Every morning we look at the calendar,
We look not to check the date,
Not for the month,
But to confirm,
How many days could be left,
How many days,
Before the righteous devil takes him,
The one-time epitome of African Renaissance,
The now heavily expired dinosaur of African Patriotism,
A stubborn stain on the underwear of Africanness,  
We sit by radios,
We sit by television sets,
Every news hour,
And we buy papers every day,
In anticipation of the news,
The news that would throw the world into a frenzy,
The Zimbabwe News,
The news that would be the news,
The President is no more,
Finally.