There is no joy for the corrupt as its a self-imposed prison

The news of Suleiman Carrim’s heart attack on the morning of April 13, 2026, serves as a chilling reminder that the wages of corruption are often paid in more than just currency.

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The North-West businessman was scheduled to face the heat of cross-examination before the Madlanga Commission of Inquiry within 24 hours.

Instead of answering for his alleged role in a R360 million police tender, he found himself in a private hospital bed in Sandton, fighting for his life.

While some may view this as a convenient medical escape, the reality is far more somber.

The human body is not built to carry the weight of a conscience heavy with deceit.

For those who live by the shadow, the sudden glare of the spotlight can be literally heart-breaking.

This is not an isolated incident of physiological collapse in the face of accountability.

History is littered with the bodies and broken health of those who thought they could outrun the truth.

When the walls of the Madlanga Commission began to close in, the stress proved too much for Carrim.

We have seen this pattern repeat across the globe.

In 2019, the former President of Peru, Alan García, chose a bullet to the head rather than face the humiliation of an arrest for his role in the Odebrecht bribery scandal.

In 2009, South Korean President Roh Moo-hyun jumped off a cliff as a bribery probe involving $6 million stripped away his dignity.

In India, the founder of Café Coffee Day, V.G. Siddhartha, vanished into a river, leaving behind a note that spoke of the “tremendous pressure” from tax authorities.

These were men who had reached the pinnacle of success, yet they found the air of accountability too thin to breathe.

There is a pervasive myth that the corrupt enjoy a life of unbridled joy.

We see them in the latest luxury SUVs, dining at the most exclusive restaurants, and building palatial mansions that dwarf the modest homes of the hardworking majority.

But this veneer of a high lifestyle masks a deeper, corrosive fear.

Corruption is, in every sense, a self-imposed prison.

While the honest man sleeps with his windows open, the corrupt man installs 3 layers of security and still jumps at the sound of a falling leaf.

Every knock at the door could be the police.

Every ringing phone could be a whistle-blower.

Every new headline could be the beginning of their end.

They are prisoners of their own secrets, trapped in a gilded cage where the bars are made of stolen gold.

This psychological torment is particularly evident in Zimbabwe.

Here, we have a class of the “Zvigananda”—the nouveau riche whose wealth is often inextricably linked to their proximity to the levers of power.

These individuals are not merely wealthy; they are terrified.

They understand that their lifestyle is not built on innovation or industry, but on the fragile foundation of political patronage.

They are the loudest voices and the deepest pockets behind the frantic push to extend the terms of those in power.

They fund rallies and lobby for constitutional amendments not out of a sense of patriotism, but out of a desperate need to buy more time.

They know that if the protector falls, the protégé is next.

Their support for the status quo is a survival mechanism, a frantic attempt to keep the gates of the prison from swinging shut.

Yet, as we have seen time and again, this is merely delaying the inevitable.

There is a profound truth in the Shona proverb, “Hapana chisingaperi”—nothing lasts forever.

Power is a transient thing, and the political winds that blow in one direction today will surely shift tomorrow.

Another proverb reminds us that “Rine manyanga hariputirwe”—that which has horns cannot be wrapped or hidden.

You cannot conceal the truth forever; eventually, the horns will pierce through the finest silk.

The corrupt are fully aware of this predicament.

It is why they sleep with one eye open.

Every day is a day of calculation and worry, wondering if their protector will remain in office or if the shifting sands of politics will leave them exposed.

When the protection finally vanishes, as it always does, the fallout is predictable.

We see them fleeing across borders in the dead of night, leaving behind the very luxuries they sold their souls to acquire.

If they are caught, the sudden onset of “trial sickness” is almost guaranteed.

The stress of being stripped of their immunity and forced to face the people they have plundered manifests as kidney failure, respiratory distress, or, as in the case of Carrim, a heart attack.

In the most tragic cases, when the shame becomes unbearable, they take their own lives.

It is a sad, hollow existence that ends not in a legacy of honor, but in a headline of disgrace.

I often reflect on the modest life I live and find myself overwhelmed with gratitude to Jehovah God.

I may not drive the latest cars or own multiple properties, but I have something the “Zvigananda” can never buy—peace of mind.

I enjoy each day without the perennial fear of a knock on the door.

What I have, as little as it may be, is rightfully mine.

There is no ledger hidden in a drawer that can bring me to book.

I can look any person in the eye, from the highest official to the lowest laborer, because I have never involved myself in the rot of corruption nor accepted the proceeds of someone else’s theft.

There is a profound, quiet joy in an honest life that no amount of stolen R360 million tenders can ever replicate.

Why, then, do people still engage in these acts?

The psychology of the corrupt individual is a complex web of ego and addiction.

It often begins with a single compromise, a small favor that seems harmless.

But corruption has a way of creating a “hedonic treadmill.”

To maintain the high of status and power, they must take more.

Soon, they are trapped by the “sunk cost fallacy”—they have done too much wrong to ever turn back, so they double down.

They develop a God complex, believing they are above the laws that govern ordinary men, until the moment reality strikes.

In the end, corruption is a bad trade.

It is the exchange of inner peace for external glitter.

It is the trade of a clear conscience for a heart that might fail the moment the truth is told.

No matter how many terms are extended or how many “protectors” are funded, the self-imposed prison remains.

True joy is found in freedom, and there is no freedom in a life built on lies.

The facade of the good life is just that—a mask over a face of terror.

It is far better to have little and sleep soundly than to have everything and live in the shadow of a heart attack.

• 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