Tendai Ruben Mbofana
It takes a certain level of constitutional gymnastics to argue that President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s term can be legally extended without tampering with the two-term limit prescribed by Zimbabwe’s Constitution.
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Yet this is exactly what Professor Jonathan Moyo has attempted to do, claiming that by amending the clause that defines the length of each term, the president’s stay in office can be “legally lengthened” without triggering a referendum or breaching the constitutional bar on serving more than two terms.
It is an argument that may sound clever on the surface, but upon closer scrutiny, it collapses under the weight of its own contradiction.
The Constitution of Zimbabwe is not a document to be toyed with for political expedience.
It is the supreme law of the land, designed to protect the people from precisely this kind of manipulation.
When the framers of the 2013 Constitution included Section 91(2), which disqualifies anyone who has already served two terms as President from seeking re-election, they were deliberately closing the door on indefinite rule.
They understood the dangers of personalizing power, having witnessed how the late Robert Mugabe systematically dismantled institutional restraints to cling to office for nearly four decades.
Section 91(2) is clear and unambiguous: no person may hold office as President for more than two terms.
But this term limit cannot be separated from Section 95(2)(b), which defines each presidential term as five years.
The two provisions are inseparable; the term limit is not an abstract numerical concept but one tied to a concrete duration of time—five years.
A “term” in Zimbabwe’s constitutional sense is a five-year period.
To alter that period is to alter the nature of the presidential term itself.
You cannot stretch a five-year term to seven years and pretend that the incumbent is still serving the same two terms as before.
It is no longer a question of semantics; it becomes an exercise in constitutional fraud.
Professor Moyo argues that such an amendment would not violate Section 91(2)’s term limit because the president would still be serving two terms, only longer ones.
He further contends that Parliament could effect this change through a two-thirds majority vote, bypassing the referendum requirement outlined in Section 328(7)–(9).
This reasoning, however, is both legally unsound and constitutionally dishonest.
It tries to do indirectly what the Constitution explicitly forbids doing directly.
Section 328(7) of the Constitution was designed to prevent exactly this kind of backdoor manipulation.
It provides that any amendment which extends the length of time any person may hold office shall not apply to anyone currently holding that office.
In simple terms, even if Parliament were to pass a law increasing the presidential term from five to seven years, Mnangagwa would be constitutionally barred from benefiting from that change.
It would apply only to future presidents, not to him.
Any attempt to make it apply to the current incumbent would require amending Section 328(7) itself—and that would automatically trigger a national referendum, because it strikes at the very heart of the Constitution’s democratic safeguards.
Even setting aside the textual barriers, there is the question of constitutional intent.
Constitutions are not mechanical documents to be read literally; they must be interpreted purposively, with attention to the principles and objectives they are meant to uphold.
Zimbabwe’s Constitution was crafted as a bulwark against authoritarianism.
Its spirit is one of limitation, accountability, and periodic renewal of leadership through elections.
Moyo’s interpretation violates that spirit by reimagining the Constitution as a pliable instrument in the hands of those who govern.
It is not.
To claim that lengthening Mnangagwa’s current term to 2030 would be constitutional because it does not technically alter the two-term limit is to engage in what constitutional scholars call “textual manipulation.”
It ignores that the substance, not just the form, of the law determines constitutionality.
If the effect of an amendment is to extend the sitting president’s time in office, then it is unconstitutional, regardless of the linguistic tricks employed to justify it.
The courts, if acting independently, would interpret the matter substantively, not mechanically, and would strike down such an amendment as violating both the letter and the spirit of the Constitution.
Moreover, there is a fundamental issue of democratic legitimacy.
The Constitution is a social contract between the people and those who govern.
Its most sacred provisions—those concerning the structure of the state, the exercise of executive power, and the tenure of office—cannot be changed without the people’s express consent.
That is why the framers embedded the referendum safeguard in Section 328.
It ensures that any attempt to alter foundational principles like presidential term limits must first be approved by the citizens themselves.
To remove the people from that equation, as Moyo’s argument suggests, is to strip the Constitution of its legitimacy.
It would amount to an elite-driven usurpation of popular sovereignty.
It is also worth remembering that Mnangagwa himself was elected under the current Constitution, which clearly stipulates a five-year term.
To later alter that duration midstream would retroactively change the contract between him and the electorate.
Voters elected him in 2018 and again in 2023 on the understanding that each term would last five years.
Extending that term to seven years after the fact would violate the principle of legal certainty and electoral fairness.
It would, in effect, be changing the rules of the game after the game has already begun.
The argument that such an amendment could be done through Parliament alone also ignores political reality.
Section 328(6)–(9) explicitly lists the types of constitutional amendments that require a referendum—those relating to term limits, executive powers, and the structure of the state.
Term duration falls squarely within that category because it directly affects the exercise of executive authority and the timing of electoral accountability.
Parliament cannot usurp that process without breaching the supreme law.
What Moyo proposes, then, is not a legitimate constitutional adjustment but a sophisticated form of constitutional subversion.
It relies on exploiting technical loopholes to achieve what cannot be achieved openly.
It dresses illegality in the language of legality.
But a constitutional democracy cannot be sustained by sleight of hand.
It demands fidelity not just to the words of the Constitution, but to its meaning and purpose.
Professor Lovemore Madhuku was correct in dismissing this proposal as unconstitutional.
There is no legal mechanism that allows a sitting president to remain in office beyond his prescribed term without a referendum.
The Constitution does not grant Parliament or the ruling party unilateral power to alter the political timetable of the nation.
Any extension of Mnangagwa’s tenure to 2030, by whatever means, would therefore be illegal and illegitimate.
Beyond legality, there is the broader issue of principle.
Presidential term limits exist not because leaders are bad, but because power itself is corrupting.
As Madhuku aptly noted, term limits are designed to restrain even good leaders from overstaying their welcome.
They ensure the renewal of leadership and the accountability of those in power.
To erode that safeguard in pursuit of political convenience is to undo one of the few democratic gains Zimbabweans achieved after decades of struggle.
The attempt to justify such an extension through constitutional wordplay betrays a deeper malaise within the ruling elite—a belief that laws exist to serve leaders, not citizens.
Yet the Constitution belongs to the people, not to ZANU-PF or to President Mnangagwa.
It cannot be amended at will to satisfy personal ambitions or factional calculations.
The idea that a sitting president can remain in power beyond his mandate, without consulting the electorate, is the very definition of authoritarianism.
If Mnangagwa believes he deserves more time to fulfill his promises, the Constitution already provides a clear path: he can step down in 2028 and allow his successor to continue his vision within the law.
Anything else would be an assault on constitutionalism and a betrayal of the democratic ideals that Zimbabweans enshrined in 2013.
Ultimately, this is not just a legal argument—it is a moral and political one.
Constitutions are written in the shadow of history, to prevent the repetition of its darkest chapters.
Zimbabwe’s was written to ensure that no one man would ever again wield unaccountable power for an indefinite period.
To now twist its provisions to extend Mnangagwa’s rule would be to spit on that legacy.
The courts, civil society, and citizens must be vigilant.
Constitutional subversion rarely happens in one stroke; it begins with clever arguments that appear harmless but slowly dismantle the guardrails of democracy.
Today it is the length of a term; tomorrow it could be the abolition of elections altogether.
Zimbabweans have seen this movie before, and they know how it ends.
Jonathan Moyo’s argument is a dangerous illusion—a mirage of legality masking the erosion of constitutional order.
It is not only legally unsound but politically reckless.
The Constitution is not a buffet from which leaders can pick and choose what suits them.
It is a covenant that binds rulers and ruled alike.
If Mnangagwa truly respects it, he will step down when his term ends in 2028.
If he does not, then his continued stay will mark not just the death of constitutionalism, but the triumph of impunity over law.
