Chapter 1: When Lies Graduate
If lying was a degree, Simba deserved a PhD, two medals, and a lifetime Wi-Fi subscription. This young man from Chiendambuya wasn't just a liar. He was the spiritual director of falsehoods, the chairman of unprovoked exaggerations, and the CEO of fabricated lifestyles. At twenty-three years old, Simba had convinced half the village he was a software engineer in the United States, while the other half thought he was a secret agent who worked undercover in Dubai malls.
In reality, Simba had never seen the inside of a plane. The furthest he had travelled was Mutoko Growth Point and even that required three lifts and a borrowed satchel to look like luggage. He still lived in his mother's two-room house, slept on a mattress that squeaked louder than his lies, and used a chipped phone that required exactly six slaps before it could open WhatsApp.
But Simba had a gift. He knew how to wear lies like designer suits. The boy could wake up in a torn vest, chew dry sweet potatoes, and still update his WhatsApp status to Just landed in Heathrow, jet lag is a demon. His keyboard was mightier than the truth. A single post and people across villages would start asking his mother if he could help them apply for passports.
The entire drama began when he photoshopped his head onto a body in a graduation gown from Harvard. The caption was simple, powerful, and destructive: To God be the glory. Within minutes, the photo went viral faster than gossip at a funeral. Aunties started forwarding it with long messages. The village headman's daughter even cried, saying she rejected him in Form 3 but now regretted everything.
Simba walked into the township the next day wearing sunglasses at 8 in the morning, chewing gum like a rich orphan from a Netflix series. Boys who used to mock him now asked how to apply to foreign universities. Girls who never replied to his texts were suddenly sending Good morning with heart emojis. One girl, named Lisa, even offered to wash his clothes for free, saying she wanted to connect spiritually.
But the peak of his career in fake life came when someone invited him to give a motivational speech at Chinyika High School. Simba, who once failed to define photosynthesis during an oral test, stood in front of Form 4 students talking about cryptocurrency, artificial intelligence, and how he once played chess with Bill Gates. One of the students fainted from inspiration. Another asked for his autograph using a pencil.
By now, Simba had created an entire digital ecosystem. He ran a fake LinkedIn profile where he called himself a Blockchain Expert and Global Strategy Consultant. His profile picture showed him in a suit standing next to a Range Rover. What the public didn't know was that the car wasn't his, and the suit belonged to his cousin who rented it out for weddings. Simba had stood near the vehicle in Harare, asked a stranger to take a picture, and then cropped out the real owner who was eating maputi behind the car.
Things escalated quickly.
A pastor invited him to church to give a testimony. Simba arrived late, of course, wearing a fake Rolex that ticked too loud and a cologne so strong it killed two flies midair. He told the congregation how he almost died in a helicopter crash in Brazil but was saved by a voice that told him to jump into the Amazon River. A woman screamed hallelujah. A man passed out. Someone sowed a seed offering of roasted peanuts wrapped in a handkerchief.
Simba now had fans.
He even had a nickname.
Doctor Wi-Fi.
Why? Because he always claimed to be connected to places no one could verify.
But as every great lie grows, it eventually develops a spinal cord and starts walking on its own. And Simba's lies had now begun to walk, run, dance, and do push-ups.
One day, while relaxing under a mango tree pretending to be in a video call with an imaginary German investor, a message came in that changed his entire life. It was from ZBC. The actual ZBC. They wanted to interview him for a youth program celebrating Zimbabwean excellence. Simba froze. His heartbeat started buffering. For the first time in his entire career of pretending, he couldn't lie his way out.
He ran home and started packing as if going somewhere would delete the internet. His mother found him stuffing t-shirts into a torn backpack and asked what was wrong. Simba mumbled something about urgent travel to Gokwe for a renewable energy conference. The mother didn't understand but prayed for his safety, as mothers do, and handed him a fried egg in a black plastic.
He didn't go to Gokwe.
He went into hiding.
For two weeks, he stayed with a friend in Murewa, turned off his data, and survived on maputi and Coca-Cola. But the internet never forgets. Someone tagged him in a post saying ZBC had found the wrong person. The real Harvard graduate was some guy named Tawanda who had nothing to do with Simba, and who also had no idea who Simba was.
People started connecting dots. Someone zoomed in on Simba's graduation photo and noticed the robe was facing the wrong direction. Another person found the original image online. The game was up. Just like that, the mighty Doctor Wi-Fi was reduced to a local comedian in national disgrace.
Simba returned home to find his name written on the community WhatsApp group as a cautionary tale. Do not believe everything online, they wrote. Some people are just talented in nonsense.
Lisa stopped texting. The headmaster from Chinyika asked for the motivational certificate back. Even the pastor deleted the testimony video and replaced it with one titled Beware of Internet Prophets.
But Simba was not one to go down without drama. He updated his status one last time. Sometimes God hides your location because your enemies are many. I'm in hiding, but not defeated. His fans didn't return. But his mother, sweet old Mai Simba, still believed in him. She even told neighbors he was on a top-secret mission with the Ministry of Technology. No one believed her, but they respected the effort.
So Simba sat one evening under the same mango tree, eating roasted maize and thinking about life. He looked at the sky, sighed, and promised himself he would change. But five minutes later, he opened CapCut and began editing a new video titled My journey in Canada, part 1.
Because if there's one thing about Simba, it's this.
He didn't just live life.
He lived FAKE LIFE.
Chapter 2 buffering like Econet network during peak hours. Stay tuned. It's about to get worse.