Every time in the theatre of the African jungle, an impala knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be eaten. Every time a lion wakes up, it knows it must outrun the slowest impala or it will starve to death.

In this jungle entrapment, it does not matter whether you are a lion or an impala, you must always run, for, without running, you are doomed. Outside this, artificial intelligence becomes no match for stupidity, where the only thing achieved in life without effort is failure.
The village soothsayer, the ageless autochthon of knowledge and wisdom from the land of milk, honey and dust, Guruve, says the best defence against logical thinking is ignorance.

Our inadvertent addiction to television sets has seen us glued to Eurocentric niceties, like Big Brother, where our own social fabric is torn apart in our eyes and we even laugh from ear to ear, urging on our kind to participate and humiliate ourselves in the end.
This is a sure sign that our thinking has become rickety. For a while, this villager is playing the devil’s advocate, for he does not believe in the Big Brother Africa concept because of its immorality, its unAfrican taste and its expressly experimental oeuvre on the things that hold Africans firmly together.

It is a moral idiosyncrasy. This villager, though, feels obliged to comment on what happened in the mad house, for in the village, a word is like a seed, once planted it germinates, grows and even bears fruits.
The mouth has a freedom of expression, it even talks about going to the toilet, but when it enters the toilet, it remains shut while the other organ does the job of burying the hero. You might wonder where the villager is taking you this time around, but in the village moral truisms are indeed a vital cog that oil society’s engine.

One of the greatest moral truisms being that, the more a monkey — with its known penchant for tricks and assumed smartness — climbs up a tree, the more it exposes its genitals. Does that not sound familiar?
What with the last two Zimbabweans being booted out of the house of madness? Did they not expose themselves too much?

One moon ago, this villager had an instalment on the Big Brother nonsense, the exposure of which is a high-sounding entrapment, upon which the African mind is laid bare to feed on Europe’s televised experiment to check on the behaviour of our young adults, when put under one roof.
There, our own Rockford Josphats and Maneta Mazanhi became the latest victims of Big Brother or rather victims of their own compliance with the big experiment.

Do best trees not grow on the steepest of hills? For many followers of the box, Roki was the man, but you see, as fate always has it, the day a monkey is destined to die all the trees get slippery, with a leopard in hot pursuit.
How Roki failed to contain his anger in the garden still remains a mystery and proves him a non-player and non-thinker. What he wanted to achieve by pouring that

water on Maneta still remains as silly as it defies logic. For Maneta, she is forgiven, for, the average girl would rather have beauty than brains because she knows the

average guy can see better than he can think.      
The two Zimbabweans had to be disqualified from that mad house and it became a typical case of much ado about nothing. Worse, still, they had seen two other

housemates being disqualified for a similar offence. They never learnt.

What Roki and Maneta failed to understand was that in the jungle, where buffaloes huddle together, the lion lies down hungry, but where the buffaloes scatter and scamper, the lion pounces. That is the beauty of numbers. But as for Big Brother — whoever the hell he is — there should be critical realisation that when you chop off a snake’s head all you are left with is a piece of rope.

Without Roki, the house has started an anti-climax and this villager can bet his last he-goat, that its following will plunge. The point is Roki and Maneta came home empty handed and disappointed those who had faith in them. Roki, in particular, was largely expected to win but like King Solomon, he could not master the art of dealing with women. Those ropy dreadlocks must have been sitting on some idyll head, but he certainly was sharp on one side like a knife, the blunt side swept him off the mad house.

This villager is not really surprised because by her admission, Roki’s mother said, his son was not too good in dealing with women and their tempers.
It was a real moment of madness and unexpected of a man who has gone through a lot with women and fathered children, too. But at the end the people of

Zimbabwe who religiously followed the show must really feel there was much ado about nothing.
Roki and Maneta were their own enemies.

They had pride, attitude problems and rendered themselves irrelevant. The nation expected a lot but lost a lot. While this villager really believes the whole set up in the house is nonsensical, national pride dictates that whoever represented us was supposed to win.

A family fool is an embarrassment but when he dances, you will cherish the moment. In the village, the horizon will not disappear as you run towards it, but you will never get there. It is so near yet too far.