What will Zimbabweans actually say the day Mnangagwa leaves office?

Tendai Ruben Mbofana

Watching Botswana Television (BTV) this morning has been a visceral, almost jarring experience for any Zimbabwean. 

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As the nation of Botswana mourns its former president, Festus Mogae, who passed away just a few days ago, the screen has been filled with a rare and beautiful spectacle: genuine, unforced, and deeply felt appreciation. 

Listening to the discussion panels, one could sense a collective awe for the man. 

They spoke of his humility, his formidable intellectual acumen, and his refreshing ability to admit when he got things wrong. 

There was a sincere call to name a department at the University of Botswana after him—not as a sycophantic gesture, but as a tribute to a man who truly moved the needle for his people.

Mogae was a leader who achieved monumental economic stability and social progress, yet he possessed the grace to honorably step down at the end of his two five-year terms. 

The tributes I witnessed were not stage-managed. 

These were not voices curated by a state apparatus to curry favor with a man who could no longer offer them anything. 

Mogae is late; there is no patronage to be gained, no promotion to be secured by praising him now. 

This was the authentic voice of a nation reflecting on a “man of the people.”

As I watched these scenes, a haunting question began to settle in my mind: Why do our own leaders in Zimbabwe appear so averse to such excellence? 

Why do they seem so unconcerned with leaving behind a genuine legacy that outlives their grip on power?

Let us be honest with ourselves. 

All the praise we see heaped upon our current President, Emmerson Mnangagwa, feels hollow. 

Whether it is a villager in the deepest rural reaches or a high-ranking Cabinet Minister, the script is always the same: a choreographed salute to the “visionary leadership of His Excellency Dr. E. D. Mnangagwa.” 

It is never sincere. 

It is a performance born of either paralyzing fear or a desperate hope for recognition and reward. 

We are living in a theater of the absurd where loyalty is a commodity and praise is the currency.

But have we not read this script before? 

For 37 years, we were inundated by daily praises of Robert Mugabe on the state-controlled broadcaster. 

We grew up on a diet of jingles and songs that deified him. 

His face was everywhere—on billboards, t-shirts, and party regalia. 

I remember the early 1980s, when I was still a primary school student in my hometown of Redcliff. 

I recall the trauma of being made to stand in the scorching sun for hours, lining the road to Zisco Club, waiting for Mugabe’s motorcade. 

When he finally arrived, he was a ghost behind tinted glass, a blur of sirens and security vehicles. 

We were told to sing and wave our tiny Zimbabwean flags until our arms ached. 

That day stayed with me, not because of the “glory” of the leader, but because of the exhaustion and the forced nature of the celebration.

Yet, look at what happened when he was forced to resign by the military in November 2017. 

The shift was instantaneous and ruthless. 

I can still see Reuben Barwe, the ZBC Chief Correspondent who had spent decades as the chief architect of Mugabe’s televised hagiography, suddenly appearing on screen to tell us that Mugabe was not a good leader after all. 

Suddenly, the “star rallies” we were told were evidence of national love were revealed to be characterized by bussed-in crowds, forced attendance by vendors and school children, and a culture of coercion.

The lesson was clear: the love for Mugabe was manufactured. 

After nearly four decades in power, he was vilified overnight and eventually forgotten. 

Today, he is a ghost in his own party. 

Even his birthday, February 21, designated as “National Youth Day,” passes by without his name being uttered by those who once swore to die for him. 

That is the inevitable fate of manufactured loyalty; it vanishes the moment it is no longer useful.

We are witnessing a repeat of this tragedy today. 

We see the same sycophantic praises for President Mnangagwa for every minor achievement—a food handout, a bag of agricultural inputs, a single borehole, or a resurfaced road. 

We see streets, university departments, and schools being named after him in a rush to cement a legacy that hasn’t even been earned. 

But does he not see that he is following the same path as his predecessor? 

Does he not realize that the very people singing the loudest today will be the first to denounce him the moment the scepter falls from his hand?

The reality of Zimbabwe today is a stark contrast to the Botswana we see on our television screens. 

While Botswana celebrates a leader who built a future, Zimbabweans watch as their national resources are looted by a handful of well-connected “tenderpreneurs.” 

These elites benefit from unprocedural multi-million-dollar public tenders and illicit financial transactions, reaching levels of shamelessness that are truly sickening. 

They flaunt their ill-gotten wealth with flashy cars, private jets, and helicopters, while their teenage children make adults dance for $100 notes. 

These Zvigananda dish out cash and cars like there is no tomorrow, even as Zimbabwe regularly ranks as one of the most corrupt nations on earth.

In this environment, the ordinary Zimbabwean has been reduced to a state of abject poverty. 

We are ranked 18th among the poorest people on earth, with over 80 percent of our population earning below the poverty line and nearly 50 percent languishing in extreme poverty. 

It is no wonder that our nurses, desperate and devalued, will agree to dance for a $100 bill. 

Our people are forced into informal trade just to survive another day.

The human cost of this failed leadership is measured in lives lost in underfunded, poorly equipped public hospitals where even basic medication is a luxury. 

It is measured in the long distances rural children walk to reach schools that are little more than makeshift pole and daggar structures, devoid of books or science laboratories. 

It is seen in the virtual non-existence of rural roads and the urban streets that have become a danger to our vehicles. 

We have gone for years without tap water, yet we are told we have the fastest growing economy in the region.

All these problems can be traced back to the rot of corruption. 

The wealth of this nation, which is undeniably vast, never reaches the ordinary person. 

It is intercepted by the gatekeepers of the “visionary leadership.”

Yet, we are told Zimbabwe requires constitutional amendments simply because these individuals supposedly deserve more years in power!

So, what legacy is our President truly leaving behind? 

Despite the stage-managed applause, what will Zimbabweans actually say the day he leaves office? 

Will there be the awe and appreciation we see for Festus Mogae? 

Or will there be a deafening silence, followed by the same swift vilification we saw in 2017?

The tragedy of Zimbabwean leadership is the pursuit of immediate glory at the expense of genuine greatness. 

A true legacy is not something you can force people to sing about; it is something they feel in their bellies when they are fed, in their hearts when their children are educated, and in their dignity when they can see their future. 

Until our leaders understand this, they are destined to be forgotten by the very history they are so desperately trying to write in their own favor. 

If the current trajectory continues, we already know how this story ends. 

It ends exactly as it did for Robert Mugabe: with the billboards coming down and the jingles falling silent.

• Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. To directly receive his articles please join his WhatsApp Channel on: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaqprWCIyPtRnKpkHe08