The people commenting on this topic are the ones I respect most on Naijarules.
I can judge humans by what they are most concerned about.

A post on Genevieve will attract hundreds of online hounds and thousands of replies.
A post on fishy private parts will attract hundreds of viewers within hours.
A post on sex will attract thousands of respondents.
But a post on the existential nightmares of Zimbabweans or Nigerians has only attracted less than 200 viewers and some replies.
This clearly shows the low 1Q of most of the members of Nigerian Forums.
The post on Zimbabwe on the Huffington Post attracted thousands and 99% of them were not Africans.

I have addressed the manic depressive insanity of President Robert Mugabe in my new book Bye, Bye Mugabe and the following narrative is from it.

Ma ulemali eningi besuhlupa abantu uzotholani
ngalokho, Uzophelelaphi wo Uzophelelaphi
Kuzvirova dundundu
Tozvinzwa kuti ndisu tiri pano
Magumo acho chii?
Tingazvirova matundundu
Kushambadza kuti tiri apo
Magumo acho chii?
Todadira vamwe, kutsvinya
Kuvaona sevasi vanhu
Magumo acho chii?
Kusatya Mwari
Mhedzisiro yacho chii?
Magumo acho chii?
Ungangodaro une simba, simba rakawanda
Ukadzvanya akaota
Magumo acho chii?
Ma ulamandla amakhulu besuhlupa abantu
uzotholani ngalokho
Ugodaro une mari, mari yakawanda
Ukadzvanya akaota
Magumo acho chii?
Ma ulemali eningi besuhlupa abantu
uzotholani ngalokho
Kudadira vamwe, kutsvinya
Kuona sevasi vanhu
Magumo acho chii?

You beat your chest
Feeling all your importance
How will it all end?
You may beat your chest
Screaming that you're important
How will it all end?
You look down upon others, despising,
As if they are not human beings
How will it all end?
You don't respect God
What will be the end?
How will it all end?
You may have power, much power,
And you oppress those who are weak
How will it all end?
You may have money, much money,
And you oppress those who are weak.
How will it all end?


It was as if they were blaming Mugabe for their predicament.
Most of the young people were gone. Millions were hustling for survival in Bulawayo and Highfield and millions of others were in self-exile in South Africa and other neighbouring countries. Only the aged were left. But most of the old folk were widows. My mother and her friend were among the oldest widows in the village.

I dug the grave furiously because I wanted to get it over with and leave. Nkosi and I had an appointment with a cab driver named Fungai in Bulawayo who had agreed to drive us to the Limpopo waterside. Then we would join others taking boats across the river and trek across the border into South Africa. So, we did not wait to witness them say, "Azorora" over Mbira's grave. We had witnessed many deaths already. Over four thousand people were dying weekly in Zimbabwe and most of them were innocent children.

The night before our departure, I saw President Mugabe in a dream. We were in a large waiting room, but I did not know what we were waiting for. We all sat on long wooden benches in a single row. Mugabe was there with a young girl who looked like his daughter. He was sitting on a wooden bench like everyone else. Then, after a while, he and the girl stood up and walked to the other end of the room. Some minutes later, Mugabe returned with the girl, but other people had taken their seats and there were no spare seats left. Since he was an elderly man, I got up and offered him my seat. He looked at me with gratitude, sat down quietly, and motioned to the girl to sit on his lap. He looked younger than his age. I found it hard to believe he was 83 years old.

“You do not look old. You look at least twenty years younger,” I remarked in a complimentary tone.

Mugabe smiled.

I wanted to ask him the secret of his longevity and vigour just then I woke up to use the toilet.

I did not tell Nkosi about this particular dream.
I was worried about Uncle Bob. I looked at the black and white photograph of him with his raised right hand, fist clenched in the revolutionary Black Power salute with big Joshua Nkomo standing by his side, smiling happily. The unforgettable memories of the Second Chimurenga when ZANLA and ZIPRA became the double-edged sword of our liberation struggle always flashed across my mind. I missed those good old days after our victory over Smith. When the late Bob Marley came to perform his hit song Zimbabwe to celebrate our independence it echoed all over Africa. The magnificent parades, colourful festoons, and fireworks made that day one of the best days of my youth. What happened to Mugabe?

When Sally, the first lady died on that fateful Monday of January 27, 1992, Mugabe became melancholic and when he married Grace in 1996, he became worse.

My fellow blogger, Jacob Holdt even said:

“Sally was incredibly popular, but after her death, Mugabe turned into a despotic and homophobic direction. Today I am glad that my son is not called Mugabe.”

The death of his beloved Sally must have done terrible things to his psyche. Sally was the heart and soul of Mugabe. A Mugabe without Sally made a depressed old man without a soul.