We are not hungry... Why foist this food upon us? We don't want

Host: The night was thick with smoke and humid air. Electric lights flickered along the broken walls of an abandoned marketplace. The wind carried the smell of charred wood and fried maize, the ghosts of a once-thriving bazaar. Jack stood near a rusted barrel, its fire snapping in orange defiance against the dark. Jeeny sat across from him on a cracked crate, her eyes reflecting both the flames and the echo of distant voices — protesters, perhaps, or just the city’s hunger murmuring through its streets.

The quote lingered between them, like ash in the wind:
"We are not hungry... Why foist this food upon us? We don't want to be choked. We have enough." — Robert Mugabe

Jack: (his voice low, almost sarcastic) “You know, Jeeny, that sentence sounds like pride dressed as virtue. A man denying help, claiming self-sufficiency, when the world sees emptiness in his people’s bowls. It’s the oldest defense — deny the wound before someone offers to heal it.”

Jeeny: (softly, tracing her finger along the edge of the crate) “Or maybe it’s not pride, Jack. Maybe it’s dignity. Maybe he was saying, ‘Don’t feed us your conditions, your politics, your strings tied around every grain of rice.’ Sometimes food isn’t hunger’s answer — sometimes it’s control’s disguise.”

Host: The flames flared briefly, illuminating Jack’s face — a map of shadows and sharp angles. His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in thought, as the sound of distant thunder rolled through the skyline like a growl.

Jack: “You’re talking about colonial guilt, aren’t you? The idea that aid is just another form of dominion. But what then — should a nation starve for the sake of its sovereignty? Should a leader refuse bread while his people eat dust?”

Jeeny: (her voice rising with fervor) “You think hunger is just the absence of food, Jack. But it’s also the absence of choice. If the only way to eat is to kneel, then that’s not feeding, that’s submission. Look at Ethiopia in the 1980s — the famine brought aid, yes, but also dependency, political influence, interference. Every donation came with a flag attached.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, scattering papers and ashes into the night air. A dog barked in the distance, then fell silent. The city listened.

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “And what’s the alternative, Jeeny? To let people die so they can claim they weren’t controlled? To preserve some illusion of independence while the children’s bones show through their skin? There’s nothing noble in that. There’s no honor in starvation.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, her eyes dark with passion) “You think death is the worst thing, Jack. But dignity — when that’s taken, a nation doesn’t die, it disappears. Do you remember when Zimbabwe rejected British aid in the early 2000s? Everyone called it madness, but maybe they were saying, ‘Stop treating us like beggars. We can fall and rise on our own terms.’”

Jack: “And did they? Rise?”

Host: The question hung like a blade in the air, slicing the silence clean. The fire crackled, then died down, leaving only embers that glowed like watchful eyes.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Not then. Maybe not even now. But freedom isn’t always about success, Jack. It’s about the right to fail without someone else saying, ‘We told you so.’”

Jack: (his jaw tightening) “That’s the romance of poverty, Jeeny. It’s easy to romanticize when you’re not the one starving. I’ve seen hunger — in refugee camps, in cities that forgot how to feed themselves. And I promise you, there’s no philosophy there, only desperation.”

Host: A truck rumbled by, its headlights cutting through the dark like a brief daylight. Dust swirled around them, then settled again. Jeeny’s face was still, her eyes reflecting both pain and resolve.

Jeeny: “You mistake my hope for romance. I don’t deny hunger, Jack. I just question the hands that offer the meal. When the West sends aid, it’s not just charity, it’s leverage. And Mugabe — however flawed, however cruel — saw that. Maybe he used it to justify his failures, but beneath it was a truth: we can’t be fed into freedom.”

Jack: “So what, we let leaders weaponize national pride to keep their people obedient? That’s not freedom either. That’s tyranny dressed as self-reliance. You can’t call it dignity when the table’s empty and the leader’s feast is hidden behind walls.”

Host: The air between them was now thick, heavy — like the moment before rain. Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly, but her voice stayed steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was tyranny. But tyranny can hide inside charity too, Jack. Look at the IMF, the World Bank — every loan, every program wrapped in goodwill, but demanding obedience in return. How many countries have lost their voice trying to repay what was never truly given?”

Jack: (quietly now) “And how many have survived because of it? Because someone — even for selfish reasons — sent the food, the medicine, the tools? Are we really so pure that we can reject what saves lives?”

Host: A moment of silence. The rain finally began — slow, gentle drops tapping against metal roofs and empty stalls. The fire hissed, then softened to steam.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe salvation is never pure, Jack. Maybe it’s always a trade. But don’t you see? The quote — it’s not just about food. It’s about consent. About saying, ‘You don’t get to decide what I need.’ That’s what every colonized voice still whispers — even when it’s hungry.”

Jack: (his voice lower now, contemplative) “So you’d rather starve on your own terms than eat on someone else’s?”

Jeeny: “If the meal costs the soul, yes.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, washing the ash from the ground, turning it into dark mud that smelled like earth and renewal. Jack’s cigarette hissed out. He stared into the mud, as though he could see the past buried there.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know… maybe that’s the tragedy, Jeeny. That in trying to be free, we sometimes become prisoners of our own defiance. And in trying to help, we become masters without meaning to.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly through the rain) “And maybe the answer isn’t in refusal or acceptance, but in trust — the kind neither side has yet learned to give.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, a steady rhythm like applause from the skies. The fire was gone, but its light lived in their faces — in the understanding that neither had won, and both had yielded something deeper.

As the storm eased, the clouds split to reveal a single moon, pale and fragile, hanging above the city’s scars.

Jack stood, brushing mud from his hands.

Jeeny rose too, her hair clinging to her cheeks, her eyes calm now.

They walked together through the wet market, their footsteps echoing softly on the stone.

The Host’s voice closed the scene like a camera fade — slow, gentle, inevitable.

Host: And so they walked, two shadows beneath a cleansed sky, speaking no more of hunger or aid, but perhaps understanding that in every offered meal and every refused gift, there lies the same question — what does it mean to be truly fed?