Zimbabwe does not march into 2028 as a democracy poised for renewal, but it staggers into the year as a battlefield where legality, legitimacy, and succession politics collide under the crushing weight of Zanu PF’s so‑called 2030 agenda.
What should have been a season of electoral accountability has instead been hijacked by constitutional vandalism.
The ruling party’s proposed amendments to extend President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s tenure beyond the 2028 horizon are not about advancing Vision 2030, nor about national development.
They are about survival, the desperate consolidation of executive power, the suffocation of succession debates, and the distortion of democracy into a grotesque parody of itself.
This manoeuvre is not visionary; it is reactionary. It weaponises the constitution as a partisan tool, erodes the sanctity of term limits, and entrenches a culture where rulers rewrite the law to suit their whims.
Zimbabwe enters this political year not with the promise of renewal, but with the stench of betrayal, a republic held hostage by a party that confuses its own survival with the nation’s destiny.
Zimbabwe’s 2013 constitution is unambiguous: the presidency is capped at two five‑year terms, no more, no less.
That covenant was meant to safeguard the republic from the excesses of personal rule and to anchor Zimbabwe’s fragile democracy in the discipline of constitutionalism, yet Zanu PF now seeks to vandalise this covenant, draping its assault in the rhetoric of “Vision 2030”, a technocratic smokescreen for authoritarian entrenchment.
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What is presented as development is, in fact, a calculated power grab.
The implications are stark. First, constitutionalism itself is eroded: term limits, once sacrosanct, are rendered negotiable, setting a dangerous precedent for manipulation by future leaders. Second, legitimacy collapses: Mnangagwa’s self‑proclaimed fidelity to constitutional order disintegrates under the weight of party resolutions that openly contradict his earlier declarations.
Third, succession politics remain paralysed: the elephant in the room since Mugabe’s era continues to haunt Zimbabwe, as leadership transition is treated as taboo, forbidden, and perpetually deferred.
This is not the language of renewal; it is the grammar of betrayal. It is political vandalism dressed in the sterile vocabulary of development planning, a cynical attempt to confuse national progress with partisan survival.
Since the November 2017 coup, the military has stood not as a silent institution of national defence but as the ultimate arbiter of Zimbabwean politics.
The security services, dominated by a gerontocratic elite of men who once fought liberation wars but now cling desperately to power, remain decisive in shaping the country’s trajectory. At the centre of this paradox sits Vice President Constantino Chiwenga, coup mastermind turned kingmaker, whose very presence embodies the fusion of barracks logic with civilian governance.
The alleged pact of 2017, whispered in corridors of power, promised Chiwenga eventual leadership of Zanu PF as the reward for his role in dislodging Mugabe, yet the proposed extension of Mnangagwa’s term to 2030 threatens to rupture that fragile understanding.
It risks igniting tensions within the military establishment, already restless and wary of being sidelined.
Retaliation may not come in the form of another overt coup, but through subtler instruments of power: fracturing the party from within, withdrawing the military’s tacit support, or quietly backing alternative candidates who can guarantee their interests.
Zimbabwe’s politics remain hostage to this barracks logic, a system where the gun dictates the ballot, where the promise of succession is perpetually deferred, and where the military’s shadow looms larger than the Constitution itself.
The failure of the so‑called Geza “revolution” and the pseudo‑opposition’s complicity in advancing Zanu PF’s 2030 agenda lay bare the hollowness of Zimbabwe’s democratic institutions.
What should be a Parliament of accountability has been reduced to a theatre of impotence, a sitting duck, emasculated, hijacked, and stripped of its constitutional dignity.
Opposition recalls, cynically engineered by Tshabangu and his enablers, have not strengthened democracy but instead advanced the ruling party’s project of authoritarian consolidation.
These manoeuvres reveal a brutal truth: Zimbabwe’s constitution is no longer treated as a national covenant binding citizens and leaders alike, but as a pliable weapon in the hands of a party determined to survive at all costs.
What masquerades as a democratic process is in fact political theatre, choreographed to eliminate dissent and entrench executive power.
The Geza episode is not a revolution but a counter‑revolution, a betrayal dressed in populist rhetoric. It demonstrates that in Zimbabwe, constitutionalism has been hollowed out, reduced to a partisan instrument wielded against the very citizens it was meant to protect.
Sadc now stares directly into a credibility abyss. Zimbabwe’s constitutional vandalism is not an isolated aberration; it echoes the authoritarian playbooks of Uganda, Cameroon, Rwanda, and Côte d’Ivoire, where strongmen have rewritten the rules of succession to secure their own survival.
If Mnangagwa succeeds in extending his tenure under the guise of Vision 2030, the regional bloc risks becoming a graveyard of democratic norms, a fraternity of liberation movements turned authoritarian syndicates, clinging to power long after their moral authority has expired.
South Africa’s ANC implosion should serve as a cautionary tale. Breakaways such as Cope, the EFF, and most recently the MK Party eroded the ANC’s dominance, forcing it into coalition politics and exposing the fragility of liberation‑era monopolies.
Znu PF may well face a similar fracture as internal contradictions sharpen, but here lies the difference: Zimbabwe lacks the institutional guardrails and the rule of law that cushioned South Africa’s implosion.
Where South Africa produced coalitions, Zimbabwe is more likely to produce chaos. The absence of credible institutions means that any rupture within Zanu PF will not lead to negotiated power‑sharing but to violent contestation, factional warfare, and the further erosion of state legitimacy.
Mnangagwa’s proposed extension may offer the illusion of short‑term stability, temporarily calming the restless factions within Zanu PF and postponing succession battles, yet this fragile equilibrium is built on sand.
By deferring the inevitable contest for leadership, the party risks igniting far more explosive battles in the future, as rival camps sharpen their knives and prepare for a confrontation that will be bloodier precisely because it was delayed.
Economically, the consequences are equally corrosive. Investors and international partners will not be deceived by the rhetoric of Vision 2030; they will see constitutional manipulation for what it is, a red flag signalling political risk and governance failure.
Every amendment that bends the law to suit partisan survival undermines the credibility of Zimbabwe’s development agenda, turning Vision 2030 from a blueprint of progress into a hollow slogan.
Most damning of all is the erosion of public trust. Citizens, already weary of broken promises, will view these amendments as yet another betrayal.
Instead of inspiring confidence, the regime deepens disillusionment, widening the gulf between rulers and the ruled. What is presented as continuity becomes, in the eyes of the people, a cynical power grab, a reminder that in Zimbabwe, governance is not about service but about survival.
The so‑called 2030 agenda is not a national development vision; it is a survival script for Zanu PF.
Beneath the rhetoric of progress lies a desperate bid to extend Mnangagwa’s tenure and shield the ruling elite from the inevitable reckoning of succession. In doing so, the party risks imploding under the weight of its own contradictions.
For the first time in its history, Zanu PF faces the prospect of fragmentation on a scale comparable to the ANC’s implosion in South Africa, where Cope, the EFF, and MK splintered the liberation movement’s dominance, yet Zimbabwe’s collapse will be far more perilous, for unlike South Africa, it lacks the institutional guardrails of law and constitutionalism to cushion the fall.
Zimbabwe’s democratic project now stands on the precipice of betrayal. These amendments are not constitutionally justified as they are nakedly expedient.
They entrench executive power, emasculate the opposition, and distort democracy into a grotesque parody of itself.
If pursued, they will not advance Vision 2030; they will bury it.
What was once framed as a development blueprint will become a tombstone for Zimbabwe’s constitutional order, dragging the nation into a future defined not by renewal but by instability, illegitimacy, and authoritarian decay.
The tragedy is that Vision 2030 could have been a rallying point for national unity and economic transformation.
Instead, it has been hijacked as a partisan weapon, a slogan to mask the corrosion of law and the betrayal of citizens. In the end, the 2030 agenda may not secure Zanu PF’s survival at all; instead, it will hasten its demise, as factions splinter and disillusioned members break away, potentially eroding the party’s traditional base.
What follows will not be coalition politics, as in South Africa, but chaos, a descent into contested power without the stabilising force of institutions.
Zimbabwe’s future hangs in the balance, and the choice is stark: constitutional fidelity or authoritarian decay. Zanu PF has chosen survival, but survival at the expense of the nation is no survival at all.
- *Wellington Muzengeza is a political risk analyst and urban strategist offering incisive insight on urban planning, infrastructure, leadership succession, and governance reform across Africa’s evolving post-liberation urban landscapes.
