So Zimbabwe has become a society of importers. There’s barely any manufacturing to talk about, and if you nee anything, ANYthing it has to come from outside.
Like rice. The most commonly found rice is brought in from Moza or Bots in 25kg bags, and flogged in US dollars or Rand. If you can’t pay the cost, well “…let them eat potatoes”.
And clothes. Nobody makes clothes anymore (except FaithWear, whose brand has really weakened for me). And walking into Edgars is just sad. So what do I do if I really need a new suit? A nice, soft, black or navy suit? Order one from South Africa.
And beer. We had a braai on Saturday (yes, we still braai) with some mate and we had to buy Windhoek Lager. In US dollars. And the odd bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. And a crate of castle quarts. All in green.
I wonder how things are across the railway line?
I’ve always had a bit of a laugh at Mark Wahlberg (and Donnie too, for that matter). From his days in NKOTB to his little white rapper stint, he’s always been a kinda jokester to me.
The idea that Marky Mark of the Funky Bunch could become a serious Hollywood action star, with the clout to even produce a TV show based on his own experience (Entourage, you reprobate); far-fetched, you’d think.
But nope. He’s there, oh-look-at-me I’m-an-Irish-American-action-character check-out-my-scowl I’ll-shoot-you Mark Wahlberg, doing his thing. And I haven’t really been taking him seriously.
Until now. Minnie and I saw We Own The Night on the weekend, and it’s was a pretty good flick. Marky’s a cop (ya think?) with a junkie brother and police chief dad. I won’t lay it all out for ya but this flick is hard, ek se.
And the opening scene helped (Eva Mendes flashes a titty).
Justice will prevail.
That’s what gives me comfort.
So no matter how tired we feel, no matter how much stress you put on my back, no matter how hard they make my life … justice will prevail.
Even if the rest of Africa forsakes us, and notwithstanding how deep Thabo Mbeki shoves his head up his ass. We don’t mind.
Because we’re Zimbabweans. We can handle the pressure. We’ve seen it all before. This is all basically Gukurahundi writ large. So it’s nothing new. And in a largely Christian nation, we hold onto one of the basic tenets of that belief.
That someday your just desserts will come to you. And you’ll get what you’ve paid for. The tax-man cometh, and he’s not bringing fucking chocolates.
Justice will prevail.
So I went down to Kadoma this weekend, ostensibly for the Jameson get-together and reunion function.
Turns out, it was more a weekend escape from the usual Harare bullshit. There’s nothing like hanging out in a villa suite with football on and a beautiful woman.
Besides, almost nobody showed up for the reunion. And there was neither beer nor electricity. And the DJs were crap.
So the only value was in spending time away with my favourite girl.
Well, maybe not so quiet.
… a woman who will cook breakfast for you when you ask her to. When all you really need is a bacon and egg sandwich and a little bit of warmth to get you through the day.
Like, no matter how tired you are of the whole go-round, the Super 14 finals, the beer price increases during the Super 14 finals, all the bullshit news coming out of South Africa; no matter what, just a little bit of love and the world will be a better place.
Like, maybe one day Putin will grow the fuck up, the United States will get serious about global warming, uniforms will behave professionally and Hillary Clinton will finally (please God) quit.
Okay, clutching at straws there.
