Mugabe – leadership without vision or a brutal power-drenched dictator who has lost all sense of reality and humanity?

Nigerian writer, Chinua Achebe, once said the problem of Africa is a problem of leadership without vision. That cannot be truer than recent events in Zimbabwe have proven.

Battered bodies, broken bones, bleeding human flesh. That is all President Robert Mugabe has been able to give to the people he is supposed to protect and lead, in the past few weeks, even before. The president can only offer brutal violence to a nation suffering from so many human catastrophes: economic collapse, shortages of food and fuel, massive unemployment, unprintable inflation figures, and finally, national hopelessness.

'Our people have bad eating habits. They should eat rice and potatoes', he said in the midst of a critical shortage of the staple maize in a country which produces neither.

For President Mugabe, the national vision ends with him. 'L'etat, c'est moi', the leader seems to say. The state is him, and he believes he owns every citizen, and so can do whatever he wants with them. The outside world must not interfere in the 'domestic affairs' of Zimbabwe. The president's vision ends with his own power and self-preservation. Inflicted with deafness and blindness, the president has lost the capacity to see anything else around him. 'He has lost the plot,' as some have said. But the reality is that he has lost any sense of reality. He is totally out of touch with the real world around him.

Zimbabwe introduced a massive education programme in the 1980s, enabling every child to go to school. And the children did. Mugabe's ambition was to have a secondary school in every cluster of villages. He almost succeeded. With such a high thirst for education, the children and teachers flooded the countryside and the cities. Almost every secondary school acted as two: one group comes in the morning, and another in the afternoon, two schools in one.

The educational yields were unbelievable. Zimbabweans still believed in the power and efficacy of education. It was the only way they knew that would take them and their children out of poverty and ignorance. From school, the child would get a job, thus help to save the whole family, including uncles and the whole village. Parents would sell the last chicken, goat or cow to send the child to school, their economic saviour. Teachers, too, were trained in guerrilla-style courses. Those of us already qualified to teach were assisting new teachers to train on the job. This went on until the late 1980s when the World Bank intervened, claiming that Mugabe was giving Zimbabweans too much education which would flood the country with educated but jobless people.

Mugabe had not realised that the education system was producing people who would begin to think for themselves without being necessarily grateful to him. Who could analyse the problems of society on their own, including the root causes of those problems. Unfortunately, they discovered that the Mugabe government had made no plans for a concrete skills programme to equip them to enter the economy at a productive level. Students then started to revolt, and Mugabe was furious. That was when he declared that he had 'degrees in violence', challenging the students and calling them hooligans. If Mugabe had realised the importance of his education programme, he would also have realised that the youths were being given skills to analyse everything and everyone, including him. Now he hates the youth of the country, except those he hires to kill and break the bones of his critics.

Mugabe would have preferred all Zimbabweans to remain illiterate. That is his biggest regret. Even when he addresses villagers, he uses impeccable English, better than Tony Blair and George W. Bush - his arch-enemies.

Like most African leaders, Mugabe hates the situation in which the citizens know their rights and are able to demand them. His philosophy on democracy is what he calls 'guided democracy', which means, as one of his vice-presidents, the late Simon Muzenda, once said, 'If Zanu PF gives you a monkey as a candidate, you have to vote for it'. This arrogance is typical of the Mugabe government since he seriously believes that he is the most intelligent leader in Zimbabwe and the rest of the continent. Mugabe's rule is arrogance - 'arrogancocracy', if such a word exists. His ministers have also taken the cue. And it flows down the ladder to his members of parliament and village leaders who hardly ever visit or consult their constituents.

The current violence in Zimbabwe has also to be understood in the context of the 'liberator mentality'. No liberation war has ever produced a democrat of substance.

'If you don't vote for me, there will be war', Mugabe declared during the presidential campaign of 2002. And being the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, the army commanders were soon to appear at a press conference in which they declared that they will never salute a president who did not come out of the liberation war. That was a silent military coup. So, even if the opposition leader had won the presidency, he would never have been allowed to go to state house.

The 'liberator' mentality also produces the 'father of the nation' mentality. Mugabe intensely hated Joshua Nkomo because Nkomo was establishing himself as 'the father of the nation' long before anyone knew Mugabe. Hence the violence in the southern provinces from 1983 to 1987. The purpose was to destroy Nkomo's political base and make his supporters realise that Nkomo was vulnerable and easy to destroy. The image had to be destroyed, even if it meant destroying the man himself.

'I liberated you, so I can subdue you and rule as I wish. You must be forever grateful to me', is the thinking. When Mugabe attacks his opponents and critics, he uses the liberation war as a licence to subdue all and sundry, by whatever means.

Former liberation war leaders love things and places named after them. In every town in Zimbabwe, there is a Robert Mugabe street, usually cutting through the centre of the city. In every government building and office, the framed picture of Mugabe looks down at you as if you are under the omnipresent eye of the President. It becomes a god-like symbol reminding every citizen that the demi-god, Mugabe, is watching you, day and night.

In the quest for glory and grandeur, the presidential palace is full of charlatans, praise-singers and flatterers. First they used to call him 'the son of God', and then one minister publicly said 'Mugabe is our Jesus Christ'. Next the minister of education and culture has recently designed and installed a 'throne' in parliament, for 'king Mugabe.' Then the minister of local government would not be outdone. He has decided to build 'a shrine' in Mugabe's home village. A shrine is a place of worship. So the president has become a god who deserves a 'shrine.' Thus, from VaMugabe ndibaba' (Mugabe is our father) to 'the son of God' to 'Jesus Christ' to a 'shrine' a place of worship, God.

When a mortal human is elevated to the status of a god, what can he not do? In biblical terms, God said, 'I am the God of war. I punish children for the sins of their fathers.' Hence President Mugabe, having elevated himself to that level, does not hesitate to inflict pain and death on men, women, children and the rest. All the problems of the country have nothing to do with him. It is all because of the West, Tony Blair and George W. Bush. Were he to admit a mistake, he would lose his infallibility. So, when he was asked many years ago, if he had made any mistake in the governance of the country, he answered, with a straight face: 'none at all'. The violence in Zimbabwe is Mugabe's 'rightful' demand to rule like a god.

African leaders have developed the capacity to transform themselves from elected leaders to royals, then to demigods and finally gods, from a presidential medal to a royal throne to a shrine, in their own lifetime.

Unfortunately, Africa is an extremely religious continent. We love to worship, even if it means creating our own gods in the name of a president. Religious hymns initially meant to praise gods are soon adapted to praise The President. Church uniforms normally depicting angels and Jesus Christ are soon flooded with images of The President. Bank notes are also soon covered with pictures of The President.

Africa is a continent of love and generosity, so we always believe. But somehow it produces such these monstrosities of political and financial power that it boggles the mind. We have a reputation of creating laughter at every occasion, including death. We have the capacity to produce an Idi Amin, a Bokassa, a Mobuto, a Banda, a Mugabe, at the same time that we laugh and dance. Could it be that we laugh and dance too much at the expense of serious business? All one can think of is: if Africa did not laugh, it would be crying all the time. 'We laugh in order not to cry', an African once said.

Not many African leaders have ever bothered to develop the language of democracy. President Mugabe is known to be probably the most foul-mouthed president in the world. There is no word he will not use against the opposition. At one time they are 'dogs', at another they are 'stooges', 'terrorists', 'tea boys,' 'traitors', 'sell-outs', and many other vulgarities only the mother tongue can pronounce. The ethics of language usage do not exist for President Mugabe and his cronies. He has no capacity to realise the implications of using a certain vocabulary in the political arena. When he says 'we will crush the opposition', he does not seem to realise that his youths will physically 'crush' the heads and limbs of his opponents.

'Power is a desolating pestilence,' an Indian scholar once observed. Power consumes human memory and conscience. President Mugabe has been so totally consumed by power that his memory does not seem to be about to rescue him. By training youths to murder and maim, he has destroyed a whole generation which has to be brought up again so they can learn to respect human life, freedom, dignity and compassion. All this in the insane pursuit of power for its own sake, power to loot and plunger the material and spiritual resources of a country.

The powerful in Africa seem to be infected with the diseases of deafness, blindness, and lack of vision of a past, and a future without them. They will kill their own mothers, sisters and brothers, if it makes them remain in power. When they inherit the instruments and technology of torture and oppression, they seem to be so grateful to their colonial masters whom they take pleasure in blaming for other convenient things: 'As Africans peacefully walked to the townships in the afternoon, just as they had walked to work in the morning, they were beaten up, and dogs were let loose on women and children', words of the late Zimbabwean nationalist, Maurice Nyagumbo, as he remembers the colonial rulers' treatment of Africans in Southern Rhodesia in the 1950s.

History, especially in Africa, seems to repeat itself, in different colours of skin and flag.

* Chenjerai Hove is a Zimbabwean writer living in exile in Norway.

* Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

The announcement that Senate elections would be held in Zimbabwe on November 26 has been interpreted as a move designed by President Robert Mugabe to contain fall out from his controversial appointment of Joyce Mujuru as vice president. It has also caused tension in the opposition Movement for Democratic Change over whether to contest the Senate polls. Writer Chenjerai Hove identifies a “Zimbabwean disease” which dictates that once an institution is formed it becomes a national cause to tear it apart.

The scene is a country called Zimbabwe, and the audience, thirteen million anxious Zimbabweans. The actors: Zanu PF and the MDC. The Stage Director, Robert Gabriel Mugabe. The title of the play: The Senate Bandwagon. The Zimbabwean political audience is once again faced with an ever more confused political situation. A few elections later, the people are rather puzzled as to what exactly is happening. President Robert Mugabe has dangled a new carrot, the Senate. And one already knows why this carrot is there, in front of the two political parties and their faithful. I always wondered why this causes confusion because the Senate is supposed to last only a short time. After all, it was abolished in 1987 on the pretext that it unnecessarily delayed urgent legislation which the government wanted passed the fast-track way. With the current series of endless crises, it would seem the need for urgent passing of legislation has not died. The land issue is still fresh and causing havoc to the economy, the economic mess fraught with so many other problems, the decline of services like health, education, transport. So many urgent issues! In the midst of all this, the president wants to introduce a Senate, an expensive undertaking which a shrinking economy can hardly afford.

It is well known now that Mugabe wouldn't care less if the country was broke or not, as long as he keeps power till he dies. So, in order to accommodate his 'fellows' who had fallen by the wayside, he decides to introduce a senate which practically serves no useful purpose except to give terminal benefits to his old and sickly friends he had forgotten to take along on his gravy train of economic plunder and electoral fraud. Then comes the side show: the MDC jumping onto this worthless project on the assumption that it might be possible to contain Zanu PF in its own game. To play or not to play the Zanu PF game? That was the question facing the national council of the MDC. Surprisingly, the outcome was half-half kusenga kwedhongi. The meaning of it all is that to play the game means the MDC accepts the rules and procedures which created the game. It also means an endorsement of the political manoeuvres which have created the senate, and also an acceptance of the recent constitutional amendments as valid. That is what President Mugabe wants to happen, realizing that he created this game in order to dangle a few crumps and left-overs in order cause a splits in the MDC and possibly civil society. Mugabe's project seems to be advancing without any hitches, so far.

As far as I can see, the problem of the MDC started when they participated in the parliamentary elections whose results were already predicted and known. Now, members of the opposition are in parliament, but not all who wanted to be there. Those who could not make it to parliament would argue that the current MDC members of the august house are enjoying the benefits of the gravy train while denying others the opportunity to do so in the new Senate. That is the problem facing the MDC. They have allowed themselves to taste of the niceties offered by the devil, and everyone wants their piece of the carrot. Exactly what Mugabe and Zanu PF wants, especially in these hard times of economic collapse and struggles for survival! Everyone wants to put bread and butter on the table, never mind the source! As far as I can see, wrapped inside the carrot, Mr Mugabe and his party gurus have thrown a live snake in the house of the opposition. Some from the opposition camp only see the skin of the carrot, while others have the vision to see the snake within. Thus, the opposition party begins its own demise fired by the energies and skills of Mr Mugabe's camp. The audience, we ordinary Zimbabweans, can only look and wonder whether the opposition is serious about participating in a Senate whose introduction it strongly opposed not so long ago.

Having participated in the formation and running of several national organisations, I have come to accept that the Zimbabwean disease is one and only one in terms of organisational management. Once an institution is formed, the next crucial task for some Zimbabweans is to find as many reasons and ways as possible to tear it apart. Some people call it factionalism. Others call it 'splinterism'. What I know is that both are usually not based on any basic principle or vision. They are usually based on some flimsy excuse and rampant opportunism, a national malaise in the affairs of our country. All the noble reasons underlying the formation of the organisation are soon forgotten. Every one for himself, and God for none of us! It is sad that the MDC is split and probably destroyed over a worthless carrot (Senate) dangled in front of them. Every citizen can see clearly that the Senate serves no useful purpose except to function as some kind of old-age pension and gratuity for Mugabe's loyalists and friends. Everyone knows who the new senators will be: old men and women discarded by either design or mistake by the Mugabe gravy train. Why anyone with a national vision and some kind of realization of where the country is going should join, I have no clue. In the end it also becomes a question of personal integrity and dignity. Zimbabweans are used to national abuse, especially by the ruining party, Zanu PF.

Sadly, it seems the MDC, having raised people's hopes, has also now embarked on this national malaise of thinking that they can earn good salaries from a national purse which does not exist. They can join the dance of Zanu PF pensioners and then wake up in the morning to call themselves the opposition. In Shona it is called 'kudziya moto wembavha'.(Warming themselves from the fireplace of a thief). As the Zimbabwean disease of splits and factions engulfs the political realm of the country, the decay continues, and more political parties will be formed in order to split again and again while Mugabe continues to destroy the country. The national vision dies, only to be replaced by financial greed and illusions of boundless power. In the end, national political fatigue creeps in, and no one wants to vote for anyone, knowing only too well that there is no Zimbabwean politician interested in shaping a genuine national vision devoid of greed for power and money.

* Chenjerai Hove is a leading Zimbabwean author and has several published books and poems including the aclaimed novel BONES. This article appeared on the www.newzimbabwe.com website and reproduced here with permission of the author.

* Please send comments to [email protected]

Many years ago in my country, Zimbabwe, a writer was arrested for making some drunken remarks about the President.

'Can I have two presidents, please?' the writer had asked. The writer was simply wanting to buy two bananas from a vendor at the market, of course, with a little accompanying humour. But it so happened that the name of our president at that time was Mr Banana, and the ears of those employed to get angry on behalf of the president were within earshot. As the police officer was locking him away in a police cell, the writer asked the officer: 'Excuse me, why are you locking yourself out?'

The officer was stunned and went to report to his boss, who immediately declared the prisoner 'a bit mad' and released him without charge after a few slaps on the face.

'Words cause itches in the private parts of the republic', I once wrote in one of my long poems. After a public reading, a secret service agent came to find out what I might be meaning by that? I professed total ignorance and wondered what he understood by the two lines. He thought they meant 'the private parts of the president.' I argued that it was his own interpretation, not mine.

Writers and prison. A writer's language describes and names visible and invisible prisons. Sometimes those who think they are free, are in the most painful prisons. The idea of a president being locked up in an eternal motorcade for twenty-five years can only remind me of someone who has been in prison for life. Wordsmiths, that is, writers and journalists, are, in oppressive systems, an extremely endangered species. African governments have the illusion that writers and journalists are the government's unpaid public relations officers. And the politicians are not about to give up that illusion. We are supposed to paint the glorious and happily-ever-after banner for our country, never the sad tears and pain our governments sometimes cause us.

All we know and cling to is the knowledge that we are the public relations officers of true human hearts and consciences. As creators, we are not about to give up that principle, that eternal dream. But we know that part of our task is to paint in words the sad tears trickling down our patriotic cheeks, to write and record that we were present when such injustice and violence descended on our village, our land, our street. Politicians are in charge of making laws which put writers in prison. I have always wondered why they fear writers.

'Who elected you to speak on behalf of the public?' I have always been challenged by the politicians in my country. And they add: 'I was elected by a constituency of voters, 40 000 of them. Who elected you?' I always answered: 'My conscience elected me. You are elected for five years, I am elected for life.' Thus the relationship between a writer and a politician is established: a battle for constituencies. The politician dances to the constituency of numbers. He/she wants a full stadium to address. In the process, the politician hopes to capture the hearts and minds of the people. But the writer is not interested in numbers. He/she is of the constituency of mind. When the politician searches for the constituency of mind, he is shocked to discover that the writer/artist has already occupied that space. Hence, the anger begins.

The politician is in control of handcuffs, guns, prisons, the police, the army, parliament, institutions of violence. The writer is only in control of feeble words, words which float in the wind like butterflies, language. Words which can appear to be crushed with the hammer of political oppression, with prison. Unfortunately, words, like the free wind, and the smell of flowers, refuse to die, even after the politician's five-year development plan has run out. Political and artistic language is different. The writer fights to name things freely. The politician seeks to name things for political gain through concealing truths or distorting them.

When once I wrote the draft speech of the Minister of Information for the opening of the Zimbabwe International Book Fair, she was respectful enough not to change a word. Then she phoned me later and asked me to apply for the civil servant job of director of information in her ministry. 'What would I be doing every day?' I wanted to know. 'You will write my speeches and the speeches of other ministers,' she said.

Imagine, a writer being a speech writer, writing long speeches about the current 'operation demolish poor people's dreams,' 'operation filth and dirt', 'operation follow the leader', 'operation imprisonment,' 'operation eternal life for the leader,' etc. Many senseless 'operations' aimed at destroying language and people. But the hidden purpose was more complex than that: control of my words, my vision, my dreams and aspirations. Politicians are not about to respect the freedom of language, of expression.

The current deputy minister of information in Zimbabwe says he is the 'de facto' editor of the government daily, The Herald. He cannot countenance leaving words in someone else's hands. Literature, art, by nature is subversive, not in the sense of a desire to capture state house, but in the sense of searching for that which is hidden, the echoes of the hidden, human heart and mind. It is in the language of art that identity is discovered. Our identity is the compendium of our sorrows and joys, our smiles and our wounds, the very scars on which our history is recorded. Our historical and geographical beauty and ugliness, our wisdom and its accompanying foolishness. Our conquests and defeats. The way we search for meaning in life, the illusions we cling to, our cruelty, everything. That is what art searches for, because no human being is ever a one-word answer. We are complex, and art celebrates that complexity.

In literature, words are like bullets which shoot the heart and the mind, creating all sorts of images and metaphors which explode the human imagination and the will to live a tense life full of human doubt and joy, human freedom as it flowers amongst the social and political worms that seek to kill it from inside and outside.

As writers, we have the duty to restore the proper names of things in a complex, multifaceted dialogue. Oppressive political systems believe in a social and political monologue. The head of state should not be criticised. He should be allowed to run the country through a political and social monologue until he dies. For the politician, the world is made up of numbers...how many schools he built, bridges, clinics, stadiums, computers distributed, rallies addressed, years spent in meaningless monologues in state house. No, the writer, the artist, searches for something deeper: the solitude of power, the solitude of huge crowds where everyone is, politically, just 'the masses', 'my voters', 'my constituents.'

The writer searches for the hidden meaning of things, of human experience, of possibilities and choices. As writers, we do not ask for too much: we just demand the right to name the colours of our flowers, the intimate and intricate music of our birds as they sing our sadness and joy, the turbulent and rebellious hearts of our fellows, the funereal voices of social and political oppression, the cries of the lovers in each others' deadly and joyous embraces, the celebrations of the free human soul searching for the gods and the ancestors. The imprisonment of writers is a vain attempt to put ideas in a cage so that the artist can be humiliated in the zoo of ideas without possibilities and choices. Physical imprisonment is supposed to exile us from the public. It is a form of physical and artistic torture. For, we poison the minds of the public, the youths, the women and men reduced to manipulated machines by systems which specialise in torturing ideas and the imagination. 'Your books are beautifully written,' one education officer said to me. 'But we cannot put them in schools. They are too political. If you remove the political bits, we will prescribe them for children in schools,' he said. I cannot imagine an adulterated version of any of my novels. It would be an insult to the imagination and to creativity.

Oppressive political systems thrive on feeding the people on a diet of illusions, of power, freedom, smiles, happiness, wealth to the dispossessed, victory even at the height of oppression. A writer's task is to reject all that, to continue to name things in their proper shapes and sizes, to search for real meaning and complexity of the human condition. Exile, imprisonment, silence, harassment, oppressive laws, the secret service, all those are instruments created by our governments in order to torture human bodies and free ideas.

'You can disappear anytime we want,' is the slogan that I have had to confront for many years, from the men in dark glasses and suits. But even as writers are in prison, they still search, with the intimacy of their souls and the freedom of their words and imagination, for the freedom for words, images. We have, indeed, freedom of expression. But we demand more: freedom after expression. ' In saying ''this is who I am'', in revealing oneself, the writer can help others to become aware of who they are. As a means of revealing collective identity, art should be considered an article of prime necessity, not a luxury,' shouted Uruguayan writer, Eduardo Galeano, while in exile from his cruel, beloved homeland.

*Chenjerai Hove is a leading Zimbabwean author and has several published books and poems including the aclaimed novel BONES. This article appeared on the www.newzimbabwe.com website and reproduced here with permission of the author.

* Please send comments to [email protected]