There have been no updates to my blog for a while now because, well, I've had better things to do. It's been a hectic two weeks, with no time to even go for an after-work whiskey. How is an executive meant to survive the trials and tribulations of running an organization in Zimbabwe without the help of the Chivas Brothers? The situation is becoming untenable (saw this phrase in The Herald today, hope it fits in this context as the journalists at The Herald mash it in anywhere). If I don't rendezvous with Johnny Walker, Jim Bean, or Jack Daniel soon, someone is going to catch a hot one. Don't know what that is? Here's an example of how to find out:
So I'm talking to my driver yesterday, and I suddenly realize this guy is trying to aggravate me to death. He keeps referring to people I know by weird shortcuts of their names, shortcuts which in reality are not actually shortcuts at all. So everytime he says a name, I have to spend thirty seconds decrypting it, by which time I have lost the gist of the conversation. No matter, since I got far more than my fair share of gray cells at the brain auction, I trot along his train of thought and catch up to where he is in his conversation. Just as I begin to nod in understanding, he throws in another not-a-shortcut and loses me for another thirty seconds. After the third time I decided I had had enough and suspended him for seven days pending a disciplinary hearing.
Can we Zimbabweans not admit that sometimes it's simply not necessary to shorten certain names? Can we not admit that sometimes it's even counterproductive? Below are my all-time most aggravating Zimbawean shortcuts - if you ever have the pleasure of meeting me do NOT say these shortcuts to these names in my presence, unless a powerful reverse roundhouse karate kick to your temple sounds like a nice surprise:
Gift – Givhi (some genius decided to take a name with one syllable and shorten it by converting it to two syllables in it while Shonarizing the pronunciation.)
Gideon – Gidza
Derek – Dhedza
David – Dhivha
Farai – Fatso
Steven – Stivho
Tendai – Tindo
Lloyd/Lorraine – Lodza
Lovemore – Ravhu (evil as it may seem to torture your child with a name as imbecilic as this, some parents are so diabolical as to put a little turd icing on the dung cake by referring to their children as Ravhu. I hope there is a special place reserved in hell for these people.)
Warren –Wasu (if my parents had named me Warren and some idiot called me Wasu, I would be in jail serving a life sentence for multiple aggravated assault with intent to cause serious bodily harm and/or death.)
Gertrude – Getty
Melody - Mello
Nigel – Nigga (it’s only a matter of time)
Let's all unite against stupid nicknames and retarded shortcuts to perfectly good first names. We can start a petition and send it to the Deputy Prime Minister...although he will be permitted to come up with a shortened version of his name because half of Parliament is usually asleep by the time the Clerk finishes introducing him as "The Deputy Prime Minister of the Republic of Zimbabwe, the Honorable Doctor Arthur Guseni Oliver Mutambara." In this particular instance, it would be quite acceptable to simply say "Here comes Adza." Don't you agree? I do.
zakeozim@gmail.com
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I'm Tired of Being Raped
You know that feeling you get when someone suddenly penetrates your posterior orifice without your permission, prior warning, or lubrication? No? Well, take your car into Toyota Msasa for a service and when you receive your bill you will have a rough idea of what that would be like.
Last week my driver dropped off my car at Toyota for a routine service (more correctly referred to as an oil change in the U.S.) and after taking the whole day to service it, they called me and told me the car was ready and to send the driver to collect it. The bill? $860. Let me re-type that number for those of you who may be slightly confused: US$860. Yes, American dollars, eight hundred and sixty of them, to change the oil in my car. Upon enquiry, I was told that no, that does not include a stripper on a pole, a lifetime supply of fuel, or a free set of 24 inch chrome rims. What it did include, though, was a lovely little pack of facial tissues emblazoned with the Toyota logo. That was great, because after being raped like that, what I really needed was some tissue to clean myself up. Thank you, Toyota Zimbabwe.
There are a lot of things I know, and only a few things I don't, on account of my above average IQ. I'm not a mechanic, and I don't claim to know the costs involved in draining a little 5L tank of engine oil and refilling it with new oil, adding windshield wiper fluid to the wiper fluid container, and glancing at a set of brake pads to make sure they are not worn. Since it takes Toyota an entire day to perform these steps, I must conclude that they are far more complex than my uninitiated brain can imagine.
Let me share with you a few things I do know. I know that during my years in Atlanta, I drove a Toyota Camry and every 3000 miles I would take it in to Sandy Springs Toyota for an oil change. I would park it in the service lane, then wait in the air-conditioned customer waiting area where coffee and doughnuts were available free of charge. Within 30 minutes, my car would be parked in the collection area, and the pretty young lady behind the counter would call my name and present me with my bill. Total amount? $39.99.
I also know that qualified mechanics in the U.S.A command minimum wages of between $12-15 an hour. That means each mechanic is paid $1,920 per month, on the low end. In contrast, mechanics in Zimbabwe are paid an average wage of $200 per month or $1.87 an hour. I know a little bit of Math, and a lot of Economics, but the logic here escapes me. Which leads me to my next point.
The last thing I know about this situation, which you probably don't, is that we all sexually assaulted the mother of the Managing Director of Toyota Zimbabwe in our previous lives. We must have, because I can think of no other reason why this company would hate its clients so much that it would want to levy so astronomical a charge for a simple service. This is not even daylight robbery, it’s daylight sodomy in the first degree. What surprises me is that the service section of Toyota Msasa is always fully booked. Is it because Zimbabweans love to have their posteriors violently examined by their vehicle service providers? I submit that they do not. They have no choice.
This is simply what lack of competition does in an economy. I can’t wait for the competition to really heat up in all sectors of our economy, because I’ve had about as much as I can take of this crap. Just the other day I stopped by this little restaurant called Sopranos in Avondale for a quick lunch. This place used to be a lot better than it is now, but only the customers realize it so far. Anyway, I ordered a chicken and mayo Panini with fries, which was always my favorite menu item to eat at Sopranos. Because it was take-away (“to-go” for you annoying Americanized Zimbabweans) I sat outside and ordered a glass of ice water to sip on while I waited. After waiting a full 20 minutes, I began to wonder if the chef was actually physically chasing a live chicken that he would catch, behead, and then pluck before cooking it just for me. It was an inordinately long amount of time to wait for what is essentially a glorified chicken and mayo sandwich.
After about 30 minutes of entertaining myself by laughing at motorists who didn’t seem to notice the huge pothole in the middle of the street outside, the waiter finally came with my food packed in 3 little keylite containers. When I saw the bill I almost choked on the ice cube I was sucking. $16! Yes, those dull green pieces of paper with the picture of an ugly old white man on them, SIXTEEN of them for a sandwich. But that wasn’t so accurate. Upon further inspection of the bill I noticed that I had been charged $1 for each keylite container that my food was packed in. This was too much for me to take, so I asked to see the manager, at which point a youngish, Indianish man approached my table. I explained to this young man my reluctance to part with $3 for containers that I was going to throw away as soon as I got to the office, and likened the act to using my dollar bills in place of tissue paper and flushing them down the toilet.
His response? Sorry sir, that’s what we charge for the containers because we pay 60 cents for them. 60 cents?! I said. I run a similar business and we pay 10 cents for these containers, where the hell are you buying yours? I don’t know where they buy them, he said. Well, you shouldn’t be putting a mark-up on containers, surely not such a large one anyway. Are you in the business of selling food or containers? You’re chasing away your customers. Sir, he replied, in my year of working here you are the first customer to complain about the price of the containers. Yes, I said, but you should know that not all customers complain. In fact, very few customers ever ask to see a manager of a business to complain when they don’t like the service. Most simply don’t return. Anyway sir, he interrupted, we serve the best food in town, you can try some other restaurants and you won’t find food as good as ours…
Well, excuse me all to hell. These guys think their food is so good that I would still enjoy it with a penis up my arse. Anyway, because I didn’t want to have to put my sandwich in my pocket, I paid the damn $3 for the containers and grudgingly left. When I got to my office and tasted the sandwich, I almost threw it in the trash and ate the container instead. The Panini was stale, they scrimped on the mayonnaise, and they must have imported some type of special, flavorless, moisture-less chicken from Brazil at a huge discount to protect their giant margins. Then they threw in a bunch of fries as limp as a certain part of my body was after seeing Madonna half-naked in that video. You know the one. So not only did these guys rape me intentionally, they didn’t even have the decency to try to make the experience enjoyable for me. Sopranos used to be one of my favorite cafés, but I can promise you that I am never going back there again.
There are so many examples of this type of behavior among Zimbabwean businesses that I could go on all day. The City of Harare is charging $1 per hour to park your car in the CBD. That is surely the most extortionate parking rate in the history of the world. Then they charge $100 to retrieve an impounded vehicle, never mind that the average monthly wage in our country is $200. TelOne, drunk off the realization that it can actually charge real money for once in the history of its pathetic existence, has been printing phone bills with, it seems, a minimum charge of $800. I have friends who have received home telephone bills ranging from $1500 to $3200. I won’t even talk about Zinwa which (despite its disbandment) has been gleefully levying residents for a non-existent supply of water. Econet is charging 29 cents a minute for a local call, with no per-second billing, and 15 cents for a local text message. They tell us this is the “regional average”. Well, for my “regional average” phone bill can I get some “regional average” service, at least? And what good is benchmarking charges to the region if salaries in your country are not benchmarked to the region as well? Does Econet pay its customer care reps “regional average” wages? I seriously doubt it.
I think we’ve lost our minds. As a capitalist and a businessman I hated the era of price controls, but Zimbabwean businesses are making me so mad right now I almost wish for price controls to return.
zakeozim@gmail.com
Last week my driver dropped off my car at Toyota for a routine service (more correctly referred to as an oil change in the U.S.) and after taking the whole day to service it, they called me and told me the car was ready and to send the driver to collect it. The bill? $860. Let me re-type that number for those of you who may be slightly confused: US$860. Yes, American dollars, eight hundred and sixty of them, to change the oil in my car. Upon enquiry, I was told that no, that does not include a stripper on a pole, a lifetime supply of fuel, or a free set of 24 inch chrome rims. What it did include, though, was a lovely little pack of facial tissues emblazoned with the Toyota logo. That was great, because after being raped like that, what I really needed was some tissue to clean myself up. Thank you, Toyota Zimbabwe.
There are a lot of things I know, and only a few things I don't, on account of my above average IQ. I'm not a mechanic, and I don't claim to know the costs involved in draining a little 5L tank of engine oil and refilling it with new oil, adding windshield wiper fluid to the wiper fluid container, and glancing at a set of brake pads to make sure they are not worn. Since it takes Toyota an entire day to perform these steps, I must conclude that they are far more complex than my uninitiated brain can imagine.
Let me share with you a few things I do know. I know that during my years in Atlanta, I drove a Toyota Camry and every 3000 miles I would take it in to Sandy Springs Toyota for an oil change. I would park it in the service lane, then wait in the air-conditioned customer waiting area where coffee and doughnuts were available free of charge. Within 30 minutes, my car would be parked in the collection area, and the pretty young lady behind the counter would call my name and present me with my bill. Total amount? $39.99.
I also know that qualified mechanics in the U.S.A command minimum wages of between $12-15 an hour. That means each mechanic is paid $1,920 per month, on the low end. In contrast, mechanics in Zimbabwe are paid an average wage of $200 per month or $1.87 an hour. I know a little bit of Math, and a lot of Economics, but the logic here escapes me. Which leads me to my next point.
The last thing I know about this situation, which you probably don't, is that we all sexually assaulted the mother of the Managing Director of Toyota Zimbabwe in our previous lives. We must have, because I can think of no other reason why this company would hate its clients so much that it would want to levy so astronomical a charge for a simple service. This is not even daylight robbery, it’s daylight sodomy in the first degree. What surprises me is that the service section of Toyota Msasa is always fully booked. Is it because Zimbabweans love to have their posteriors violently examined by their vehicle service providers? I submit that they do not. They have no choice.
This is simply what lack of competition does in an economy. I can’t wait for the competition to really heat up in all sectors of our economy, because I’ve had about as much as I can take of this crap. Just the other day I stopped by this little restaurant called Sopranos in Avondale for a quick lunch. This place used to be a lot better than it is now, but only the customers realize it so far. Anyway, I ordered a chicken and mayo Panini with fries, which was always my favorite menu item to eat at Sopranos. Because it was take-away (“to-go” for you annoying Americanized Zimbabweans) I sat outside and ordered a glass of ice water to sip on while I waited. After waiting a full 20 minutes, I began to wonder if the chef was actually physically chasing a live chicken that he would catch, behead, and then pluck before cooking it just for me. It was an inordinately long amount of time to wait for what is essentially a glorified chicken and mayo sandwich.
After about 30 minutes of entertaining myself by laughing at motorists who didn’t seem to notice the huge pothole in the middle of the street outside, the waiter finally came with my food packed in 3 little keylite containers. When I saw the bill I almost choked on the ice cube I was sucking. $16! Yes, those dull green pieces of paper with the picture of an ugly old white man on them, SIXTEEN of them for a sandwich. But that wasn’t so accurate. Upon further inspection of the bill I noticed that I had been charged $1 for each keylite container that my food was packed in. This was too much for me to take, so I asked to see the manager, at which point a youngish, Indianish man approached my table. I explained to this young man my reluctance to part with $3 for containers that I was going to throw away as soon as I got to the office, and likened the act to using my dollar bills in place of tissue paper and flushing them down the toilet.
His response? Sorry sir, that’s what we charge for the containers because we pay 60 cents for them. 60 cents?! I said. I run a similar business and we pay 10 cents for these containers, where the hell are you buying yours? I don’t know where they buy them, he said. Well, you shouldn’t be putting a mark-up on containers, surely not such a large one anyway. Are you in the business of selling food or containers? You’re chasing away your customers. Sir, he replied, in my year of working here you are the first customer to complain about the price of the containers. Yes, I said, but you should know that not all customers complain. In fact, very few customers ever ask to see a manager of a business to complain when they don’t like the service. Most simply don’t return. Anyway sir, he interrupted, we serve the best food in town, you can try some other restaurants and you won’t find food as good as ours…
Well, excuse me all to hell. These guys think their food is so good that I would still enjoy it with a penis up my arse. Anyway, because I didn’t want to have to put my sandwich in my pocket, I paid the damn $3 for the containers and grudgingly left. When I got to my office and tasted the sandwich, I almost threw it in the trash and ate the container instead. The Panini was stale, they scrimped on the mayonnaise, and they must have imported some type of special, flavorless, moisture-less chicken from Brazil at a huge discount to protect their giant margins. Then they threw in a bunch of fries as limp as a certain part of my body was after seeing Madonna half-naked in that video. You know the one. So not only did these guys rape me intentionally, they didn’t even have the decency to try to make the experience enjoyable for me. Sopranos used to be one of my favorite cafés, but I can promise you that I am never going back there again.
There are so many examples of this type of behavior among Zimbabwean businesses that I could go on all day. The City of Harare is charging $1 per hour to park your car in the CBD. That is surely the most extortionate parking rate in the history of the world. Then they charge $100 to retrieve an impounded vehicle, never mind that the average monthly wage in our country is $200. TelOne, drunk off the realization that it can actually charge real money for once in the history of its pathetic existence, has been printing phone bills with, it seems, a minimum charge of $800. I have friends who have received home telephone bills ranging from $1500 to $3200. I won’t even talk about Zinwa which (despite its disbandment) has been gleefully levying residents for a non-existent supply of water. Econet is charging 29 cents a minute for a local call, with no per-second billing, and 15 cents for a local text message. They tell us this is the “regional average”. Well, for my “regional average” phone bill can I get some “regional average” service, at least? And what good is benchmarking charges to the region if salaries in your country are not benchmarked to the region as well? Does Econet pay its customer care reps “regional average” wages? I seriously doubt it.
I think we’ve lost our minds. As a capitalist and a businessman I hated the era of price controls, but Zimbabwean businesses are making me so mad right now I almost wish for price controls to return.
zakeozim@gmail.com
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Hands up if you agree that The Herald should be disbanded
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
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
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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