In a gripping scene that could only be conjured from the darkest of political thrillers, Deputy President Kembo Mohadi took the stage in Harare's historic hollow halls, surrounded by crumbling masonry that seemed almost a metaphor for his promises. The ambience of absence hung heavy in the air, much like the unfulfilled pledges of the government's long-held vision of prosperity. “Today, I stand before you not merely as a figurehead,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing against the cracked walls, “but as a beacon of hope in these dilapidated roads that mirror our very journey.” The audience, comprised largely of local party loyalists and curious onlookers, clutched their scrolling phones in a collective gasp, half buried in social media feeds, undoubtedly searching for someone, anyone, who could adequately document this monumental moment. With the fervor of a man with one too many cups of political optimism, Khadi's promises fluttered through the air like confetti made of shredded dreams. “I pledge to pave our roads, restore our fallen schools, and fill our hospitals with life-saving supplies,” he boomed, punctuating each promise with an emphatic fist to the breastplate of his tailored suit, which bore the creases of years spent atop the plush seats of power. The audience, however, found it hard to contain its skepticism. Some even whispered about how the last promise made in these very halls was a long-lost dream buried under layers of bureaucratic inertia and corruption. “Ah, yes! At least this is consistent!” muttered one hoodie-clad skeptic with a narrow, ironic smile, earning the nods of fellow attendees who were struggling to swallow the gravity of their leader's exuberant claims. But as Mohadi transitioned from promises of infrastructure improvements to bolstered job creation, the palpable tension in the room began to dissolve awkwardly, like cheap laundry detergent in murky water. “We will create jobs! Thousands of them! Believe me!” he insisted, waving his hands with the urgency of one trying to summon a genie from a bottle. A nearby citizen, burdened by the recent memories of job cuts and factory closures, wholeheartedly pondered if “thousands of jobs” equated to more virtual paperwork for the already overworked civil servants or perhaps a few more offered positions in the ‘ubiquitous waitlist’ of government employment. The speech reached a fever pitch when Mohadi finally gripped the microphone with the seriousness of a man wielding the fate of the nation. “Together, we will rebuild our dreams and create a future we can be proud of!” His voice cracked slightly—whether from emotion or the toll of years spent swallowing his own rhetoric remained unclear. Outside, the crowds trickled back into the desolate streets, where potholes served as a painful reminder of the hollow promises they had just witnessed. “I guess those shattered dreams will have to make do with a double helping of dilapidated roads for breakfast!” one disillusioned citizen jested, cackling to friends who had long since abandoned the idea of fairy-tale governance. In closing, the evening ended not with applause or cheers, but with the gentle sound of resignation, mingled with fleeting hopes. As the leaders traipsed away to their plush offices equipped with nice chairs, the world outside remained resolute in its journey along uneven and neglected paths, riddled with the broken promises of dreamers whose plans always seemed a step forward, but somehow, inexplicably, always two steps back.