Robert’s ghost in state house by Eze Ogbu

Zimbabwe has always lived with its history but there are moments when history seems less like a memory than a tenant who never moved out. The government's latest step toward a constitutional amendment that would extend the president's term by two years and replace direct presidential elections with selection by lawmakers is one of those moments. It feels less like a legal reform than a familiar knock on the door from a past many Zimbabweans have spent decades trying to escape.

The proposal arrives wrapped in the language of procedure and governance. Its supporters will undoubtedly argue that constitutional systems evolve, that parliamentary selection is practiced elsewhere, and that stability is a virtue in a turbulent region. Yet political changes cannot be judged solely by their technical details. They must also be measured by the political culture in which they occur and the incentives they create.

In Zimbabwe, the symbolism is impossible to ignore. For nearly four decades, Robert Mugabe perfected a political model in which institutions increasingly existed to serve power rather than restrain it. Elections remained, constitutions remained and parliament remained but the spirit of democratic accountability steadily weakened. The forms survived while the substance eroded. The result was a nation where political continuity became an end in itself, often detached from public consent.

That is why the current proposal has generated such concern. Extending a presidential term is rarely a neutral act. Eliminating a direct presidential election is even less so. Together, the changes suggest a governing philosophy that places convenience for the political elite above the fundamental democratic principle that leaders should periodically return to the electorate for judgment.

One of the ironies of modern Zimbabwean politics is that Mugabe himself is gone, yet many of the instincts that defined his rule seem remarkably resilient. The personalities have changed. The habits have not.

Across the continent, citizens have become increasingly familiar with the script. A constitutional amendment appears. Technical arguments are offered. Assurances are given. The public is told that democracy remains secure. Yet somehow the practical effect almost always benefits those already in power. The political horizon stretches a little further for incumbents while becoming slightly narrower for everyone else.

Democracy is not merely a mechanism for choosing leaders. It is a discipline imposed upon leaders. It forces governments to confront uncertainty, criticism, and the possibility of rejection. Elections are inconvenient by design. They remind rulers that authority is borrowed, not owned.

When governments begin searching for ways to reduce those inconveniences, citizens are right to become suspicious. The legal challenges now before Zimbabwe's constitutional court may ultimately determine the amendment's fate. But the larger issue extends beyond courtrooms and legal briefs. It concerns the direction of a country that has repeatedly promised democratic renewal while remaining haunted by authoritarian reflexes.

Nations do not become democratic simply because they hold elections. Nor do they become authoritarian overnight. The transformation is usually gradual, marked by small adjustments that seem manageable in isolation but alarming in accumulation.

Zimbabwe stands at one of those moments. The question facing the country is not whether Robert Mugabe still occupies an office. He does not. The question is whether the governing culture he cultivated still occupies the political imagination. The latest amendment suggests that, for some in power, the old ghost remains very much at home.


The cost of looking backward by Brea Willis

One of the more peculiar spectacles in modern politics is watching leaders fight yesterday’s battles while the rest of the world quietly moves on. Energy policy offers perhaps the clearest example. Across Europe, parts of Asia and even regions once heavily dependent on fossil fuels, governments and businesses have increasingly concluded that renewable energy is not merely an environmental aspiration. It is an economic strategy.

The debate, in many places, has evolved. The question is no longer whether wind, solar, and other renewable technologies can play a significant role in national energy systems. The question is how quickly they can be expanded, how effectively they can be integrated into electric grids, and how much money they can save consumers and industries. What was once framed as a moral argument about climate responsibility has become, in many respects, a practical argument about competitiveness.

Against this backdrop, Donald Trump and many figures within his political movement continue to treat green energy as though it were an ideological hobby rather than an industrial reality. The rhetoric often suggests that renewable power represents weakness, dependency, or economic sacrifice. Yet the irony is difficult to ignore. Nations investing heavily in renewable infrastructure are frequently doing so because they believe it strengthens their economies, attracts investment, lowers long-term costs, and reduces vulnerability to volatile fuel markets.

There is something distinctly twentieth century about the insistence that prosperity must remain tethered to older energy systems. It resembles the executives who once dismissed personal computers as toys or the publishers who underestimated the internet. History is filled with examples of established industries confusing familiarity with permanence.

The United States, of course, remains a technological giant. It possesses world-class universities, engineering talent, capital markets, and innovative companies capable of leading almost any industrial transformation. That is precisely what makes the resistance to renewable energy so puzzling. The country is not lacking the resources to compete. Instead, it often appears trapped in a political argument that much of the world has already settled.

Supporters of Trump's approach frequently frame renewable energy as a threat to jobs and economic growth. Yet industries centered on solar panels, battery technology, grid modernization, and clean-energy manufacturing have become major sources of employment and investment across numerous regions. The global economy is not waiting for Washington to resolve its ideological disputes. Companies are making decisions today about where factories will be built, where research will be conducted, and where future supply chains will emerge.

What makes the situation particularly frustrating is that renewable energy should not be a partisan issue at all. Affordable electricity, energy independence, technological leadership, and industrial competitiveness are goals that transcend political labels. A wind turbine does not care whether its electricity powers a conservative household or a liberal one. A solar panel has no party registration.

The real danger is not that America will suddenly stop producing energy or cease being an economic powerhouse. The danger is more gradual. It is the risk of surrendering leadership in industries that will shape the coming decades because political symbolism became more important than economic reality.

The rest of the world is not embracing renewable energy out of charity, sentimentality, or environmental idealism alone. Increasingly, it is doing so because the numbers make sense. Markets tend to reward efficiency, innovation and lower costs. They are remarkably indifferent to political nostalgia.

And that may be the central lesson here. Economies can adapt to new technologies. Nations can modernize. What proves far more difficult is convincing politicians to stop fighting the future once it has already arrived.


#eBook The man who walked like a heron by Nneka Solomon

 

So when she saw the man standing at the edge of the cassava field, she did not run. She tilted her head, the way her grandmother taught her, like a bird deciding whether a snake is friend or food.

He was tall. Too tall. His legs were long as herons' legs, his neck thin as a reed. He wore grey linen that drank the twilight instead of reflecting it. His skin was the colour of old parchment, the kind her grandfather used to wrap tobacco leaves.

And his eyes, his eyes were shallow graves. No grief, no joy. Just two holes where something had been and was no longer.
“Child,” he said.

Nneka Solomon, part-time educator full-time chronicler of small-town life, spends her days navigating the unpredictable waters of academia and her evenings crafting fantastical tales where the local gossip mill becomes a cauldron of magical intrigue and the town square transforms into a bustling marketplace for enchanted wares.

Ovi eBook Publishing 2026

The man who walked like a heron

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Marx cousins #028 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Groucho Marx attempts to seduce Karl Marx’s beard,
only to be met with a scathing analysis of capitalism
disguised as a poorly-aimed spittoon.

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The bones of the dead #poem & #artinstallation by Amir Khatib

 

"I sell the bones of the dead to the dead."

Everything you've ever wished to achieve, you can attain,
if you leave the past behind you!

Don't forget it, but don't cling to it.
Don't let it tempt you to return to its embrace,
for it is a prostitute who has left service, seeking someone to restore her to her former glory…
And if you entrust the future to the uncertain possibility and leave it in its hands,

and ground the present in understanding your place and time,
and pledge allegiance to nature in its eternal rule.

But you, what do you truly want?

— I want peace with myself,
for she is the first finger I put in my mouth,
the first sound I heard,
the first being I saw that smiled at me in the mirror,
the first dream, and the first nightmare of my life. It is my homeland, for which I fought eighty years of wars,
Wounded by the stabs of the future,
That invades without justification,
And I aspire to be worthy of my name,
Which is the name of life.
I want a night where I sleep awake and a day without dreams,
I want a completely white sky;
To draw in it and tuck it under my arm,
And planets colored like billiard balls,
To play with them alone without losing.
I want a woman who doesn't misunderstand my silence,
And an ordinary, predictable day that doesn't boast of retribution,
And a hope that's been preserved with the taste of "pastrami".
I want to paint in death,
And hold exhibitions in underground halls overflowing with springs,
I want to sell…
The bones of the dead to the dead in need,
And sing.

Art Installation by Amir Khatib

When fear becomes a weapon by Aimee Ingram

South Africa likes to present itself as the rainbow nation, a country that emerged from the darkness of apartheid with a promise of tolerance, dignity and shared humanity. Yet every time foreigners are hunted, attacked or driven from their homes, that promise looks increasingly fragile.

The killing of at least two Mozambicans this week and the torching of dozens of shacks in Mossel Bay should not be dismissed as isolated incidents. They are part of a recurring pattern that has stained South Africa’s democratic story for years. Hundreds of Mozambicans reportedly fled in fear, while others waited to be repatriated. The images are disturbingly familiar: frightened families carrying what little they own, homes reduced to ashes and communities shattered by mobs convinced that outsiders are to blame for their struggles.

The uncomfortable truth is that xenophobia in South Africa is no longer merely a social problem. When people are targeted because of where they come from, when violence is directed at a group based on nationality, and when communities are terrorized simply for being foreign, the line into hate crime territory has already been crossed.

What makes these attacks especially troubling is that they are often fueled by grievances that are real but misdirected. South Africa faces staggering unemployment, deep inequality and persistent poverty. Many citizens feel abandoned by political leaders who have promised economic progress but failed to deliver it. Frustration is understandable. Violence against immigrants is not.

Foreign workers did not create South Africa’s economic challenges. Mozambican labourers did not design policies that left millions unemployed. Migrants did not build the corruption networks that siphoned away public resources. Yet they become convenient targets because they are visible, vulnerable and often unable to defend themselves politically.

This is the oldest trick in politics and society, when solutions are difficult, find a scapegoat. The danger extends beyond the immediate victims. Xenophobic violence poisons the entire region. Southern African nations are linked by history, trade, labour migration and family ties. Many South Africans once found refuge and solidarity in neighbouring countries during the anti-apartheid struggle. To now see citizens of those same countries chased from their homes represents a tragic reversal of that spirit.

There is also a practical cost. Countries cannot build prosperity while tolerating lawlessness. Investors notice instability. Tourists notice hostility. Regional partners notice when their citizens are attacked. Every act of mob violence weakens South Africa’s standing and undermines confidence in its future.

Political leaders must resist the temptation to flirt with anti-immigrant rhetoric for short-term popularity. Words matter. When migrants are routinely portrayed as invaders, criminals or economic parasites, violence becomes easier to justify in the minds of angry citizens. Responsible leadership requires confronting myths rather than exploiting them.

The deeper challenge is moral. A society reveals itself not by how it treats the powerful but by how it treats the vulnerable. Foreign workers living in informal settlements are among the least protected people in South Africa. If they can be burned out of their homes and driven across borders by fear, then the principles of equality and human dignity become little more than slogans.

The tragedy in Mossel Bay should be a wake-up call. Economic hardship may explain public anger, but it can never excuse persecution. When fear becomes a weapon and nationality becomes a target, everyone loses. South Africa deserves better than that, and so do its neighbours.


Absurdity Woke 26#011 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

Our top story; common sense has left the frame, the inmates are running the asylum
and the asylum is now identifying as a luxury resort. This is Absurdity Woke.

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Jun 10, 1916; The Great Arab Revolt

By June 1916, the Ottoman Empire had ruled much of the Arab world for centuries. Yet beneath the surface of imperial authority, dissatisfaction was growing. When Sharif Hussein bin Ali launched the Great Arab Revolt from the holy city of Mecca on 10 June 1916, he ignited a movement that would alter the course of the First World War and help shape the modern Middle East.

More than a century later, the revolt remains a subject of fierce debate. Was it a noble struggle for Arab self-determination? Was it a wartime alliance of convenience manipulated by foreign powers? Or was it both simultaneously? The answer lies somewhere in the complex realities of war, empire, nationalism and diplomacy.

By the early twentieth century, the Ottoman Empire was often described as the "Sick Man of Europe". Although still vast, stretching across Anatolia, the Levant, Mesopotamia and parts of Arabia, the empire faced mounting internal and external pressures.

Many Arabs remained loyal subjects of the Ottoman Sultan, who was also regarded by many Muslims as the Caliph. However, tensions had increased significantly after the rise of the Committee of Union and Progress, commonly known as the Young Turks, following the revolution of 1908.

The Young Turk leadership sought to strengthen and centralise the empire. While understandable from the perspective of imperial survival, these policies often alienated non-Turkish populations. Arab intellectuals and political activists increasingly complained that their language, culture and regional interests were being neglected.

The outbreak of the First World War in 1914 intensified these concerns. The Ottoman Empire entered the conflict on the side of Germany and Austria-Hungary, placing it in direct opposition to Britain, France and Russia. Wartime requisitions, censorship and military conscription created additional hardships across Arab provinces. For some Arab leaders, the war presented an opportunity.

At the centre of events stood Hussein bin Ali, Sharif of Mecca and hereditary guardian of Islam's holiest cities. Hussein possessed both religious prestige and political ambition. He feared that Ottoman centralisation threatened his authority in the Hejaz and saw an opportunity to pursue greater Arab autonomy—or perhaps even independence.

Between 1915 and 1916, Hussein engaged in secret correspondence with Sir Henry McMahon, the British High Commissioner in Egypt. The exchange became one of the most significant diplomatic episodes of the war.

Britain sought to weaken the Ottoman Empire by encouraging rebellion within its territories. Hussein, meanwhile, sought assurances that Britain would support the creation of an independent Arab state after the war.

The precise meaning of the promises exchanged remains controversial even today. What is beyond dispute is that both sides believed they had reached an understanding beneficial to their interests. On 10 June 1916, Hussein made his move.

The opening shots of the Great Arab Revolt were fired in Mecca. Hussein's forces attacked Ottoman positions and proclaimed their rebellion against imperial rule.

Initially, the uprising faced significant challenges. The Ottomans retained experienced troops, modern weaponry and established defensive positions. Yet the rebels possessed advantages of their own. They understood the local terrain, enjoyed support among many tribal groups and benefited from British financial assistance and military supplies.

Within months, the rebels captured several important towns along the Red Sea coast, including Jeddah. Control of these ports enabled Britain to deliver weapons, ammunition and advisers, ensuring that the revolt could continue.

The uprising soon expanded beyond the Hejaz, becoming a wider campaign against Ottoman authority.

No discussion of the Great Arab Revolt can avoid the figure of Thomas Edward Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.

Lawrence served as a British intelligence officer and liaison to Arab forces. Possessing an unusual understanding of Arab culture and politics for a British officer of his era, he helped coordinate operations between British commanders and Arab leaders.

Popular culture has often transformed Lawrence into the central hero of the revolt. Films, novels and biographies have elevated him into a near-mythical figure striding across the desert in flowing robes.

The reality was more complex. The revolt was fundamentally an Arab movement led by Arab commanders and sustained by Arab fighters. Lawrence himself repeatedly acknowledged this fact. While his strategic advice, diplomatic efforts and organisational abilities were valuable, he was neither the creator nor the sole architect of the uprising.

Indeed, the greatest military achievements of the revolt were made possible by the efforts of thousands of Arab combatants under leaders such as Hussein's sons, Faisal and Abdullah.

The enduring fascination with Lawrence often reflects a broader Western tendency to focus on familiar personalities while overlooking local actors who played the principal roles.

The Arab Revolt succeeded not by defeating Ottoman armies in conventional battles but through innovative guerrilla warfare.

Rather than attempting to seize and hold heavily defended positions, Arab forces targeted communications and supply lines. Their favourite target became the strategically vital Hejaz Railway, which connected Damascus with Medina.

Repeated attacks on railway tracks, bridges and trains forced the Ottomans to divert significant resources to defence and repairs. This constant harassment weakened Ottoman mobility and complicated military planning.

The campaign demonstrated how irregular forces could exploit mobility, local knowledge and strategic flexibility against a larger conventional army.

As the war progressed, Arab forces advanced northwards through the desert. Their capture of Aqaba in July 1917 represented a major strategic victory, opening new opportunities for cooperation with British forces advancing through Palestine.

By 1918, Arab and Allied armies were participating in a coordinated offensive that contributed significantly to the collapse of Ottoman control in the region.

The end of the war brought military success but political disappointment. Arab forces entered Damascus in October 1918 amid scenes of celebration. Many participants believed that the dream of an independent Arab state was finally within reach.

However, wartime diplomacy had already complicated the situation. Unknown to many Arab leaders, Britain and France had secretly negotiated the Sykes–Picot Agreement in 1916, outlining spheres of influence across much of the Middle East. Furthermore, Britain's 1917 Balfour Declaration introduced additional commitments regarding Palestine.

As post-war settlements emerged, Arab expectations collided with European strategic interests. Rather than granting full independence across the territories envisioned by Arab nationalists, Britain and France established a system of mandates under the auspices of the League of Nations. France took control of Syria and Lebanon, while Britain assumed authority over Iraq, Transjordan and Palestine.

To many Arabs, this outcome felt like a betrayal. The sense that wartime promises had not been honoured became a defining element of modern Middle Eastern political consciousness. Whether one interprets British actions as deliberate deception or diplomatic ambiguity, the resulting resentment proved enduring.

The Great Arab Revolt occupies a unique place in modern history because its consequences continue to influence international politics more than a century later.

It contributed to the emergence of Arab nationalism as a powerful political force. It accelerated the dismantling of Ottoman authority in the Arab world. It helped establish the foundations of several modern states, including Jordan and Iraq. It also left unresolved questions concerning borders, sovereignty and identity that remain politically sensitive today.

Perhaps most importantly, the revolt illustrates a recurring lesson of history: military victories do not always produce the political outcomes participants expect.

The men who launched the uprising in June 1916 sought freedom from imperial control and hoped to build an independent Arab future. They achieved a remarkable wartime success and played a significant role in the defeat of the Ottoman Empire. Yet the peace that followed delivered a political settlement shaped largely by European powers rather than by Arab aspirations.

The Great Arab Revolt deserves to be remembered as more than a colourful desert campaign or the backdrop to the legend of Lawrence of Arabia. It was a pivotal episode in the collapse of one empire and the emergence of a new political order across the Middle East.

Its leaders believed they were fighting for independence, dignity and self-government. Their struggle contributed significantly to Allied victory during the First World War. Yet the aftermath revealed the harsh realities of international politics, where promises made in wartime often collide with strategic interests once the fighting ends.

More than one hundred years later, the events of 10 June 1916 continue to cast a long shadow. The revolt's achievements, controversies and disappointments remain woven into the history of the modern Middle East, reminding us that the end of one empire does not necessarily guarantee the fulfilment of national dreams.


fARTissimo #028 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

fARTissimo is what people do not see when they see a piece of expression
but what they project in what they think they see.

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A tragedy turned into everyone’s political weapon by Regan O'Sullivan

The case of Henry Nowak has left Britain with many questions but perhaps the most revealing aspect of the entire affair is not what happened. It is how quickly every political tribe rushed to turn a human tragedy into ammunition for its own preferred argument.

Within hours familiar battle lines emerged. On one side, Nigel Farage and a collection of hard-right commentators seized upon the case as proof that immigration itself is the source of Britain’s social problems. On the other sections of the left treated the incident as yet another opportunity to portray the police, security services and wider institutions as fundamentally incompetent, biased or corrupt. The result was a national conversation that generated plenty of outrage but remarkably little clarity.

This has become one of the defining features of modern British politics. Every event must fit an existing narrative. Facts are no longer examined first and interpreted later. Instead, conclusions arrive immediately, and facts are selected afterward to support them.

For Farage and his allies, the formula is familiar. If an individual connected to immigration is involved in a major controversy, the case becomes evidence that immigration policy itself is broken. Nuance disappears. Individual responsibility becomes collective guilt. The complexities of integration, crime, social cohesion and border policy are flattened into a single slogan designed to provoke anger rather than understanding.

Yet the reaction from parts of the left has often been no less predictable. Rather than focusing primarily on the circumstances of the case, attention quickly shifted toward institutional failures. The police were accused of incompetence. Security agencies were questioned. Broader claims about systemic prejudice and institutional collapse followed soon after. In some corners, the assumption seemed to be that every controversy must ultimately prove that authority itself is the problem.

The consequence is a strange political symmetry. The right sees immigration behind every failure. The left sees institutional failure behind every controversy. Both sides are frequently searching less for truth than for confirmation.

Meanwhile, the public is left wondering what actually happened. Britain deserves better than this endless cycle of political opportunism. Serious questions about immigration policy should be debated seriously. Concerns about policing and security should be examined rigorously. Neither subject benefits from being transformed into a reflexive ideological battlefield.

The real test of a healthy society is whether it can investigate difficult events without immediately turning them into symbols. That requires patience, evidence and a willingness to accept uncomfortable conclusions, even when they do not neatly support one's political preferences.

What the Henry Nowak case has ultimately exposed is not merely disagreement about immigration or policing. It has exposed a deeper problem in Britain's political culture. Too many public figures now approach major events as opportunities rather than responsibilities. They see headlines and hashtags before they see human beings.

That is why so many people have come away from this case feeling confused. They have been bombarded with competing narratives, each designed to serve a political constituency. What has often been missing is a genuine commitment to understanding the truth wherever it leads.

In the end, the tragedy became a mirror reflecting Britain's polarized politics. The far right used it to attack immigration. Parts of the left used it to attack institutions. And somewhere beneath the noise, the facts struggled to be heard.


D-Day’s misunderstood, misread and mispreached by John Reid

There was something deeply jarring about hearing U.S. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth use a D-Day anniversary speech in France to criticize European nations over migration and warn of what he described as an “invasion” on their shores. The beaches of Normandy are among the most sacred sites in modern democratic history. They are places where remembrance should unite people around the sacrifices made to defeat tyranny, not serve as a backdrop for contemporary culture-war rhetoric.

D-Day was a moment when democracies came together to confront a genuine military threat. Thousands of young men crossed the English Channel knowing many would never return home. Their courage helped liberate Europe from fascism and laid the foundation for a postwar order built on alliances, cooperation and shared democratic values. To invoke that legacy while promoting a political agenda rooted in nationalism and division feels less like honoring history than repurposing it.

The language of “invasion” has become a central feature of modern right-wing politics on both sides of the Atlantic. It transforms complex questions about migration, asylum, demographics and economic change into a simplistic narrative of national survival. The word is deliberately chosen because it evokes fear. It suggests armies rather than families, conquest rather than movement, enemies rather than human beings. Such rhetoric may energize political supporters, but it rarely produces serious solutions.

Europe unquestionably faces difficult migration challenges. Governments must manage borders, enforce laws and maintain public confidence in their immigration systems. Those are legitimate responsibilities. Yet reducing every migration debate to apocalyptic warnings about civilizational collapse does not strengthen democracy. It weakens it by encouraging citizens to see entire groups of people as threats rather than individuals.

Equally troubling is the increasing tendency among some political figures to fuse nationalism with a particular vision of Christianity. Faith has played an important role in Western societies for centuries, and millions draw moral guidance from religious traditions. But democratic governments are strongest when they protect pluralism rather than elevate one religious identity above all others. History offers countless examples of the dangers that emerge when political power and religious certainty become too closely intertwined.

The broader MAGA worldview that Hegseth appeared to champion often presents itself as a defense of traditional values. Yet too frequently that defense comes with hostility toward those who do not fit within a narrow cultural framework. Migrants become scapegoats. Religious minorities become suspects. LGBTQ citizens become symbols in political battles they did not choose. The result is not national renewal but a politics of exclusion.

What makes this particularly striking on a D-Day anniversary is the contrast between the message and the moment. The Allied victory commemorated in Normandy was not merely a triumph of military force. It was a victory for democratic ideals over authoritarian impulses. It affirmed that free societies are strongest when they reject politics based on fear, resentment and rigid notions of identity.

The lesson of D-Day should not be that nations retreat behind walls, real or metaphorical. It should be that democracies have the confidence to confront challenges without abandoning their principles. Leaders who stand on those historic shores inherit a responsibility to remember that distinction. They should honor the past by defending the values that made liberation possible, not by turning remembrance into another stage for division.


Robert’s ghost in state house by Eze Ogbu

Zimbabwe has always lived with its history but there are moments when history seems less like a memory than a tenant who never moved out. T...