I have not written in weeks. Not because I packed up my revolutionary spirit and sold it at the flea market for airtime and a Fanta, but because the world made it very difficult to keep believing that leftist politics is anything more than a stubborn hobby. Between my job as a marketing lead, curating events, juggling tourism clients, running a basketball association, and explaining to teenagers why travelling is not a personality, I found myself politically exhausted. Worse, I found myself scared to write. Not of trolls. Not of right-wing rage. But of my own comrades.
I have opinions. They are left. They are loud. And lately, they have been deeply unpopular. In a world where saying “Free Palestine” gets you treated like you called for the return of polio, where Labour in the UK punishes peace activists, and US Democrats beg billionaires for permission before forming sentences, writing as a socialist feels like preparing for public execution.
Meanwhile, the world keeps demanding balance. Balance between oppression and the oppressed. Balance between genocide and “complexity.” Balance between humanity and neutrality.
Yet I sat here, in Victoria Falls, watching elephants drink freely while millions of people cannot. And I wondered: When did it become radical to insist that people deserve dignity?
The Global Left Is Losing. Except That One Place.
Everywhere I looked, comrades were falling. UK Labour turned into a soggy managerial spreadsheet. US Democrats reduced themselves to finger-wagging yard signs about “decency” while rolling out red carpets for Wall Street. Germany’s Social Democrats performed electoral gymnastics to land on their faces.
And then there is Mexico. That wonderful, chaotic land where, against all odds, a leftist government called Morena not only survived but remained popular. Under AMLO and now Sheinbaum, they raised minimum wages, cracked down on tax evasion, built public infrastructure, and held televised press conferences every morning to talk directly to people.
Did they become socialist celebrities on Twitter? No. They simply governed.
Where the Western left manufactures vibes, Morena manufactures material reality. While progressives in London debate pronouns in corporate bio sections, Morena gave workers actual raises. While American liberals post “We Stand With You” graphics beside brunch selfies, Morena built railways.
Not perfect. Not pure. But functional.
My Problem With Western Progressives: Performance Without Power
Somewhere along the way, the Western left became allergic to winning. It turned itself into a cultural aesthetic, more concerned with appearing virtuous than building power. It replaced class politics with niche discourse, unionisation with university panels, and economic justice with Instagram pastels.
I cannot count the number of American progressives who tweeted “No war” and went quiet when bombs fell. Or British centrists who love diversity as long as Palestinians stay silent. These are the same people who would call Morena populist because they actually speak to workers instead of media critics.
I am not against identity politics. I am a Black African in Zimbabwe. Identity is not abstract to me. But identity without material justice is a charity gala, not a movement.
Why I Stopped Writing (And Why I Cannot Stop)
Silence is seductive. It offers safety. No arguments. No debates. No moral fatigue. I thought about quitting political commentary altogether. I could write about safaris. About sunsets. About lodges. Easy things. Uncontested things.
But then the news kept coming. Gaza. Sudan. Haiti. The hills of Congo. And soon I realised: silence is a privilege I do not possess. If I stop writing, I accept that politics has become a spectator sport. I refuse.
We must reclaim leftism from hashtags and return it to human need. To food. To housing. To wages. To life. Because nobody ever ate a virtue signal.
Morena’s Lesson: Less Swagger. More Substance.
What Morena taught me is simple: People will support the left if the left supports them. Not abstractly. Physically. With roads, wages, clinics, bridges. They did not win hearts with slogans. They won it with policy.
We do not need to be the loudest. We need to be the most useful.
AMLO called it Republican Austerity. I call it leftist sobriety. Cutting corruption so you can afford justice. Discipline, not vibes. Hard work, not hashtags.
From Victoria Falls to the World
I write from a country where organising is a sport of survival. Where dreams must navigate bureaucracy, borders, and power outages. Yet even here, hope persists. It is why our young people still march. Why our artists still provoke. Why we read, argue, and fight.
We are not done. I am not done.
Final Note: A Promise to Write Again
This is not a manifesto. It is a confession. I am disappointed, yes. But I am not defeated. I believe leftism can win. But only if it grows up. Only if it stops auditioning for applause and starts building for power.
I will continue writing, even if it gets me in trouble. Even if it gets two likes. Because someone, somewhere, is tired of being polite about suffering. And they deserve words that are not afraid.
Until then, comrades — organise, rest, and for the love of everything, stop letting centrists make you feel unreasonable. History was never changed by moderation.
If you read this far, congratulations. You qualify for a revolution. Or at least a nap.