Isdore Guvamombe Reflections
Back in the village in the land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve, no matter how long a night becomes, dawn will eventually break. In the village, a he-goat is never a master of courtship. His is a loud massif appeal, so public that one has to make sure he or she is not in the company of in-laws
or others deserving of such honour.
The dangling bits are not only a shame. They make the whole courtship process a farce and a sham. What with the hullabaloo of the approach?
Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai’s wedding fiasco was a roller coaster tragicomedy and melodramatic love cruise that left the audience, including the village soothsayer who rarely laughs, hilariously crackling the rib-cage to cracking point. Oh, hail the leader of the party of sexcellence!
After the unfortunate death of his wife, Susan, the PM, became an eligible bachelor and it has now become fact that he used his political and financial muscle to lure a list of women, whose story he would rather it is not told than be told.
You can imagine what became of the charms and the holy waters and pebbles that have been thriftlessly spent by these eligible ones to lure the chubby one.
“All for nothing?” I hear them say in desperation.
Again, unbeknown by the PM, in the village manhood is never defined by having the biggest dangling bits, it is defined by one’s ability to live a dignified life, to act and live within the confines of societal values, norms and ethos. Worse still, when one is seeking the highest office in the land.
Again manhood is never defined by the number of women one beds outside marriage. This is the sole reason why the African culture allowed polygamy. It is for the men who cannot shut their zip. But even that is done methodically, systematically, culturally, respectfully and well!
Was it not a matter of time for our Prime Minister, as his loud massif courtship turned into a world circus in which the PM became the chief clown?
The wedding that never was! The grandstanding! Tearing his image apart. Tearing. Chewing. Spitting on his image. Soiling. Spitting. Echoing to every part of the world.
Suffice to say our Prime Minister has turned out to be a real village rum, a bachelor bull or bullock, itself a victim of high testosterone, whose blood runs hot, hotter and hottest, like a boy troubled by the matrix of puberty. But is he not 60?
The village soothsayer, the ageless autochthon of wisdom and knowledge calls it “post puberty traumatic disorder”. But whatever that means, the soothsayer should explain later since the man in question is in his 60s?
First it was rumours about the PM’s “open zip policy” and his stance on the national fight against HIV and Aids. But as time ticked on, details started emerging about the several women in the PM’s life but of concern is that none of the women suggests, even by a whisker, having safe sex. But is this not the man who officiates at HIV/Aids conferences?
What has become apparent in Tsvangirai’s fishing expeditions — and he is not a bad one at that — is that HIV/Aids does not exist in his vocabulary.
But how dangerous for a national leader to fail to adhere to the morals and values or, even to fail to identify with a national cause? But how dangerous not only to himself, but to those who will date the women he has left in the cold?
But how dangerous to the nation at large and those women who might have fallen prey to him but dared not come out spitting fire in public?
Of course, it is a known fact that when you want to build a family you look for a brand and there is indeed a dearth of that brand in MDC-T, yet Zanu-PF provides this perfect brand of women in abundance. So he went for them.
That perfect brand always catches the eye of the qualified bachelor that our PM has been.
But wait a minute! What boggles the mind is why the PM was in a hurry to wed? What defies logic is why Tsvangirai played to the gallery?
When almost everyone was beginning to forget about Locardia’s marriage, the man himself decided to go public about yet another affair with Elizabeth Macheka.
Bulawayo, Norton, Harare, Chitungwiza and then the hit-and-runs or the one-night-stint, the zip seemed too difficult to shut for Tsvangirai.
In the village, the more a monkey climbs up a tree, the more it exposes its genitals. Tsvangirai has exposed himself too much and this villager shudders to think
Tsvangirai has advisors, if he ever does, then he should fire them.
For do villagers with cotton tuft heads not say, a poorly advised fly follows a corpse into the grave and gets buried with it?
Whoever advised the Prime Minster is not serious either. This villager who has known the PM to flip flop politically on matters of State and governance is really surprised that he flip-flops with women too.
Does anyone remember our PM saying, on his engagement to Elizabeth Macheka, that he would only marry after elections?
But no sooner had the ink dried on the newspapers, than he announced a wedding. So have the elections been held as yet? Maybe in his mind!
It has obviously dawned on him that he has no powers to call for elections as only President Mugabe has.
It has been a massif of marriage appeal akin to that of a high school boy or some headless chicken scenario, never befitting someone in public office, worse still someone harbouring Presidential ambitions.
Just a few days after the soothsayer, declared that there was no future in such a man, Tsvangirai, the leader of the party of “sexcellence”, has lived true to his billing.
Finally it goes without saying that one does not need the services of an expert on sexism and sex dynamics to notice that our PM had become an epitome of unsafe sex, confusion, flip flop and bed-hopping from Bulawayo, Norton, Harare, Chitungwiza and beyond, almost like a village bull.
In the village it is very easy to soil your name than it is to clean up the stains.