Donald Trump is what happens when a country mistakes loudness for leadership. He is a walking, orange migraine with a gold toilet and the ego of a demigod. A man who talks in loops, lies like it’s a reflex, and makes fascism sound like stand-up comedy…

And don’t come here telling me I’m Zimbabwean so I shouldn’t speak on American politics. My guy—America speaks on everyone’s politics.

With bombs.

With sanctions.

With Hollywood.

If they can export democracy with drones, I can export my opinion with diction.

Donald Trump is not just unhinged. He never had hinges to begin with. He is a cult of personality without the charm. A narcissist’s fever dream. A chaos engine.

You think Mugabe was bad? At least Mugabe could complete a sentence in the Queen’s English. Trump’s speeches sound like AI after a power surge.

And yet… people love him. Why? Because he gives them permission. Permission to be selfish. To be racist. To be sexist. To be scared and petty and proud of it.

He turned ignorance into identity. He made being uninformed feel patriotic. That’s dangerous. That’s nuclear-grade stupidity wrapped in a flag.

What’s even scarier? He’s not unique. He’s a symptom.

A symptom of a world where spectacle wins over substance. Where algorithms reward outrage. Where people are so tired, so afraid, they’d rather burn the system down than try to fix it. Even if they burn themselves in the process.

This man praised dictators. He encouraged coups. He stormed his own Capitol. And still, millions cheered. That’s not just on him. That’s on all of us—for building a world where charisma outweighs conscience.

Let me say this as someone from a country that knows what political collapse looks like: It never starts with bullets.

It starts with laughter. With jokes. With saying “he’s not that bad.” And then one day, it’s not funny anymore.

Trump is not a clown. He’s a warning. And America better listen—because we’ve seen this movie before. It doesn’t end with a wall. It ends with a crater.