Zimbabwe News Update
nehandaradio
2 min read
there is an old proverb that says: a clever bird builds its nest with the feathers of other birds. it is a saying that captures both ingenuity and danger. for when that clever bird decorates its nest with another’s plumage, it may indeed shine for a while — but it also carries the scent of those it has plucked. and the hawks, ever alert, come swooping, drawn not by admiration but by appetite. in the theatre of our politics, that bird today has a name: the sabhuku. a village head and once a member of parliament, he has now reappeared on the public stage, feathers borrowed, voice raised, announcing himself once again as a man of relevance. but relevance built on borrowed feathers is a fragile illusion.
the sabhuku’s recent behaviour — his public attacks on the general and, astonishingly, on the general’s wife — reveal less about the targets of his outbursts and far more about his own desperation. it is a political gambit both transparent and tragic: the attempt to rise by clinging to the stature of others, to manufacture significance through controversy. traditionally, a sabhuku is not a politician. he is an adjudicator, a custodian of community peace. his authority is moral, not militant. he is the one who listens to quarrels under the shade of the msasa tree, who calms tempers, who mends relationships with words measured carefully like grain. his role is to unite, not to divide; to weigh truth, not to weaponise it.
but what we now witness is a sabhuku who has abandoned the very spirit of his office. in place of wisdom, there is bitterness. in place of calm, noise. he is prosecuting instead of presiding, seeking not justice but attention. in doing so, he has crossed from leadership into theatre — the sort of loud, self-serving performance that defines too many of our political players today. before one borrows feathers, one must ask: what happened to your own? for leadership, like plumage, is earned through toil. the sabhuku once carried the mandate of the people as a member of parliament. it was no small trust — yet what remains of his tenure? we search the villages and find no bridges bearing his name, no clinics that tell his story, no roads that speak of his service. his record is an echo, not a legacy.
and in that emptiness lies the source of his newfound aggression.
