There is an old proverb that says: a clever bird builds its nest with the feathers of other birds. It is a saying that captures both ingenuity and danger.
For when that clever bird decorates its nest with another’s plumage, it may indeed shine for a while — but it also carries the scent of those it has plucked. And the hawks, ever alert, come swooping, drawn not by admiration but by appetite.
In the theatre of our politics, that bird today has a name: the Sabhuku. A village head and once a Member of Parliament, he has now reappeared on the public stage, feathers borrowed, voice raised, announcing himself once again as a man of relevance.
But relevance built on borrowed feathers is a fragile illusion.
The Sabhuku’s recent behaviour — his public attacks on the General and, astonishingly, on the General’s wife — reveal less about the targets of his outbursts and far more about his own desperation.
It is a political gambit both transparent and tragic: the attempt to rise by clinging to the stature of others, to manufacture significance through controversy.
The Lost Calling of a Sabhuku
Traditionally, a Sabhuku is not a politician. He is an adjudicator, a custodian of community peace. His authority is moral, not militant.
He is the one who listens to quarrels under the shade of the msasa tree, who calms tempers, who mends relationships with words measured carefully like grain. His role is to unite, not to divide; to weigh truth, not to weaponise it.
But what we now witness is a Sabhuku who has abandoned the very spirit of his office. In place of wisdom, there is bitterness. In place of calm, noise. He is prosecuting instead of presiding, seeking not justice but attention.
In doing so, he has crossed from leadership into theatre — the sort of loud, self-serving performance that defines too many of our political players today.
A Record Written in Sand
Before one borrows feathers, one must ask: what happened to your own? For leadership, like plumage, is earned through toil. The Sabhuku once carried the mandate of the people as a Member of Parliament. It was no small trust — yet what remains of his tenure?
We search the villages and find no bridges bearing his name, no clinics that tell his story, no roads that speak of his service. His record is an echo, not a legacy. And in that emptiness lies the source of his newfound aggression.
For a man with no record must invent one, and in our age of noise, invention often takes the form of attack.
The people remember, Sabhuku. They always do. The voters you once represented now measure your words not against your wit, but against your works.
They see the gap between what you promised and what you delivered. And in that gap — wide as the Zambezi in flood — your credibility has drowned.
Borrowed Feathers, Borrowed Fire
It takes neither courage nor intelligence to hurl stones from the ditch of irrelevance. It takes no vision to attach yourself to someone else’s story and hope the attention rubs off.
Yet this is the path our Sabhuku has chosen: to ignite his fading political candle from another’s flame.
But fire borrowed from another man’s torch burns out quickly — and often leaves its borrower scorched.
Dragging the names of the General and his wife into the mud of political speculation is not strategy; it is self-sabotage.
For even those who might have once sympathised with your fall now watch in disappointment as you claw at the dignity of others. It is unbecoming of a man who once held public trust.
Leadership demands a certain restraint — the discipline to disagree without descending into insult, to criticise without cruelty, and to stand on principle, not pettiness. The Sabhuku’s current path betrays all three.
The Theatre of the Irrelevant
Our political landscape has too many who confuse noise for influence. They believe trending is the same as mattering. But social media fame is a fleeting ghost — it glitters briefly before vanishing into the digital wind.
The Sabhuku’s outbursts may earn him hashtags, but hashtags do not win hearts, and they certainly do not rebuild credibility.
The people can tell the difference between substance and showmanship. They know when a man is speaking truth and when he is merely performing it.
The more the Sabhuku shouts, the more his own silence from years past echoes back — the silence of unfulfilled promises, of neglected wards, of projects never begun.
If the Sabhuku truly seeks a comeback, he must first reconcile with his own record. You cannot rebuild your nest by scattering the feathers of others. The hawks are always watching, and they are merciless with the pretenders.
The Folly of the Short Cut
There is a lesson here that extends beyond one man’s ambitions. Too many of our leaders seek shortcuts to redemption.
They mistake controversy for currency, assuming that attention — whether good or bad — translates into relevance. But politics is not theatre; it is stewardship. And stewardship demands patience, humility, and proof.
The Sabhuku has chosen instead the path of provocation. He believes that by attacking the respected, he will be noticed. Indeed, he will be noticed — but not as he hopes. For the same crowd that cheers a scandal today will mock its author tomorrow.
In politics, borrowed light does not illuminate; it exposes.
The People’s Verdict
The people are not fools. They have long memories and sharper eyes. They know who worked for them and who merely worked for themselves. They know the difference between a builder and a braggart, between service and self-promotion.
When a man speaks too loudly about others, they ask quietly: What did he do when it was his turn? And when that question yields no answer, they turn away. That is the quiet but devastating judgement of the electorate — the rejection not shouted but whispered in the voting booth.
If the Sabhuku believes that attacking others will erase his own failures, he misunderstands the very nature of leadership. Accountability cannot be outsourced. Respect cannot be inherited. And legacy cannot be built upon resentment.
The Anatomy of Desperation
Desperation, like hunger, has a smell. It announces itself before a man even speaks. You can sense it in the Sabhuku’s tone — the forced bravado, the feigned outrage, the calculated jabs meant to provoke rather than persuade.
It is the language of someone who no longer believes he can rise by merit and so seeks instead to rise by noise.
But noise is not leadership. Leadership is quiet work — the laying of one brick upon another, the patient tending of relationships, the steady pursuit of progress even when cameras are absent. It is measured, not manic; reflective, not reactionary.
The Sabhuku’s mistake is to imagine that by attacking the General — a man of discipline, service, and stature — he can somehow absorb some of that reflected importance. But history is not fooled by imitation. It rewards authenticity and punishes the counterfeit.
Of Hawks and Scent
Let us return to the proverb. The clever bird may build with borrowed feathers, yes — but those feathers carry scent. The hawks smell it. They come circling, drawn by the odour of pretence. And when they strike, they do not discriminate between feather and flesh.
So it shall be in politics. The hawks of public opinion are ruthless. They swoop down on hypocrisy with precision. When the Sabhuku borrows others’ glory, he invites scrutiny not only of his targets but of himself. And under that scrutiny, his record will not withstand the heat.
He who builds his relevance on another’s name builds on sand. The first storm will wash it away, leaving only the bare truth: that the man who shouted the loudest had, in fact, the least to say.
A Call to Reflection
Sabhuku, step back. Before the hawks arrive, before the feathers fall, look honestly at your own wings. If they are broken, mend them. If they are few, grow them. But do not steal from others. Relevance built on another man’s name is the cheapest kind — and it never lasts.
Return to the spirit of the true Sabhuku: the fair judge, the quiet counsellor, the servant of the people. The country has no shortage of critics; what it lacks are builders. It has enough mouths; what it needs are hands.
The General and his family are not your ladder to climb back into politics. Their names will not shelter your ambitions. If anything, your attacks reveal only how far you have fallen — from leader to heckler, from adjudicator to agitator.
The Final Word
Politics, like nature, abhors pretence. The seasons always change, and when they do, they expose what was hidden beneath the feathers. Some nests endure; others collapse.
Sabhuku, if you wish to endure, rebuild your own. Do not rely on borrowed feathers, for they come with a scent you cannot control.
The hawks are already circling — and when they descend, they will not ask whose feathers you used. They will simply tear apart the nest that was never yours to begin with.
In the end, the measure of a leader is not in how loudly he shouts another’s name, but in how quietly he builds his own.
Dr Sibangilizwe Moyo writes on Church and Governance, politics, legal and social issues. He can be reached at [email protected]
