Money makes the world go round. It pays for good time companions. It buys intoxicating drinks. It gets you plenty of action. It makes you the toast of the town.
But of course, there is one thing that money cannot do for you. What do you say that one thing is? If you said that money cannot buy you love, then chances are you are dead broke and you are scratching your head trying to figure out who to leech off today. You deserve to remain at the bottom of the class. Money is the best aphrodisiac ever. No debating point here. Gold digger means anything to you?
If you said money cannot buy you taste, then you can stay there in the middle benches for average performers. Because the alleged victims of gold-digging clearly lack taste which all their money cannot earn them. Yes, we are speaking of current very topical happenings concerning alliances between the most unlikely pairs who would not probably have married and produced offspring if one did not have a lot of money and terrible taste.
To be at the top of the class you would have to say that money cannot turn an ageing body into a super athlete.
Because surely it should be clear that throwing money at a problem has its own limitations. So while one can use money to form a soccer club and be a playing ancestor there are some-things that the money just cannot do.
Money cannot guarantee you a place in the Premier League unless you happen to be the real boys in blue.
Give that man a Bell’s!
Fortune favours the brave. A whole lot of pretenders tried to come in. Musicians, men of the cloth, criminals disguised as entrepreneurs, they saw, they came, and they were conquered. Because in the end they just found the cavern too hot for comfort.
But now a real man has stepped forward. And proved that at least one of his swimmers could traverse the gulf that swallows bottles whole and find its target while still retaining full potency. A man who moves with speed once he makes up his mind. In a very short time we hear he has sponsored tours, impregnated, paid lobola and signed on the dotted line. Whew!
Dear brothers, take a leaf out of the good doctor’s book. Don’t let concern for what other people think stand in the way of your happiness. You marry a woman for yourself and not the whole world. Who cares if they say that you are trying to lay personal stake on a public toilet?
As long as you know what you are doing and you are happy with your choice, those of us with no personal axes to grind will drink to your happiness. Chances are there many men who wish they were in your sheets, but will never openly declare it. Because they lack the courage to grab what they want and say to hell with the rest of the world.
Dear sisters, take heed and refuse to let useless men cheapen you. You are not shop-worn, soiled goods or any other stupid expression they use.
So what if you know the whole male half of the town, in the biblical sense? It does not take away your value.
And note how long it has been since you started paying Nicodemus visits to prophets and n’angas. How much have you paid them? All the holy substances that you have been burdened with. All the concoctions. But still you have no husband to show for it.
Go and dance in the bar my sister and you shall find yourself a man to call your own.
Pest after pest
Some places are just cursed. There is no other logical justification for the happenings that are reaching our ears. Otherwise how can you possibly explain how the institution that has the mandate to Photoshop our national selfies cannot seem to rid itself of sex pests?
There was the famous sex pest who was never called on to answer allegations of recorded statutory rape and witnessed vicious gender-based violence in lands foreign. Who did not know of that man’s loose zip management? Who did not know that his money spoke loud and clear above all voices?
Even famous girl child rights activists were silenced. Yes, for they held legal documents showing how the certain someone had gone to the Registrar General’s offices and openly admitted to fathering a child with a girl who was less than 16 at the time of conception? Then the activist wing went strangely quiet.
Our current sex star does not seem to have any money to talk of. He does not even have a lot of latent power in the workplace. It seems as though all his prowess is reserved for personal and private gymnastics.
At least judging by the alleged notches on his bed post, dude cannot be accused of suffering any discriminatory tendencies in so far as looks, age, professional level and all other such artificial barriers that other men impose for themselves. For our guy, the only requirement is that it be a human female, and he is good to go.
His crime only seems to be that of not letting the main dish know that a full meal requires a starter and a dessert. Because now he has created a sex pest who goes around harassing other women for taking part in a very natural act. Why does this mere Bridget think that she can lay claim to a whole man on her own? In this our Harare?
Let me drink and laugh!
Who is fooling who? We heard that the grain subsidy being given to millers must be removed because it was just a cost to the poor tax payer that was never passed to the genuine poor. That is why roller meal was expensive even though some known people were receiving hard cash for the product to be affordable. We nodded our head. This was totally sensible.
The grain millers made noise. A lot of noise. We read of their copious donations. Perhaps it was the grain dust from the milling machines that obscured our vision. For from that point things became very opaque.
By then the product had disappeared. The subsidy was restored. But the product remains elusive unless you happen to be looking for it on the black market. In which case we could be forgiven for thinking that the problem has escalated. With some individuals now double dipping into the communal well.
For we would bet our last dollar that it is not retailers who are benefiting most from the diversion to the black market, but the usual system.
Fifty for naught
He said he would have printed money. And it looks like they listened. Not that they were not printing in the first place. But clearly over the past few days the press has been overworked.
If that printer gentleman had been promoted to the great bar in the sky, we might have believed that his ghost had come to haunt the bank.
We are bemused by the news that we will soon have a fifty dollar note. At the rate of the free fall we wonder if it will still be useful by the time it reaches the street or it will come just to be rejected by the real authorities who dictate how we transact under cover of the tuck shops, vending stalls and kombis.
We are no economists at the bar, but we think that if the notes have not been printed, then the money for the printing would be better used as a donation for our 2020 festive season drinking fund.
Because all indications are that it is going to be a long and rather dry one and we will need as much cheering as we can get, to put the nail on the coffin of this year.