A Zimbabwean Passport is just as good as a prescription for antidepressants…

Being a citizen of the tiny nation of Zimbabwe is a hellish experience. The country itself has the aura of a detention camp. Freedom is as alien as an Arabic-speaking Martian. The whole country has become one big grumpy, grimy and slimy Rhodesian ‘Native reserve and urban ghetto’. At least under the racist Ian Smith there was LIFE. Everyone knew their place and had the choice to work hard to be the best of even the rot they were forced to be. There is no such choice in Zimbabwe. No one knows their place and as such have nowhere to start from. Hard work has been made a weakness. The harder the downtrodden Zimbabwean works the more they suffer for it. Working hard to earn a living now means nothing. One cannot even reap the fruit of their labours. The more money you make the longer you will wait to get it.

The elite have each acquired fiefdoms in which they rule, conquer and plunder. The Minister earns more money giving jobs than creating jobs. The prophets have sealed the gates of heaven itself with barricades of gold. The politicians have profered themselves with doctorates to pollute the noble corridors of the intellect with their pungent odour of ignorance, an odour which they wear as a perfume. The Police have organised themselves into uniformed thieves. The State police have embraced the psychotic delusion of being gods. The flag itself has become a crime. Speech has become blasphemy. Democracy itself has become treason.

A foreign stamp on the poor Zimbabwean’s passport has become the mystical antidote to death. The holder of a Zimbabwean passport has been made a schizophrenic dreamer. He dreams of leaving. Not just to greener pastures but to any other pasture he can flee to. Anywhere but Zimbabwe. That is where the cure lies. The house is on fire and stinks of charred dead hope.

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