TARGETED CRIMINALS BACK: THE GREAT REGURGITATION OF ZIMBABWEAN POLITICS.
By Reason Wafawarova | Zimbabwean politics is not for the faint-hearted. It is a recycling plant for the unredeemable, a laundromat for reputational stains, and an endless conveyor belt of national déjà vu. Once labelled “criminals surrounding the President,” our fallen angels are back — with bleached reputations and creased suits — ready to ruin us afresh with recycled vigour.
Let’s rewind the tape.
It was May 1999 when Robert Mugabe, in a moment of delusional reformism, appointed a 400-member Constitutional Commission. Enter Jonathan Moyo, the Ford Foundation fugitive with enough verbosity to make a parrot seem reticent. By February 2000, Moyo had helped produce a draft constitution so unpalatable that Zimbabweans rejected it en masse — the first time ZANU-PF tasted electoral humiliation in a major vote.
Of course, Jonathan didn’t take the loss personally. No. He came out of that national rejection rebranded as the inventor of the term “protest vote,” cleverly recasting a devastating loss as a minor emotional tantrum by voters against their dearly beloved ZANU-PF.
After ZANU-PF barely scraped through the 2000 Parliamentary elections, Mugabe — in his usual panic mode — decided the problem wasn’t with his outdated liberation war dogma, but with the lack of technocrats. So he brought in the flamboyant Moyo and the ever-elusive Nkosana Moyo. One Moyo stayed. The other fled. Guess which is which.
Soon, Jonathan Moyo, now Information Minister, became a one-man government. He ran ZBC, controlled Zimpapers, colonised the music industry, and even ghost-wrote for other ministries. He made censorship an art, propaganda a science, and arrogance a virtue. His masterpieces? AIPPA and POSA — draconian laws that muzzled the press and gave police officers the legal right to arrest your future intentions.
But alas, power is a seductive poison. By 2004, Moyo fancied himself a kingmaker, backing Emmerson Mnangagwa in an internal succession bid. That gamble cost him his job and ZANU-PF membership. But like a politically possessed Lazarus, he returned in 2005 as an independent MP — and again in 2008 — before trading in his independence for a cushy ZANU-PF seat in 2010. Principle, you ask? Never met him.
Then came the creation of G40, a clique of Machiavellian misfits: Kasukuwere, Zhuwao, Mzembi, Chombo, and the indomitable First Shopper, Grace Mugabe. Together, they turned ZANU-PF into a dysfunctional family business with Grace as the attack dog and Bob as the dozing chairperson.
But in their quest to outsmart Mnangagwa, they forgot the army — a small oversight that saw them chased out in November 2017 by soldiers with guns and vendettas. The public was told it was merely a targeted operation to remove “criminals surrounding the President.” Turns out the targets were just competitors in the looting relay.
Fast-forward.
Chombo was the first to be rehabilitated — or rather, quietly de-radicalised and released. Jonathan Moyo, now a subtle Murakashi on X (formerly Twitter), is polishing his rhetoric and rehearsing for his second re-admission into ZANU-PF. That’s right, two-time expellee now applying for a loyalty discount.
Walter Mzembi is back too — after pretending to have cancer to dodge frivolous court charges for donating stolen TVs to Prophet Makandiwa. He has emerged healthy and re-energised, ready to dance to Mnangagwa’s drumbeats.
Grace Mugabe? Neutered, neutralised and nowhere near a microphone. Her Gucci dreams have quietly turned into Village funerals and perfunctory church donations.
Zhuwao has self-destructed, and Kasukuwere is next in line for either co-option or incarceration, depending on his mood and loyalty.
Mnangagwa’s strategy is not just political amnesia. It’s calculated tribal arithmetic. He is building a Karanga dynasty of Trababalists (translation: Tribal Balancers), marginalising Chiwenga and securing posthumous protection for his vast criminal empire. In Zimbabwe, thieves don’t retire — they strategise.
So here we are — again — watching the same rogues in a different episode, hoping for a different ending.
But we must ask, and ask boldly:
For how long shall we tolerate the rotating circus of failed politicians repackaged as saviours?
How long shall we pretend that corruption with charisma is better than corruption with crudeness?
How many times must the same chef burn our national dinner before we fire the cook?
Why are we so addicted to our own political abusers that we cheer their comebacks?
What has Zimbabwe become, if even national disgrace is a temporary condition?
Why do we allow the same recycled elites to treat exile like paid vacation, and return as “visionaries”?
Where are the new leaders? Or is politics now a family heirloom passed between cousins, uncles, and leftover cronies?
Can we not imagine a Zimbabwe that doesn’t involve Mnangagwa, Mugabe, or their political grandchildren?
Why do opposition leaders also start to look suspiciously familiar with time — more careerist than courageous?
And most importantly, what will our children say of us when they ask: “You saw the looters coming back… and you just shrugged?”
Zimbabwe deserves more than a political laundry service. We deserve leadership — not just warmed-over leftovers from yesterday’s failures.
So, dear citizen:
How long shall we keep swallowing the vomit of our own apathy?