The British have forgiven Zimbabwe for their liberation war and independence just as little as they have forgiven the U.S.A for the American Revolution. The stakes at the end of the 18th Century were the loss of their most prized possesion, the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, which then became the greatest threat to British colonial rule everywhere: The United States of America under Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Delano Roosevelt!
The simple fact of the matter today, however, is that the Great Game of British world domination through globalization is breaking down with the collapse of the global financial system, and for the “Empah”, this means falling back on traditional methods of spreading chaos in order to precipitate the break-up of sovereign nation-states.
Zimbabwe, under the courageous leadership of the freedom-fighter, Robert Mugabe, became thus a bete noir for the British and was to be ruthlessly forced to its knees economically as a warning to all African nations that aspired to true independence from the crippling conditionalities of the genocidal IMF monetary system.
Having been in the vice-grip of international sanctions for almost ten years as punishment for the long overdue land reform program that was to reverse the unequal distribution of land along racial lines from the colonial era, the economy of Zimbabwe had been ground to a halt.
By 2000 the IMF, had managed to lure Zimbabwe into a hopless debt trap, then turned off the money-tap by suspending all loans and credit lines to the country. One year later, the US Congress at the behest of the British passed a law forbidding all international financial institutions to have anything to do with Zimbabwe except when collecting on its debts: The Zimbabwe Democracy and Economic Recovery Act of 2001.
Among the consequences of this policy became a record inflation rate of over 100 000% along with a widespread shortage of basic commodities, and breakdown of basic infrastructure forcing the average life-expectancy down from 48 years to 37 years in less than a decade! Therefore the rascist myth of inefficient black farmers running down the once blooming economy in the sub-saharan country is an outright lie.
But the British strategy leading up to the joint presidential and parliamentary elections – a first in Zimbabwean history – on March 29th when Zimbabweans went to the polls, was to force a protest vote against the government because of the horrifiying economic conditions they were facing day in day out.
-The media propaganda machine-
Even before the last vote was cast, the the British media propaganda machine was churning out spectacular rumours, day after day.
Counting was hardly underway when the British governemnt, according to the Telegraph, had already reported that the opposition party MDC (Movement for Democratic Change) would win the elections. Minister of State in the British Foreign Office, Lord Malloch-Brown was quoted as saying : “It is quite likely President Mugabe has lost despite the massive pre-election day cheating.” This was followed by a threat that if Mugabe would win, then the oppositon would take to the streets and instigate riots such as recently occurred in Kenya.
In a move that was a blatant provocation of the government, the opposition then declared victory 24 hours after the elections without any results having been yet released by the Zimbabwean Electoral Commission (ZEC).
Over the coming days the election results would trickle in at a painstakingly slow rate – a situation that had been anticipated ahead of time and announced as being due to the logistical difficulties created by an economy in severe crisis. The media jumped on this too and ran daily stories accusing the government of having already rigged the results.
The European Union summit of Foreign ministers joined the bandwagon in an eager effort to kiss British ass and denounced the delay of election results, with the Slovenian representative saying: “If Mugabe continues, there will be coup d’etat.” This all despite the fact that the European Union itself has denied most peoples of Europe a popular refendum on the Lisbon Treaty which would overrride the democratic institutions of the nation-state!
Wild speculations made it into the headlines thereafter such as: “Mugabe to step down in Zimbabwe” (CNN) where it was alleged that South Africa had brokered a deal between the government and the ruling party to have Morgan Tsvangirai, leader of the British funded MDC, to “switch places” with President Robert Mugabe.
Soon after this, the same television networks and newspapers had changed their story, saying that the opposition denied ever being in talks with the government and would wait until the election results were announced. Renewed speculation was cooked up immediately with headlines announcing that there was now to be a run-off since it was suddenly likely – even though the MDC had earlier released their own results saying that Tsvangirai had received more than 60% of the vote -- neither leading candidate had reached the required minimum of 51% of the vote.
At this point the head of the British House of Commons stated that the United Kingdom was “ready to step up support” together with the international community if “they [ the people of Zimbabwe] should have their democratic election respected and recognised” or rather, if the MDC opposition leader were to come into office.
The following day, the blatant attempt to recolonize the country was stated openly by the British Foreign Minister, David Miliband, who expressed his hope that Zimbabwe would return to the thorny bosom of the British Empire saying, “I really hope, first that a new government in Zimbabwe would join the Commonwealth and second that the commonwealth will give them a warm accolade.”
The British Prime Minister Gordon Brown together with the IMF has now prepared an irresistable 1 billion Pound package if Mugabe is ousted – a package rife with conditionalities that Mugabe had dared to refuse nine years ago for fear of giving up the country’s sovereignty.
- The solution for Africa –
Sovereignty is the biggest threat to any empire; the sovereignty of a nation or the sovereignty of the human mind. That is why the media, today in the hands of the international financial oligarchy, is a tool of evil. The case of China is also telling in this respect, especially when one considers the deep resentment of the British towards the Chinese for their investment in infrastucture in Africa.
Lyndon LaRouche characterized this recently saying, "The British are committing fraud on a gross level internationally, and no support should be given to the British on any of these issues: China, or Africa. Because the British are the perpetrators of crime in this case, therefore they have no right to have any recognition on these matters."
The British were so freaked out about the possiblity of more Chinese intervention sabotaging their well-laid plans for genocide in Africa, that Gordon Brown boycotted the European-Africa Summit in Portugal in December 2007 in protest of the fact that most African leaders had insisted on the presence of Robert Mugabe.
Most African patriots realize that the plight of Zimbabwe is central to the tragedy of Africa because they understand that the question of land reforms is a burning issue, a time-bomb ready to explode at any moment as inflation and food and energy shortages cause riots all across the continent.
In fact, internationally, the suffering which the immoral IMF monetray system has inflicted on Africa and Asia is coming to roost in Europe and the United States. The same financial oligarchy that has been raping the third-world is committed to eliminate the influence the of all sovereign nation-states, especially the United States with its tradition of rising up against British imperialism at critical moments in history.
Therefore anybody who cares about Africa or considers themselves a patriot must defend the cause of Zimbabwe by fighting for President Roosevelt’s dream of a new just world financial system, where all nations cooperate based on the principle of the Treaty of Westphalia – the benefit of the other.
This means nuclear energy for Africa. This means the upgrading of the agricultural output by going for the fourth generation nuclear reactor, the Pebble Bed Modular Reactor (PBMR) that is already being built in South Africa. This would transform the famine-ravaged continent into the bread basket of the entire world and would only be possible if the British are kicked out of Africa!
**except from 'i am king'**
Somewhere in a remote and bucolic village sited in a valley close to the hushed banks of the perennial mighty Mwenezi River, as the pioneer white community of Europeans who had not only forsaken their familiar comforts in the Cape Colony and Kimberly but also those found in the dead and dark continent of their forefathers somewhere up in the cold and feverish and bleak northern hemisphere voted to reject amalgamation of what they considered virgin land, the rich land between the two rivers, the Zambezi and the Limpopo, with the Union of South Africa, a boy was born of a lowly wife of a polygamous man.
I suppose one could say the village was serene and dainty and idyllic, even though the locals were under siege by CJ Rhodes’ company. The village was located someway off the gorge the river made through the mountains on its way to the distant ocean in the east beyond the blue hazy mountains. During the mild winters, the valley in which the village sat was dry and low and windswept with the tall elephant grass up the mountains sides and the savannah land all around blond coloured. In the long wet, summer season, the land was transformed with green foliage, teaming with game, the air all around heated and humid. The only blemish was the mosquitoes that bread out by the river, but fortunately deaths from malaria were rare yet still decades later the white government sent its men, clad in yellow overalls and black gumboots and carrying white tanks on their backs, to spray the village huts with white mist that made the eyes and the skin itchy in the night when the villagers slept on reed mats under voluminous karroses. This baby boy was born decades before the government sent in the cunning and ingenious Chinese, tall as a bush man and squinty eyed, with their earth defiling and moving and tearing contraptions to put a high wall across the river gorge and stop the water from flowing, an act that angered the Mulimo, leading to an irrevocable change in the way of life the villagers had known and embraced for millennia.
Then there were the mountains. The bald and dome shaped mountains that soared high into the expansive blue sky above the village. There were many mountains all around, 1 2 3 4...more than ten I suppose—I don’t remember precisely—with countless similarly dome shaped kopjes scattered in between them. The area between the mountains and the kopjes were the village fields where they drew their sustenance. Every morning throughout the year, cool and clean and crisp air, seared off the placid water, blew from the river, up the mountains and down into the valley were the village sprawled.
During those now hazy far-off days, polygamy was widely practised in the semi-arid and fertile and well watered Mwenezi River Valley, the reason why the father of the baby boy had five wives. Chinjikai, the father of the baby-boy, had been told by his uncle Chizivano years before, once he had reached that listless age when a man spends sleepless night aching and yearning for the comfort of a woman’s supple flesh during the night that: “Three wives are what a man needs for complete and uninhibited gratification.” Uncle Chizivano had the easily reached for the gourd filled with thick and pungent and sweet sorghum beer that the two of them were sharing and took a long and hungry and thirsty draught. He had sat down the gourd carefully and wiped the beer suds from the grey whiskers about his thick-lipped mouth and quickly and fastidiously added: “The reason why three wives is the basic number is that they are so busy competing with one another for their husband’s favour that a man can relax.” Chinjikai had watched the old man sitting on the cured and tanned leopard skin opposite him keen eyed, desperately trying to gleam from him wisdom his advanced age had endowed on him.
“But uncle Chizivano, why? Why three? Why not say...ah, one for instance?” he had asked him with the innocence that usually clouds the feeble minds of the young. Uncle Chizivano had drawn in sharp breath and a look instantly came over him, a look of utter contempt. Chinjikai had involuntarily fed dry twigs onto the fire on which they warmed themselves against the night chill—in the late of the night, the cool breeze seared by the river would reach the village, turning the night bitter—in a vain attempt to break his uncle’s palpable displeasure. The light from fire had lit up uncle Chizivano’s wiry face on which a brief look of incredulity settled. His shoulders had relaxed and he had spat into the smoky fire and his yellow and thick phlegm had sizzled and exploded in a little puff of steam and said, with a solemn voice: “A single wife, a one and only wife, one wife, can sour the food in your belly and frost your hair with silver. Never marry a single wife son, if you want a life of luxury free from worry.” Years later, the advice Chinjikai had received from his now long dead uncle had proved sagacious and infallible.
The baby-boy’s Karanga parents, Chinjikai and Tariro, “worshipers of the devil” or so Father O’Brien of the nearby Jesuit mission had declared to a visiting elephant hunter of his prospective converts, with a proud and all knowing expression on his pale withered face while seated in a rickety chair, his elbows resting comfortably on his stinkwood desk in a corner of his chapel, christened the boy Chenjerai Mawere, although the good Jesuit father was to baptize him years later when he had come of age and give him another name, a Christian name, a civilized name, that of Solomon.
At the age of six, his polygamous and eminent father, who had made his small fortune down south burrowing in the dirty of the earth for diamonds for the enrichment of the white man, singled Chenjerai out for special treatment among his countless sons. Chinjikai had judged the boy correctly as reserved yet amiable and slow to act yet of a mind that was clear and lucid with a face that was always graced with an easy smile. Indeed it had been an intervention of the Mulimo, the mighty being, which had led him to give the boy the name Chenjerai, for the name meant the clever one, the very nature the young boy was slowly mutating into as the years rolled into another. To show his favour on the boy he selected and gave Chenjerai a kid goat from among his many flocks. Tariro, his mother, who was acclaimed and known throughout the small village for her valiant mastery of the dark arts and her undisputed power to heal the sick and the insane and to exorcise the cursed, was pleased indeed. The special treatment that had been showered upon her son by her husband was a genuine sign and a veritable omen that the potent charm her son furtively wore around his bony and narrow waist each time he was in the presence of his father was working. She had always suspected that the charm was effective for hadn’t she guaranteed its efficaciousness by adding small pieces of the heart of an infant who had died when the moon had waxed full? The design of the charm the child wore had, of course, been passed down Tariro’s long family line of witchdoctors.
Once the boy had been born and she was indisposed, she had summoned and paid Gwisai, the intrepid hunter, with two of her beloved scrawny and egg-laying chickens and instructed him thus: “Go out to the forests and bring me a buckhorn. Scale even the mountains, swim up the river, I don’t care how you do it, but bring a small horn.” Gwisai, the hunter, had delivered. She had cleaned its honeycomb interior. Then it had taken her all the long six years of the boy’s life to assemble the contents that she had carefully packed inside the small horn. From Chinjikai, father of the boy, she had taken locks of his hair, the wax from his ears, clippings of his nails, his tears and eyelashes, and the mucous from his nose. To this she had carefully added dried skin from the soles of Chinjikai’s feet, his beard, and powerful herbs she gathered along the banks of the river. The ultimate addition had been the pieces of the heart of the village infant, whose soul was innocent transforming the finished product into a powerful charm. It would be a toll order to reveal how she procured these things, these items, suffice to say that the powers of a village witchdoctor worked in mysterious yet stupefying ways.
Chenjerai had showered love upon the spotted goat kid. He had named it Mabhare, on account of its white spots on a rusty coat. He had played with it in the eves of his mother’s hut, keeping him at home for the baboons that came down the mountain loved to lunch on the flesh of goat kids, for it was tender and easy on their stomachs. In the cool of the morning, he used to bring Mabhare sweet and tender and juicy grass. It was the first time in his life when he had become responsible for something living, breathing. One day, Mabhare had wondered off and joined the village herds and in the afternoon, in the heat of the day, the herds had followed a path down to the river. Chenjerai never saw him again. He cried for days. No amount of crooning and cooing from Tariro could console him. Years later, when he was a grown man, he wondered: “Had Mabhare been devoured by a crocodile as he drank from the river? A troop of marauding baboons perhaps? He could never know.
The Karanga were tillers of the earth and like other Nguni tribes scattered across Southern Africa, they adored and cherished cattle. Cattle herding duty was the primary responsibility of the young men of the village, for all duties in the close knit village were still assigned according to gender. When Chenjerai was about the age of eight, he was weaned from the company of the ladies and placed under the care and guidance of the fleet footed cattle guards that looked after the few cattle the villagers owned. That is when he discovered that the world was not as perfect as he had been led to believe while playing by the skirts of his mother in the village.
Cattle herding was fun. Much fun. He loved it when the baobab trees were in fruit during the dry fall before the rains. He loved it when he had visited, with Ranganai and Smart and the other cattle herders, Chomupata, a baobab tree that grew on a raised pass between two mountains north of the village—yes the baobab trees in the areas the cattle herders operated had names. Chomupata was reverently known for the sweet fruit that she bore every year, for not all baobab trees bear fruit. She was also bitterly known as stingy, only half-heartedly giving up her fruit after long-suffering goading and caressing and, kissing. When the herders reached her that day, she heavy with fruit and the herders got to work straight away: they cut piles of arm-length Mopane sticks. These finely balanced sticks they huffed and puffed and swore, hurling them into the loft root-like branches of Chomupata. “Come on, don’t be a tart lady, give up your cherry pot, I want to eat it,” Chenjerai heard Ranganai goading her, taunting Chomupata with a hoarse voice. “I will be your faithful lover, faithful even in times of peril!” Chitobi, the joker, bellowed sweat glistening on his bared chest. He pranced about a little, threw a few punches in the air, ran and hugged Chomupata and kissed her. The herders about laughed with amusement at his antics.
It was strenuous work. Only the sturdy and thick limped like Ranganai and Samuel and others with superb hand and eye coordination could dare challenge Chomupata and hope to woe her and win her heart. Courting her was difficult and tiring, for Chomupata considered herself a princess, only prepared to give her love to the few, the brave, the caring. Chenjerai hurried about all the time when they were there, gathering the sticks from under the bushes and on the grass where they had fallen for Ranganai to re-use. Chomupata grudgingly gave Ranganai her sacred fruit which he tied sorted into two piles. He took those from one pile and tied them with a string of Mopane bark and wound them around his waist like a skirt to make it easy to carry. Once that was done, he said: “Here Chenjerai,” he pointed to a little pile of the baobab fruit with his finger, “those are for you and your mother.” Ranganai was rewarding him for helping rob Chomupata of her chastity.
They had driven the cattle to the river so they could quench their rambunctious thirst. They had made holes on the sides of some of Chomupata’s fruit through which they squirted warm sweet milk from the heavy udder of Maduve, one of the horn-less black cows who, unlike the other normal cows, gave birth in the wrong season like a fool, the dry season when the baobab trees were in fruit and grass was scarce. They then used twigs to stir and mix the milk with the dry pulp of the fruit to a porridge. “How do you like it?” Ranganai had asked Chenjerai.
“I like it. It’s great,” he said, eyes ablaze with contentment and hastily added: “It’s a long lingering and delightful yet truly satisfying tonguee taste.”
While the cattle lowed, munching on the juicy reeds in the river and the other herders swam in the pool, Chenjerai suddenly asked: “Why are the village cattle herds small?” Ranganai, the head cattle guard, had regarded him with a frosty look that noon day and Chenjerai had realized that anger mingled with helplessness was rising in the lithe man sitting across him under the shade thrown up by the luxuriant leaves of the Mopane tree. Ranganai had continued plaiting the cattle whip he was working on as if he hadn’t heard his question. After what seemed like an eternity he had suddenly looked up and told him thus: “There are people around us who lust and hunger for our cattle. In the past, there were the Matabele, who sent their blood yearning Impis who marched through the pass in the mountain and butchered the defenceless villagers.” He paused momentarily and looked toward Chenjerai but Chenjerai saw that the man was looking past him, across the tinkling river below, out toward the nearest mountain. There was a look of sorrow, dreamy-like, on his smooth face. “But most importantly, what they had come for, those Impis, all the way from Thabas Indunas, was to steal our cattle. They took them. Since then, the white men’s government has replaced them, for it now forces us to pay tax for each head of cattle that we own. Most of the villagers can’t afford to pay and so they are left with small herds and...” Ranganai had continued narrating with a passion, an air of one deeply wronged and Chenjerai had listened wide eyed with fascination as his elder told him about the world he was born in.
Men of the village were valiant cattle breeders, fierce warriors, great craftsmen and artisans who whiled the time away before the farming season came forging hoes and spears from iron. On the other hand, women expertly turned cattle hides into tanned karosses and clothes, and molded clay pots. In addition, the womenfolk of the village spent the better part of their days mixing dung and clay and using it to plaster their household earthen hut floors, fetching water from the mighty Mwenezi River, looking for firewood in the shadow of the mountains that the surrounded the village on all sides, sweeping and tiding familial compounds, washing pots and utensils, preparing meals and looking to the general needs of their husbands and children. Girls assisted their mothers while boys, like Chenjerai, herded calves and cattle, milked the cows and scared the yield depleting quela birds and baboons away from the ripening crops.
The women of the village spent hours out by the river where they drew water everyday, an average of three times a day. One usually saw them with arms crossed about their chests, heads lolling, their brats hanging to their skirts, gossiping and chatting and laughing. Indeed their laughter was infectious for it tinkled like the water in the river flowing over the rapids out down by the gorge. Their laughter echoed in the mountains, for sure village gossip was juicy and electrifying. The women spent whole afternoons laughing. And when the sun was below the tree line but still above Manyanga Mountain in the west, they quickly watered their gardens of spinach and veggies. Then with dusk fast approaching, they sluiced their brown and supple frames with the warm and cleansing and soothing mineral leaden waters of the river. Once this was done, they filled their clay pots, rusted tins, and hurried back to the village to cook meals for their husbands for a hungry husband was an angry tongue lashing husband.
But Tariro, Chenjerai’s mother, was nothing like other women of the village who were amiable and chatty like monkeys. Yes she was beautiful and fair yet she was also cranky and reclusive ad quick to take offence. These traits were compounded by her swift and sharp and asinine tongue. It was no wonder people avoided her, though they respected and feared her because her powerful witchcraft. As he grew older, it was from her that Chenjerai leant not to trust anybody. He began taking on that kept him apart from other village kids, walking off to isolated grazing perches. He stopped scrapping the other boys, refusing to go hunting. He became bookish, a swot and grew very close to his Tariro, who was also alienated by the villagers. He began behaving like an outsider. Years later, when he was in a position of power out in Kwekwe, when faced with a difficult decision, he would surprise his underlings by suddenly declaring: “Yes! I will consult mother and then make a decision.” He was brilliant in school though.
Then one day, as Chenjerai penned the cattle with the other cattle herders, they heard the village announcer shouting from the top of a kopje in the center of the village: “An important meeting on the morrow, Saturday. All to attend.” That was the time when the crops were heavy with yield, and the village headman, VaJuwere, finished the meeting the following day by saying: “It is time we drive them out, out to Gonda
