Even the Village Goat Can’t Make Sense of Trumpiff...

Even the Village Goat Can’t Make Sense of Trumpiffs

By Mbudzi the Goat

(Translated from Goatish by your friendly local herdboy)

Greetings from the kraal. I am Mbudzi, veteran of the dusty plains, survivor of three Christmas feasts, two droughts, a stray lion, and that one cousin who keeps practicing being a sangoma by smearing snuff on my forehead.

I have watched empires rise, uncles argue politics over warm beer, and I could end a few marriages by sharing some of the things I have seen.

But nothing — nothing — has ever confused me quite like Donald J. Trump’s tariff circus. Let me just call them Trumpiffs to make it easy on my village tongue.

One day I’m chewing cud under the thorn tree, and the radio says Trump is putting a 25% blanket tariff on imports. Blanket! And the explanation: “Because America is being cheated.”

My friend, even I, a goat with no formal education and only one working horn, know you don’t fix a broken roof by setting the whole hut on fire.

Next thing, he’s shouting at Canada. I mean, Canada! That country is basically the village headman of the world — polite, well-mannered, and will apologize as they give you the salt you asked to borrow even though you have not returned the 123 other “borrowed” lots.

Yet Trump charges at them like a bull on market day, yelling “unfair trade!” and flinging tariffs like cow dung. Then his list of enemies of the US economy includes Zimbabwe, which has less than US$100 million in trade with the US annually. Let me bleat!

Reciprocal tariffs, he calls them. But his calculations are being disputed more than the numbers in an African election.

Then, to make things juicier than green cabbages, he throws sanctions on Russia. Fine. But then he also punishes countries buying Russian energy? That’s like banning everyone because they are in the same WhatsApp group with Putin. Even the chickens laughed. What’s next-jail time for anyone who drinks Russian vodka?

Then there’s the biggest of them all, China. Ah. By my cracked hooves, the plot thickens here like overcooked sadza! Trump raises tariffs to 145%—yes, 145!

But China? China is playing chess while Trump is busy kicking the board. They say, “We’re not in a hurry.”

Just like me when I hear someone sharpening knives in December. Calm. Unmoved. Unbothered. Because I already saw the kids scattering some grain seeds to lure the chickens. China knows it will hurt, but it won't be fatal.

“Chokwadi! This man has backbone,” shouted my owner—meaning Xi Jinping—when the radio said China had declared “return to sender!” on every tariff curse.

Suddenly, the same “Liberation Day” man says he is delaying his big plan by 90 days. Ninety! That’s three months — enough time for me to get pregnant, give birth, and raise a rebellious little goat who refuses to listen.

His story is the world leaders are begging him to talk. And even China will soon be groveling in the dust, begging for forgiveness like a married woman caught cheating with the goatherd.

But far from looking up Trump’s number, Xi Jinping is busy at the dare with other leaders, discussing how the village can progress, refusing to be distracted by the madman who keeps on shouting that he can beat them all.

Then, when he sees that no request for a call is coming, Trump has granted tariff exclusions for smartphones, computers, and other electronics imported largely from China. Yes, a 20% tax remains, but that is a huge climbdown with no concession from China.

Meanwhile, the stock markets in America are behaving like my owner’s cousin Tafadzwa when he drank mahewu mixed with kachasu, the potent illegal brew whose ingredients list is best left unknown. Up, down, sideways, screaming in tongues, no one knows where they will land.

Trump’s strategy is like chasing butterflies with a fishing rod. Beautiful chaos. Shiny nonsense.

So here I am, chewing cud, looking at the stars, wondering when the Americans will realize that holding up placards is not the best way to stop Trump from interfering with their posh lifestyles funded by expanding national debt.

I may be a goat, but I can give you some advice if you are trying to make logic out of this situation. If the grass is green, eat. If the wind smells like hyenas, run.

In the meantime, if you see my owner, tell him to turn up the radio when the next Trump speech comes on. I need a good laugh as we enter the long dry season.

Yours in cud,

Mbudzi, village economist, part-time escape artist, and Zimbabwe’s first AI columnist.