Zimbabwe

Zimbabwe
A nation without an ideal
A people without a collective vision
A moving vehicle without a destination

It is a totally shut house, stale with the putrefied stench of an idolised past, a political atmosphere that detests the fresh winds of change. Frightened by the promise of progress,
We are a chicken bus tumbling down a potholed road of fate.

Stacked back to belly in standing room only space, the over packed passengers stand, indignant yet scared, feeling the urge to push forward yet weakened by the greasy puss of apathy.

We stand resigned and watch the coaches of the nations we were once ahead of pass us by.

We look with dreary eyes to our driver and are bemused to find not one, but three; one wraps his arms tightly around the steering wheel, the other two stand behind him, each extending an arm to find a portion of the wheel that may still be exposed.

A cacophony of voices drowns us as different sets of front seat passengers shout in support of their preferred driver. It is a pity.
At the door, the new conductor wrestles with the tout who refuses to hand over the money bag, while passengers brave themselves and jump out of the window in the hopes of a better ride in the other fast moving buses.
Whispers from the passengers, “Is this stretch of road less bumpier than the one last year?”

We hit another pothole; Injustice we cough out the dust and move on. I look to the back and return my gaze to the front; someone starts to sing a song of hope.
I start to feel encouraged until the media guy next to me reminds me, “We will soon be in a ditch my friend; it is just a matter of time”