By Moses Desire Kouyo – Editor & Correspondent
When the delegates of Zimbabwe’s ruling ZANU-PF party rose to their feet in the eastern city of Mutare last weekend, their applause was more than a show of loyalty, it was the sound of a country’s constitutional clock being reset. The resolution to extend President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s term by two years, if realized, would keep the 83-year-old leader in office until 2030. To some in the hall, it was continuity. To others across the nation, it was déjà vu: another chapter in the long chronicle of Africa’s unfinished liberation.
For Zimbabweans, the motion carried a heavy historical echo. Nearly half a century after independence, the party that freed the nation remains in chains of its own making, trapped between its liberation legacy and its inability to evolve into a democratic institution. Mnangagwa’s rise, fall, and resurrection within that party tell the story not of national renewal, but of the endurance of a political elite that refuses to loosen its grip on power.
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From Liberation to Longevity
When ZANU-PF wrested independence from white-minority rule in 1980, it did so under the moral banner of freedom and self-determination. But like many post-liberation movements across Africa—from FRELIMO in Mozambique to the ANC in South Africa and the MPLA in Angola, the promise of liberation soon became the logic of dominance.
The party’s control of the state became synonymous with the state itself; dissent was not opposition, it was betrayal.
Mnangagwa, known as Ngwena, the Crocodile. was forged in this crucible. A guerrilla fighter turned political tactician, he was long considered Robert Mugabe’s enforcer before he became his executioner in 2017. The coup that ousted Mugabe was dressed in the language of reform and constitutionalism. The world applauded, and Zimbabweans dared to hope. But hope, in this part of Africa, has a short shelf life.
Eight years on, the revolution has eaten its promise. The “Second Republic,” as Mnangagwa styled his rule, has mirrored the first, centralized, coercive, and allergic to accountability. Human Rights Watch and local civic groups have documented arbitrary arrests, media intimidation, and electoral irregularities. In the 2023 election, observers noted a process tilted heavily in favor of the incumbents. Yet, amid all this, ZANU-PF insists that the president is the custodian of stability.
Succession Anxiety and the Fear of Emptiness
At the heart of ZANU-PF’s push for extension lies a deep political anxiety, the fear of a post-Mnangagwa era. Power in liberation parties is rarely institutionalized; it is personalized. Without Mnangagwa, the party faces not just a leadership vacuum but the possibility of implosion. His deputy, Vice President Constantino Chiwenga, the general who engineered Mugabe’s ouster, harbors his own ambitions, and the rivalry between their factions has simmered for years.
The term extension thus serves a dual purpose: it buys Mnangagwa time to manage internal fissures and weakens his opponents’ momentum. It also sends a signal to Zimbabwe’s military establishment, the real power behind the throne. that civilian rule remains under its watchful eye. The coup within the coup, many analysts argue, is already underway.
The Liberation Legitimacy Trap
Zimbabwe is not alone. Across the continent, liberation-era parties have weaponized their revolutionary pasts to justify indefinite rule. In Angola, the MPLA has governed uninterrupted since 1975; in Mozambique, FRELIMO since 1975; in Uganda, Museveni’s NRM since 1986. The narrative is strikingly similar: the leader as liberator, the party as savior, and the constitution as an obstacle to stability.
This “liberation legitimacy” is a powerful political currency. It evokes nostalgia, commands loyalty among the old guard, and silences dissent through moral blackmail. But it is also self-destructive. For the generation born after independence, Zimbabwe’s Gen Zs, raised amid economic collapse and digital connectivity. the liberation myth has lost its magic. They crave jobs, rights, and opportunity, not revolutionary slogans.
The Vanishing Middle Ground
What makes Zimbabwe’s democratic backslide particularly perilous is the erosion of middle ground. Civil society, once vibrant, is increasingly constrained by repressive laws such as the Private Voluntary Organizations Amendment Bill. Opposition parties remain fragmented, especially after Nelson Chamisa’s resignation from the Citizens Coalition for Change (CCC). The judiciary, long politicized, offers little recourse.
Regional actors, too, have been complicit through silence. The Southern African Development Community (SADC) and the African Union, bodies that once championed democracy and human rights—now practice a doctrine of “non-interference,” even as their member states descend into repression. Stability, it seems, has become the new moral currency of governance.
The Crocodile’s Clock
In Shona mythology, the crocodile is a symbol of patience and stealth, lying still until the moment to strike. Mnangagwa has embodied that symbolism in both his survival and his governance. But time, even for the Crocodile, cannot be tamed forever. As he seeks to stretch his rule toward 2030, the question is not whether he can, but what will be left of Zimbabwe when he does.
The country’s economy remains fragile, its currency volatile, its youth disillusioned. Millions of Zimbabweans have fled abroad, forming one of Africa’s largest diasporas. Yet, at home, the party machinery hums on, celebrating extensions as achievements and repression as patriotism.
History, however, has a long memory. ZANU-PF may rewrite the constitution, but it cannot legislate legitimacy. As the clock ticks toward 2030, it is not just Mnangagwa’s legacy on trial, it is the soul of Zimbabwe’s democracy itself.
