Tendai Ruben Mbofana
This evening, I watched a news bulletin covering the burial of the late Luke Mushore—another in a long line of ZANU PF officials interred at the National Heroes Acre.
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As expected, President Emmerson Mnangagwa was there, delivering the main address, flanked by the ceremonial solemnity typical of such events.
But as I watched him standing beside Mushore’s coffin, a flood of questions filled my mind.
What goes through Mnangagwa’s mind in such moments?
As he gazes upon the final resting place of a colleague, does he think about his own mortality?
Does he ever pause to reflect on the inescapable finality that awaits us all?
More importantly, does he ever consider what kind of legacy he himself will leave behind?
I don’t ask this to mock or deride.
Funerals—whether of a loved one, a friend, or even a political adversary—have a way of confronting us with the unavoidable reality of death.
In those solemn moments, I often find myself asking: “What will people say about me when I’m gone? What will I be remembered for?”
And I don’t mean the polite platitudes uttered out of cultural obligation.
I mean the truths whispered when the crowds have dispersed, behind closed doors, in the homes and hearts of ordinary people.
We Shona have a saying: “Wafa wanaka”—the dead are always spoken well of.
No matter what a person was like in life, we are expected to highlight only the good after they pass.
But we all know this is often a performance.
Behind the smiles and ceremonial speeches, the truth finds its way out—in whispers, in private conversations, and in history’s cold and unflinching memory.
For me, that’s not good enough.
I don’t want a legacy built on tradition-bound niceties.
I want to be remembered for something real—my principles, my humility, my unwavering stand for justice.
I want both my public and private lives to align.
I want to be known as a voice for the voiceless, a defender of the marginalized, someone who genuinely cared and lived out those convictions.
That’s the kind of legacy I strive to leave behind.
Which brings me back to President Mnangagwa.
As he stood at Mushore’s burial, praising the late politician’s life and service, I couldn’t help but wonder: did he pause to think about what will be said when he too is lowered into the ground?
Will the same empty ceremonial words be said about him—only to be followed by a flood of silent curses and resentful sighs from a broken, betrayed citizenry?
We’ve witnessed how Zimbabweans have responded to the deaths of political leaders in the past.
When Vice President Joshua Nkomo—affectionately known as “Father Zimbabwe”—passed away in 1999, the entire nation mourned.
From Mbare to Mutare, Gwanda to Gweru, there was a raw, sincere outpouring of grief.
This was a man who had earned the people’s love and respect.
He was not perfect, but he was revered for his humility, his honesty, and his genuine love for Zimbabwe.
Even those who didn’t agree with him politically couldn’t deny the admiration he commanded.
Contrast that with the reaction to the death of Robert Mugabe in 2019.
Where Nkomo’s funeral was marked by unity in sorrow, Mugabe’s death triggered something entirely different: celebration.
Many Zimbabweans rejoiced.
Cultural norms were abandoned.
The usual “wafa wanaka” veneer crumbled under the weight of decades of betrayal.
For many, Mugabe symbolized pain, oppression, and economic ruin.
His legacy—no matter how much it was dressed up in Pan-Africanist rhetoric—was one of tyranny and plunder.
And where was Emmerson Mnangagwa during all those dark decades?
He was there—an indispensable cog in the machinery of repression.
From the early days of Gukurahundi, to the violent elections, to the policy disasters that decimated our economy—Mnangagwa was not on the sidelines.
He was in the driver’s seat.
That’s what makes today’s reflections all the more tragic.
Instead of correcting the mistakes of his predecessor, Mnangagwa has doubled down.
In just eight years since taking over after a military coup, his regime has plunged Zimbabwe even deeper into despair.
More than 80% of our people now live below the poverty line.
Public sector wages have collapsed, and the reintroduction of a volatile local currency has obliterated people’s savings and livelihoods.
Hospitals lack even basic medicines.
Children in rural areas walk for miles to attend dilapidated schools without teachers or textbooks.
Load-shedding has become a cruel joke, and clean water is a luxury in most urban homes.
Yet the corruption that robs Zimbabwe of more than US$3 billion every year continues unchecked.
The looting of our natural resources, the siphoning of state funds through shady procurement deals, and the selling off of national assets—all carried out with a brazenness that is astounding.
On the political front, Mnangagwa has followed Mugabe’s script to the letter.
Elections are marred by intimidation, violence, and rigging.
The opposition is treated not as a competitor in a democratic process but as an enemy to be crushed.
Civil society is hounded.
Journalists are arrested.
Dissent is criminalized.
Is this the legacy President Mnangagwa hopes to leave behind?
Does he believe that future generations will see him as a liberator, a builder of the nation?
Or does he not care at all?
If he does care—and I hope he does—then surely he must recognize that power, no matter how absolute it appears, is fleeting.
History is not written by those who surround us in our moments of glory.
It is written by the people who lived under our rule, and it is cemented by the lives they led because of the decisions we made.
When Mugabe was eventually laid to rest, some went to Rufaro Stadium not to pay their respects, but to confirm he was truly dead.
One man even told a reporter bluntly: “I just came to make sure that the man who ruined my life is finally gone.”
That one sentence says more than a thousand history books could.
President Mnangagwa, that day will come for all of us.
When it does, no amount of state propaganda or choreographed funeral rites will change the truth of the legacy you will leave behind.
It will not be determined by the eulogies of party comrades or the honors you bestow upon yourself—but by the lived experiences of the people you led.
Did you make their lives better?
Did you listen?
Did you uplift or oppress?
Did you leave the country better than you found it?
Funerals are not just for mourning the dead.
They are an opportunity for the living to pause, reflect, and recalibrate.
I hope, for the sake of Zimbabwe, that President Mnangagwa is not too far gone in the intoxication of power to realize this.
Because in the end, when the speeches are done and the flags are lowered, only one thing will matter: the truth.
And the people always remember the truth.
