There is another miracle on Harare’s streets. Forget prophets, forget miracle money, forget even the “blessers” of Borrowdale — the true salvation now comes in the form of the free scan.

Stroll along Nelson Mandela, Robert Mugabe Road, or the theatre of hustles that is First Street, and you will be warmly embraced by this breed of pavement evangelists. Young, energetic, articulate — the type who might as well be selling life insurance — they descend on passersby with rehearsed urgency. “Brother, sister! Just one scan, free of charge!” they declare, as though they have been sent by the heavens to save you from certain death.

The lure is irresistible. After all, who can turn down free healthcare in a country where even paracetamol is a luxury? You are led, like a lamb to the slaughter, to the sacred contraption — a machine that looks like a photocopier which failed Form Four. It hums, it flickers, it beeps, and within seconds, it has mapped your entire medical destiny.

And what a grim destiny it is! According to the machine, your kidneys are on strike, your liver is on its last warning, your cholesterol levels are plotting a coup, and your blood pressure is rehearsing for a fatal finale. You arrived on your own two feet, whistling along the street; you leave convinced you are already halfway into the coffin.

But not to worry — salvation is at hand. Right next to the machine, neatly arranged like holy relics, are the miracle cures: herbal syrups, mysterious powders, and tinctures bottled in containers suspiciously resembling recycled Mazowe bottles. And yes, they will cure everything. High blood pressure, diabetes, arthritis, heartbreak, ancestral curses, bad luck in marriage, and perhaps even Zimbabwe’s economy if taken in strong enough doses.

There is, however, one minor catch. These miracles do not come cheap. Payment is in USD. Bond notes are treated the way kombi conductors treat old coins — with disdain. Your RTGS transfer is as unwelcome as a pothole on Samora Machel. No dollars, no healing. And before you even think of leaving empty-handed, you will be reminded, loudly and in detail, that you are dancing with death unless you buy something. Free exit, like the free scan, is a myth.

Now here is the tragicomedy of it all. Zimbabweans, who proudly call themselves Africa’s most educated people — holders of diplomas, degrees, and doctorates — are queuing up for this spectacle. We quote Shakespeare, debate Aristotle, and brag about literacy rates at every regional summit, yet we happily allow a blinking box on First Street to diagnose us with 19 fatal illnesses in under a minute. Perhaps our education has left us literate but not logical.

We live in a land where the hustler’s imagination knows no bounds, and the citizen’s gullibility has no ceiling. And yet, we are shocked when scams thrive. We whisper to ourselves, “If something is too good to be true, it definitely is,” but somehow forget that wisdom the moment someone offers us a free scan.

The final diagnosis? Harare itself is suffering from chronic gullibility, compounded by acute desperation. Prognosis: poor, unless treated with urgent doses of skepticism, common sense, and perhaps a repeat prescription of self-respect. Until then, the city will remain hooked up to the intravenous drip of hustlers who know that the most profitable illness in town is naivety.