars together and hope it adds to ten.
No matter how eloquently I describe it, if you didn’t live it you won’t understand it. Which leads me the subject of my post, five paragraphs later. I am sick and tired of Zimbabweans living abroad declaring their intense desire to return home “as soon as the situation improves”. What about the rest of us who survived election violence, cholera, and the atrocious English of Patrick Chinamasa and Sikanyiso Ndlovhu? Personally, I think I am the most loyal patriot any country could ever want, to the extent that I am considering selling my patriotic virtues to any other country that may feel it is short on patriots. Zimbabweans still living in Zimbabwe are patriotic to a fault, literally. But back to my point. If you Zimbos in the diaspora think we're going to let you come back in and simply capitalize on our blood, sweat and tears, think again. I am personally on a crusade to make sure that diaspora Zimbabweans do not return en masse to steal opportunities from right under our noses.
Presently, I am finalizing a document to the government that proposes that we close all our borders to Zimbabweans who were living in the diaspora, or the “cowards” as I have heard them referred to in some circles in my head. We who have been in the trenches all along generally agree that we should get first dibs on any and all business opportunities that arise from this miraculous rise from the ashes that is occurring. Diasporans have all spent years riding on lovely, pothole-less eight lane highways while we've endured driving on dust roads with craters the size of Arthur Mutambara’s ego. While you were enjoying Woolies or Debenham’s low-fat cranberry and kiwi yoghurts, we were standing in lines to buy unpasteurized milk in Mazoe Orange Crush containers. It must have been nice for you to know that when you woke up every day there would be water for you to bath and brush your teeth, yes? Meanwhile, we had a bathing schedule here - we bathed when there was water, which in my household was on Mondays and Thursdays. (It sounds like big deal if you've never done it, but it’s not really, especially if you have a car - you just have to stay out of the sun to minimize sweat and keep your AC on high. I hadn't known bathing was so over-rated. Also, sex makes you sweat, so we got more into making love, we weren't into having sex. But, I digress.)
So it is my correct and considered opinion that our entry requirements be made far more stringent. Personally, I recommend the following simple test: Any returning Zimbabwean who cannot fill in an RTGS form in full in thirty seconds or less direct from memory should be not only barred, but also deported back to whatever colonial hideout they came from. This exercise should continue until at least 2020, or until we are positive that there are few opportunities left to be exploited – whichever comes soonest.
I hope my proposal doesn’t make anyone angry. Actually, I don’t care. This is the freedom of expression that comes with democracy. Isn’t it?
zakeozim@gmail.com
Ah, you say, you contradict yourself, my brother. No no, gentle reader. I said I don’t believe in power sharing, I didn’t say it doesn’t work. Anything works, if the conditions are right. Well, except NetOne lines. Those just don’t work, plain and simple.
I am certainly praying this power-sharing works. Us poor sods still living and working in Zimbabwe don’t have the luxury of being pessimistic. There is such a dearth of hope-inspiring things in this country, we are elated when something remotely positive happens. So while we acknowledge the freedom of expression our fellow Zimbabweans living abroad have suddenly acquired, we would appreciate them not throwing cold British water on the few things that stop us from slitting our wrists with the jagged edges of our empty, torn Lion Lager beer cans (we have those now).
We must be honest; we have not actually worked in about two years now. Oh yes, most of us made money, but truth be told, we did not work. It was terrible. It’s hard to not work. The lower level Zimbabweans spent their time basking in the sun, waiting in lines to withdraw enough money to get home and back to the bank the next day. Others spoke ceaselessly about this RTGS rate and that cash rate, and made hundreds of US dollars daily by just filling in forms. Us higher level Zimbabweans, executives, I mean, remained cocooned in our plush offices, afraid to admit that our business had since folded and we were guarding the barn long after the horse had escaped. The few amongst us who recognized that the jig was up were far too petrified to go down and mingle with the great unwashed in a pathetic quest to stitch two dollars together and hope it adds to ten.
No matter how eloquently I describe it, if you didn’t live it you won’t understand it. Which leads me the subject of my post, five paragraphs later. I am sick and tired of Zimbabweans living abroad declaring their intense desire to return home “as soon as the situation improves”. What about the rest of us who survived election violence, cholera, and the atrocious English of Patrick Chinamasa and Sikanyiso Ndlovhu? Personally, I think I am the most loyal patriot any country could ever want, to the extent that I am considering selling my patriotic virtues to any other country that may feel it is short on patriots. Zimbabweans still living in Zimbabwe are patriotic to a fault, literally. But back to my point. If you Zimbos in the diaspora think we're going to let you come back in and simply capitalize on our blood, sweat and tears, think again. I am personally on a crusade to make sure that diaspora Zimbabweans do not return en masse to steal opportunities from right under our noses.
Presently, I am finalizing a document to the government that proposes that we close all our borders to Zimbabweans who were living in the diaspora, or the “cowards” as I have heard them referred to in some circles in my head. We who have been in the trenches all along generally agree that we should get first dibs on any and all business opportunities that arise from this miraculous rise from the ashes that is occurring. Diasporans have all spent years riding on lovely, pothole-less eight lane highways while we've endured driving on dust roads with craters the size of Arthur Mutambara’s ego. While you were enjoying Woolies or Debenham’s low-fat cranberry and kiwi yoghurts, we were standing in lines to buy unpasteurized milk in Mazoe Orange Crush containers. It must have been nice for you to know that when you woke up every day there would be water for you to bath and brush your teeth, yes? Meanwhile, we had a bathing schedule here - we bathed when there was water, which in my household was on Mondays and Thursdays. (It sounds like big deal if you've never done it, but it’s not really, especially if you have a car - you just have to stay out of the sun to minimize sweat and keep your AC on high. I hadn't known bathing was so over-rated. Also, sex makes you sweat, so we got more into making love, we weren't into having sex. But, I digress.)
So it is my correct and considered opinion that our entry requirements be made far more stringent. Personally, I recommend the following simple test: Any returning Zimbabwean who cannot fill in an RTGS form in full in thirty seconds or less direct from memory should be not only barred, but also deported back to whatever colonial hideout they came from. This exercise should continue until at least 2020, or until we are positive that there are few opportunities left to be exploited – whichever comes soonest.
I hope my proposal doesn’t make anyone angry. Actually, I don’t care. This is the freedom of expression that comes with democracy. Isn’t it?
zakeozim@gmail.com
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Truth Shall Set Me Free, or Kill Me
Ok, let me start by being perfectly honest. I am an angry man. I am seething mad. I have to tell the truth, and maybe it shall set me free. So many things make me mad, I'm starting to think I have a problem. I would visit a psychiatrist, but everyone knows there are no such things in Zimbabwe. If you meet anyone claiming to be a psychiatrist in Zimbabwe, you should slap them quickly with the back of your hand and walk away. People who lie make me so mad.
I don't know if simply being mad is a good enough reason to start a blog, but amongst the other myriads of senseless web pages floating around in cyberspace, this will surely be one of the less senseless ones. In any case, my blog isn't really written for you to enjoy; it's more of a catharsis for me, because if I do not release these feelings of anger welling within me, I fear I may commit homicide or suicide, or both, in that order (of course). Anger can make you lose your mind, I tell you. I guess that’s why the word mad can mean variably “seized with great anger” or “insane”. I’ll tell you a secret about me that everyone else knows, if I’m not one of these two things at any given moment, I’m definitely the other. Although I oscillate wildly between the two variants of this word, the great thing is that your response in dealing with me should always be the same: caution. Of the 300 or so people I currently employ, there is not yet one who does not know to exercise extreme caution in my presence. So whenever I am around, people rarely smile and they speak in low tones, as if there is a tiger in the room waiting to pounce on their poor, sun-baked unwashed backs. It’s a great feeling to be an executive in Zimbabwe, sometimes.
Anyway, I digress. You will notice that I often digress from whatever topic I have chosen to discuss, but since it’s my blog I can do what I like. The point I was making earlier was that this blog is utterly pointless, and generally should not be read by people. If you don’t like it don’t post comments saying so, that will make me very mad. In fact, while I’m on the subject, here are the terms and conditions of my blog. Your continued reading expressly implies acceptance of these terms and conditions.
1. You are not permitted to post comments saying you do not like anything I have written. I am a highly educated and respected executive, and it is very unlikely that anything I write will not be to your taste. If it is, you should silently admit that your taste is wrong, and that someone of my intellect cannot possibly be mistaken.
2. This is not a politically correct blog. It is not racially, religiously or sexually correct, and at times it is not even grammatically correct. If you like your things correct, please visit my other website, www.nationalgeographic.com. Alternatively, you could start your own blog.
3. If you like my blog, I am saving you the bother of posting comments to that effect. I know us Zimbabweans generally use the hunt-and-peck two-finger method of typing, which, besides taking up a lot of time, can result in severe carpal tunnel syndrome. Instead, you are to simply wire a donation to my account in the Cayman Islands using these details:
Account Name: Zakeo
Bank: National Bank of Cayman Islands
Account #: 0912023011
Swift Code: M-BROK
These funds will be used to assist the needy, wherever they may be found in the world or in my house, whichever comes soonest. Please note that to lessen the burden on you, this money does not need to be free funds. The needy will take cash from any source, whether it was legitimately acquired through legal business dealings, embezzled from government parastatals, or donated by unsuspecting depositors in the financial institution you run.
Please do not make me madder by failing to adhere to these rules. I have enough on my plate without having to be corrected by you, even though I am sure you have many acquaintances who like to hear and agree with your opinions. I have so many of my own opinions that it’s generally too taxing for me to consider other people’s. At times, I don’t even agree with some of my own opinions.
But enough about you. In my next post I will tell you a little bit about myself and why I’m so mad.
Thanks for reading, but really, I advise you to find something better to do. If you can’t find anything, you are better off reading a book. So go find a book.
zakeozim@gmail.com
I don't know if simply being mad is a good enough reason to start a blog, but amongst the other myriads of senseless web pages floating around in cyberspace, this will surely be one of the less senseless ones. In any case, my blog isn't really written for you to enjoy; it's more of a catharsis for me, because if I do not release these feelings of anger welling within me, I fear I may commit homicide or suicide, or both, in that order (of course). Anger can make you lose your mind, I tell you. I guess that’s why the word mad can mean variably “seized with great anger” or “insane”. I’ll tell you a secret about me that everyone else knows, if I’m not one of these two things at any given moment, I’m definitely the other. Although I oscillate wildly between the two variants of this word, the great thing is that your response in dealing with me should always be the same: caution. Of the 300 or so people I currently employ, there is not yet one who does not know to exercise extreme caution in my presence. So whenever I am around, people rarely smile and they speak in low tones, as if there is a tiger in the room waiting to pounce on their poor, sun-baked unwashed backs. It’s a great feeling to be an executive in Zimbabwe, sometimes.
Anyway, I digress. You will notice that I often digress from whatever topic I have chosen to discuss, but since it’s my blog I can do what I like. The point I was making earlier was that this blog is utterly pointless, and generally should not be read by people. If you don’t like it don’t post comments saying so, that will make me very mad. In fact, while I’m on the subject, here are the terms and conditions of my blog. Your continued reading expressly implies acceptance of these terms and conditions.
1. You are not permitted to post comments saying you do not like anything I have written. I am a highly educated and respected executive, and it is very unlikely that anything I write will not be to your taste. If it is, you should silently admit that your taste is wrong, and that someone of my intellect cannot possibly be mistaken.
2. This is not a politically correct blog. It is not racially, religiously or sexually correct, and at times it is not even grammatically correct. If you like your things correct, please visit my other website, www.nationalgeographic.com. Alternatively, you could start your own blog.
3. If you like my blog, I am saving you the bother of posting comments to that effect. I know us Zimbabweans generally use the hunt-and-peck two-finger method of typing, which, besides taking up a lot of time, can result in severe carpal tunnel syndrome. Instead, you are to simply wire a donation to my account in the Cayman Islands using these details:
Account Name: Zakeo
Bank: National Bank of Cayman Islands
Account #: 0912023011
Swift Code: M-BROK
These funds will be used to assist the needy, wherever they may be found in the world or in my house, whichever comes soonest. Please note that to lessen the burden on you, this money does not need to be free funds. The needy will take cash from any source, whether it was legitimately acquired through legal business dealings, embezzled from government parastatals, or donated by unsuspecting depositors in the financial institution you run.
Please do not make me madder by failing to adhere to these rules. I have enough on my plate without having to be corrected by you, even though I am sure you have many acquaintances who like to hear and agree with your opinions. I have so many of my own opinions that it’s generally too taxing for me to consider other people’s. At times, I don’t even agree with some of my own opinions.
But enough about you. In my next post I will tell you a little bit about myself and why I’m so mad.
Thanks for reading, but really, I advise you to find something better to do. If you can’t find anything, you are better off reading a book. So go find a book.
zakeozim@gmail.com
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