In a move that has sent shockwaves of hilarity through the international community, Zimbabwean parliamentarians have passed a bill extending the president's powers indefinitely, or at least until he finishes his tea. The UK, ever the concerned nanny, has responded by urging democratic reforms and a review of sanctions – as if a strongly worded letter ever fixed a constitution.
Let us paint the scene. Harare. A chamber of men in ill-fitting suits, sweating profusely under the weight of their own corruption, solemnly vote to allow their leader to remain in power until the heat death of the universe. Democracy? A mere suggestion. Checks and balances? What checks? This is not government; it's a geriatric farce.
Enter the UK, stage left, with a furrowed brow and a cup of Earl Grey. They 'urge' democratic reforms. They 'call for' a sanctions review. How wonderfully polite. How utterly British. 'Please and thank you for your dictatorship, would you mind awfully if we asked you to stop?' It is the diplomatic equivalent of telling a lion to stop eating the gazelle because it's rude.
The irony, of course, is that the UK's own democracy is a theatre of the absurd. While Zimbabwe's parliament votes to extend a lifelong presidency, our own MPs are busy rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, arguing over Brexit and who gets the last digestives. But let's not dwell on our own foibles, lest we choke on the hypocrisy.
The sanctions, you see, were supposed to be a stick. But when has a stick ever worked on a man who thinks he's a king? The answer is never. Sanctions only hurt the people, not the dictator. They drive up the price of gin (a personal tragedy) and make it harder for ordinary Zimbabweans to get medicine. Meanwhile, the president sits in his palace, probably laughing into his imported champagne.
What we need is not more polite urging. We need satire. We need to mock these men into submission. Imagine: a UN resolution that forces all dictators to wear clown wigs. Or a rule that any leader who stays in power past a decade must perform a tap dance at the annual general assembly. Now that would be reform.
But alas, we are stuck with the old ways. The UK demands reforms, Zimbabwe shrugs, and the world moves on to the next crisis. It is a dance as old as time, as predictable as a hangover after a night of cheap wine.
So here is my proposal: Let us stop pretending. Let us call this what it is: a comedy of errors. A tragicomedy, perhaps. And let us raise a glass of gin to the gallows humour that keeps us sane. For in the end, what is a dictatorship but a joke told badly, with no punchline?
Until next time, this is Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off before my expenses get denied again.
