Are we so used to repression in Zimbabwe that we now accept oppression as normal?

 

Yesterday, I watched a deeply unsettling video circulating on social media.

It featured the Member of Parliament for Epworth, Scott Sakupwana, confidently bragging about his vast wealth, earned through gold dealing.

What made the video all the more shocking was Sakupwana’s blatant reference to the term “Gold Mafia,” an apparent nod to his association with the infamous Al Jazeera investigative documentary of the same name.

That documentary exposed a sprawling web of gold smuggling and money laundering in Zimbabwe, implicating powerful figures and their close allies—including Sakupwana himself.

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What struck me even more than his brazen self-congratulation was the reaction of those surrounding him.

These were clearly impoverished residents of Epworth, one of the most underdeveloped and destitute communities in the country.

Yet, instead of confronting their representative with questions or outrage over his apparent looting of national resources, they erupted in cheers and applause.

They supported him wholeheartedly as he declared there was nothing wrong with amassing riches through “gold mafia” dealings—as long as he “shared” this wealth with them.

I was floored.

How exactly was Sakupwana sharing the millions of dollars he claimed to have accumulated—largely through his exclusive license to trade in Zimbabwe’s gold—when Epworth remains a picture of deprivation?

This community still suffers from a lack of electricity, potable water, decent schools and hospitals, proper housing, and even functional roads.

The constituency has little to show for the supposed generosity of its opulent representative.

So how was this “wealth sharing” manifesting in tangible ways for the people?

That, however, was not what troubled me the most.

What left me dumbfounded was the enthusiastic support of these obviously struggling citizens for a man who had no qualms about openly flaunting wealth gained through dubious means.

Why did these residents, who bear the brunt of Zimbabwe’s economic collapse, not express indignation but instead cheer for their oppressor?

Initially, I tried to brush it off.

But then today, I read another disturbing report—this time about the Masvingo Minister of State for Provincial Affairs and Devolution, Ezra Chadzamira.

He reportedly gave his daughter a lavish gift of US$20,000 at her wedding.

Again, this takes place in a country where over 80% of the population lives in poverty and more than 90% is unemployed.

Zimbabwe’s public hospitals are in tatters, often lacking the most basic medicines like paracetamol—let alone functioning cancer machines, dialysis units, or ambulances.

Thousands die needlessly each year because the health system has all but collapsed.

Yet, a senior government official sees no moral dilemma in splashing this kind of money on a personal event.

The question is: did anyone in attendance at this wedding think this extravagant gift was inappropriate?

Did any ordinary citizen from Masvingo feel something was terribly wrong with this display of excess in a country groaning under poverty?

Or, as is too often the case, did they simply shrug and rationalize it: “But he’s a cabinet minister, he has money”?

Do we ever pause and question how it became so “normal” for government ministers to be unimaginably wealthy in a country where millions struggle daily to survive?

Do we not see anything wrong with this disturbing contradiction?

This is reminiscent of the antics of controversial businessman Wicknell Chivayo, who showers luxury vehicles like confetti upon already wealthy public figures—celebrities, musicians, religious leaders, and ruling party elites.

Again, these spectacles are not met with disgust or resistance, but with applause and praise.

The people revere him as some sort of savior, ignoring or excusing the clear connection between his obscene wealth and the corrupt systems that bleed the nation dry.

I am reminded of an experience from my childhood that has remained etched in my mind for nearly five decades.

In 1979, during the dying days of colonial Rhodesia, I was a six-year-old boy living in Torwood township.

Every time we drove past the then-white suburb of Redcliff, I was struck by the contrast between the leafy, clean, affluent neighborhood and the lower standards of our township.

One day, I finally asked why the whites lived in such comfort while we lived in poverty.

The answer I got was staggering in its simplicity: “Because they are white.”

That response devastated me.

It revealed a painful truth—that black people had, after decades of racial subjugation and segregation, internalized their oppression.

They genuinely believed whites were entitled to better lives simply because of their skin color.

The deep psychological scars of colonialism had rendered the oppressed unable to even recognize injustice, let alone challenge it.

Today, I fear we are witnessing a similar phenomenon.

Except now, it is not race that justifies inequality—but political power.

Zimbabweans appear to believe that those in power deserve their wealth, even if it is stolen, because they hold office.

This is why Sakupwana’s supporters cheered him.

This is why Chadzamira’s $20,000 wedding gift was met with admiration instead of anger.

This is why Chivayo is adored rather than held to account.

After decades of authoritarianism, economic decline, and propaganda, have Zimbabweans become so desensitized to suffering that we now see poverty as normal and wealth—no matter how illicit—as a symbol of success to be celebrated?

Have we reached a point where we can no longer distinguish between our liberators and our oppressors?

This acceptance of injustice is deeply troubling.

It may explain why we rarely stand up for ourselves, why protests are few and far between, and why we continue to elect or tolerate leaders who enrich themselves while offering us nothing but slogans and poverty.

Just like in colonial times, we have been conditioned to believe that some people are simply destined to live better lives than others—now not because of race, but because of political connection.

We are suffering from a kind of collective learned helplessness, a psychological surrender to the belief that nothing can change.

And in that void, those who exploit us grow bolder, richer, and more powerful, while we grow more docile, passive, and impoverished.

It is time to confront this painful truth: unless we unlearn this dangerous normalization of oppression, we will continue to cheer for those who rob us and clap for those who keep us poor.

Change will never come from leaders who benefit from our silence.

It will only come when we stop applauding their wealth and start questioning its source—when we stop seeing poverty as our destiny and start demanding what is rightfully ours.

Only then will we begin to reclaim the dignity and justice that we so richly deserve.

• Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to WhatsApp or Call: +263715667700 | +263782283975, or email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com, or visit website: https://mbofanatendairuben.news.blog/