Zim News Blog -NEWS NETWORK

Tendai Ruben Mbofana

These are the questions that naturally arise when one examines the logic behind the Constitution of Zimbabwe Amendment (No. 3) Bill 2026.

If you value my social justice advocacy and writing, please consider a financial contribution to keep it going. Contact me on WhatsApp: +263 715 667 700 or Email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com

The bill is a fascinating piece of legal gymnastics designed to extend the presidential term from five to seven years.

The primary justification offered by the ruling party is the need for continuity and the completion of the president’s development programs.

While this is framed as a strategic necessity for the nation, it is actually the most damning indictment ever issued against ZANU PF by its own leadership.

By insisting that these two extra years are essential for the survival of national projects, the party is inadvertently confessing that it is an empty shell without one specific individual.

It is telling the world that it has failed so spectacularly in its duty to groom leadership that the entire apparatus of the state will simply cease to function the moment a new face appears in the State House.  ​

The rhetoric of continuity is a classic authoritarian trope that hides a deeper, more unsettling truth about the state of the ruling party.

If a political organization that has dominated the landscape for nearly half a century cannot find a single other person capable of overseeing the tarring of a road or the sinking of a borehole, then that party is functionally dead.

ZANU PF is essentially telling us that after forty-six years of power, they have produced no one else with the vision, the competence, or the administrative capacity to lead.

This is not a sign of strength or stability—it is a cry of institutional bankruptcy.

We are being asked to believe that the fate of sixteen million people is inextricably linked to the biological and political longevity of one 83-year-old man.

If that is true, then Zimbabwe is not a republic—it is a personality cult where the state is merely a personal extension of the leader’s ego.

Let us look closely at the “development programs” that supposedly require this constitutional surgery to survive.

We are told that road rehabilitation, the drilling of boreholes, and the issuance of title deeds are at the center of this push for an extension.

One has to wonder if ZANU PF is being serious.

Are they honestly telling us that the secret to mixing bitumen and laying gravel is held exclusively by the president?

Should we expect that on the very day a successor takes office, the steamrollers will suddenly run out of fuel and the workers will forget how to hold a shovel?

The sarcasm writes itself.

If road works are tied to a specific term of office rather than a national departmental mandate, then the government has already admitted that its ministries are useless.

A functioning nation builds infrastructure as a matter of routine governance, regardless of who sits in the highest office.

To suggest that a seven-year term is needed to “finish” a road is to admit that the road is a political favor, not a national right.

The same logic applies to the borehole drilling program.

We are expected to believe that the technical expertise required to find water in the Zimbabwean soil is somehow magically vested in the current presidency.

If these amendments pass on the pretext that the president must stay to ensure the water flows, what happens when he finally steps aside?

Does the water stop pumping in 2030?

Does the technology for groundwater extraction vanish into the ether?

ZANU PF’s argument implies that the entire nation is in a state of terminal incompetence that can only be managed by one man’s constant supervision.

This is an insult to the thousands of Zimbabwean engineers, geologists, and civil servants who actually do the work.

It reduces professional national service to a puppet show where the strings are only held by one pair of hands.

The issuance of title deeds is perhaps the most cynical example of this narrative.

Providing a citizen with a legal document that proves they own their land is a basic administrative function of any civil service.

It is a clerical task.

Yet, ZANU PF has elevated this to a feat of such Herculean proportions that only the current incumbent can navigate the bureaucracy.

If the party is truly telling us that this process will cease the moment a new leader arrives, then they are promising us a future of planned paralysis.

They are holding the property rights of the people hostage, using them as a bargaining chip to justify a longer stay in power.

It is a psychological trap designed to make the populace fear a future without a specific individual, when in reality, the strength of a nation should always be found in its institutions, not its personalities.

​What is the actual message being sent to the youth of Zimbabwe and even the younger cadres within ZANU PF itself?

The bill is a declaration that there is no one else.

It tells the next generation that they are viewed as unfit, incapable, and untrustworthy.

It tells the ministers and provincial leaders that they are merely seat-warmers who have no real agency or capability.

If the party’s own logic holds, then Zimbabwe is indeed doomed after 2030.

They are promising us that the moment the “continuer” stops continuing, the country will fall off a cliff into a wasteland of mismanagement.

This is a spectacular betrayal of the liberation struggle ideals that the party so frequently invokes.

The struggle was supposedly about the collective power of the people and the building of an enduring state, not the creation of a system where a whole nation is held hostage by the career ambitions of a few.

The move toward a seven-year term is a transparent attempt to insulate the leadership from the regular accountability of a five-year election cycle.

If the development being touted was truly as transformative as the state-run media suggests, the party would have no reason to fear the voters.

A grateful public would naturally reward a successful administration by voting for a successor from the same stable who promises to maintain the momentum.

The fact that ZANU PF feels the need to change the rules of the game in the middle of the match suggests they know their “Vision 2030” is not the success they claim it to be.

It suggests they are terrified that the public will see through the thin coat of paint on a crumbling wall.

The rhetoric of policy continuity is a tired cliché used by every administration that has overstayed its welcome.

Real continuity is found in a professional civil service, an independent judiciary, and a respect for the rule of law.

It is not found in the extension of a single man’s tenure.

If a policy is good, it will survive the person who initiated it.

If it requires a specific person to remain in power to avoid collapsing, then it was never a good policy—it was a patronage tool.

Zimbabweans are being told to fear 2030 as if it were a doomsday clock.

But the real danger is not what happens when a president leaves.

The real danger is what happens to a nation that loses its ability to imagine a future beyond its current ruler.

When a country stops believing in the potential of its next generation, it has already begun to rot.

ZANU PF’s current stance is a profound insult to the intelligence of every Zimbabwean.

It assumes we cannot see that a party that cannot produce a successor is a party that has failed in its most basic duty of political grooming.

If the nation is indeed doomed after 2030, it won’t be because a specific leader left office.

It will be because we allowed the constitutional foundations of our country to be dismantled for the sake of one man’s desire to “finish programs.”

We do not need a seven-year term, and we certainly do not need a narrative of institutional helplessness.

We need a country where the water flows, the roads are paved, and the laws are respected regardless of who holds the keys to the office.

Any party that tells you otherwise is not a party of development—it is a party of desperation.

The Constitution of Zimbabwe Amendment (No. 3) Bill is not a plan for the future—it is a plan for the permanent suspension of accountability.

It is a declaration that ZANU PF has no plan for the day after tomorrow.

If the party is telling us they are useless without one man, we should believe them.

We should believe them and begin the urgent work of looking for a leadership that actually believes in the collective potential of all Zimbabweans to build a nation that lasts for centuries, not just for the duration of a single term extension.

• 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

Tendai Ruben Mbofana

​The funeral insurance industry in Zimbabwe has long been shielded by the somber sanctity of death, operating within a space where grieving families are hesitant to question the cold arithmetic of their loss.

If you value my social justice advocacy and writing, please consider a financial contribution to keep it going. Contact me on WhatsApp: +263 715 667 700 or Email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com

For decades, companies like Nyaradzo and Doves have embedded themselves into the national psyche, marketed not merely as financial services but as indispensable cultural anchors.

The slogan “Sahwira Mukuru” suggests a best friend in a time of need, yet beneath the polished hearses and the professional veneer of “celebrating life” lies a structural exploitation that is increasingly difficult to ignore.

The current model, defined by life-long premiums and the absolute absence of paid-up status, is no longer a safety net.

For many, it has become a predatory drain on the meager resources of a struggling population.

It is time to ask the uncomfortable question of whether these policies are designed to provide dignity to the dead or to extract an infinite tribute from the living.

The fundamental grievance lies in the mathematical absurdity of the “everlasting premium.”

In a standard, fair insurance market, a policyholder expects a point of maturity—a moment where, after fifteen or twenty years of consistent contribution, the policy becomes “paid-up.”

At this stage, the individual has contributed enough capital for the insurer to cover the eventual risk while still turning a profit.

In Zimbabwe, however, the dominant players have historically resisted this evolution.

They operate on a model where a citizen can pay premiums for twenty-five years, totaling upwards of $5,000 in hard-earned currency, only to see the entire investment vanish if they encounter a three-month financial hurdle in the twenty-sixth year.

This “annually renewable” trap ensures that the client never truly owns their peace of mind.

They are merely renting it, with the threat of total forfeiture hanging over their heads until their final breath.

This lack of equity is not just a business choice; it is a moral failure that preys on the economic volatility of Zimbabwe.

In a country where currency devaluations and shifting employment landscapes are the norm, the “pay-to-stay” model is a weaponized form of loyalty.

The insurer knows that after ten years of payments, the client is “locked in” by the fear of losing their historical contributions.

They continue to pay, not because the service offers competitive value, but because the alternative is a total loss of decades of savings.

When a policyholder pays $5,000 over a lifetime for a funeral package that costs the service provider a fraction of that to execute, the transaction ceases to be insurance.

It becomes a massive, unregulated wealth transfer from the poor to the corporate elite.

The defense often mounted by these institutions is built on the concept of risk.

They argue that insurance is a “pooled” resource where those who live longer subsidize those who die early.

While this is a basic tenet of insurance, it fails to account for the lack of a “ceiling” in the Zimbabwean context.

In the funeral sector, the benefit is a fixed service with a clear market price.

When the total premiums paid by a healthy, long-lived individual exceed the cost of the funeral five times over, the risk argument collapses into a justification for profiteering.

Even when the insurer provides a cash payout, such as $600 alongside the casket and transport, the math remains a betrayal.

A payout of $600 plus a service package worth perhaps $1,000 still leaves the insurer with a staggering profit margin of several thousand dollars taken from a single policyholder.

The policyholder is no longer paying for risk; they are paying for the insurer’s sprawling real estate portfolios and corporate expansion.

Furthermore, the service-based nature of these policies is a clever way to obscure the actual value of the payout.

By bundling transport and a casket with a modest cash allowance, insurers dodge the transparency of inflation-adjusted payouts.

This lack of cash transparency prevents policyholders from realizing just how little they are getting in return for their decades of loyalty.

It is a system that thrives on the ambiguity of “kind” rather than the clarity of “cash.”

The Insurance and Pensions Commission (IPEC) has finally begun to stir, acknowledging the high “lapse ratios” that characterize this industry.

When industry data shows that over 4% of policies lapse annually, it represents millions of dollars in “donated” premiums that the insurers keep without ever having to provide a service.

This is the ultimate “free money” for the industry, harvested from the desperation of those who have fallen into financial hardship.

Recent regulatory shifts toward demanding “cash-in-lieu” options and “paid-up” clauses are a welcome start, but they face stiff resistance from an industry built on the assumption of infinite, non-maturing cash flows.

The regulator must move beyond suggestions and enforce a hard cap on premium duration.

If a person has paid the equivalent of the funeral’s market value plus a reasonable administrative margin, the policy must be declared paid-up.

Anything less is state-sanctioned usury.

The psychological toll of this system cannot be overstated.

Zimbabweans are a people who value a decent burial above almost all other social obligations.

This cultural priority has been commodified and exploited.

Families live in a constant state of anxiety, prioritizing the funeral premium over school fees or healthcare, terrified that the death of the policy will precede the death of the person.

This fear is the engine of the industry.

It is a cycle that keeps the population in a state of perpetual financial insecurity, funneling the “black tax” of funeral expenses into the pockets of a few dominant corporations that have become too big to fail.

As citizens become more financially literate, the exodus toward funeral cash plans and community burial societies is a natural reaction to this exploitation.

A cash plan that pays out a fixed, substantial sum allows a family to dictate the terms of the funeral, shop for the best prices, and keep the remaining balance to support the survivors.

This is a far more empowering model than being handed a pre-set cash pittance and a casket by an insurer who has already profited fivefold from the deceased.

The shift toward these alternatives is a silent protest against a model that has remained stagnant and extractive for too long.

​In the final analysis, the funeral insurance industry in Zimbabwe requires a radical restructuring of its social contract.

It is unacceptable for a service meant to provide relief in times of grief to function as a lifelong financial burden that offers no equity.

The industry must be forced to adopt maturity dates, surrender values, and transparent cash payouts that reflect the true value of decades of contributions.

Until then, the glitzy advertisements and the fleets of luxury hearses will remain a bitter reminder of the wealth being extracted from the pockets of those who can least afford it.

A funeral policy should be a shield against the costs of death, not a parasite that sucks the life out of the living.

• 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