I’m sure many of us have asked this question at one time or another: What drives Zimbabweans’ perplexing obsession with cars?
There is something deeply unsettling about the spectacle that unfolds daily in Zimbabwe, where cars have come to occupy a central place in our collective imagination.
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Wicknell Chivayo’s flamboyant displays — throwing cars and cash around as though they were candy, flaunting his luxury fleet, and parading private jets and even a small helicopter — have only amplified a reality that has long existed beneath the surface.
What we are witnessing is not merely the eccentricities of a single wealthy individual.
It is a mirror reflecting a profound weakness in our national psyche: an obsession with cars that runs far deeper than simple material desire.
To understand this obsession, we must first examine its historical and social roots.
Under colonial Rhodesia, cars were more than mere vehicles — they were powerful symbols of social status and respect.
While some Black Zimbabweans did own cars, the majority could not, largely due to economic constraints, limited access to finance, and structural inequalities in employment and wealth distribution.
Those who did were instantly recognized as part of a higher social echelon, and the possession of a car became a visible marker of aspiration, prestige, and social achievement.
In this context, cars were never simply tools of mobility; they were instruments of distinction.
Today, even decades after independence, cars continue to serve this function, albeit for different reasons.
For many Zimbabweans, a car is not merely a machine; it is a symbol of personal success and social status in a society where recognition and opportunity remain scarce.
The car is a public declaration that one has arrived, a visible proof that someone has transcended the limitations imposed by a dysfunctional economy.
Herein lies the deeper dimension of the obsession: in a country where the economy is unstable, wages are low, and formal employment is scarce, owning a car is an extraordinary achievement rather than an ordinary one.
In a functioning economy, cars are taken for granted — they are convenient tools of mobility, not objects of status or desire.
In Zimbabwe, however, the economic system ensures that cars remain relatively scarce and expensive for most, inflating their symbolic value.
This scarcity turns every vehicle into a marker of distinction and fuels the collective yearning to possess one.
This economic dysfunction also explains why, when people acquire money, their first instinct is often not to invest in a home, a business, or education, but to buy a car.
A vehicle promises immediate validation, instant social mobility, and recognition that other investments cannot provide as visibly or as quickly.
The car becomes a tangible way to assert presence and demand respect in a society where structural opportunities for advancement are limited.
It is this economic context that turns cars into objects of obsession, far beyond the logic of transportation.
Wicknell Chivayo has been astute enough to exploit this dynamic.
By giving away cars to musicians, socialites, and ordinary supporters, he taps into a collective hunger for status, turning material gifts into a tool for influence and manipulation.
Those who receive a car are suddenly elevated; their social capital is amplified overnight.
In a society hungry for recognition, the vehicle becomes a shortcut to status that few other tools can match.
Even those who have ostensibly “made it” — prominent musicians, influential religious leaders, and top ZANU-PF officials — are not immune.
For the wealthy, these vehicles are not about basic utility but about maintaining prestige, relevance, and social dominance.
A luxury car communicates power, affirms success, and signals influence to peers.
Chivayo understands this instinct and wields it expertly.
By offering cars to elites, he taps into their need for affirmation, subtly binding them to his influence.
Their public praise and visible participation in his spectacles are not acts of loyalty; they are conditioned responses to the status that cars confer.
In Zimbabwe, the obsession with vehicles creates a subtle form of control, ensuring both the poor and the elite remain responsive to those who can supply these coveted symbols.
The psychological dimension of this obsession is equally critical.
Zimbabweans, living in a society marked by chronic underdevelopment, cling to visible symbols of success as a form of compensation.
When opportunities for advancement are limited, conspicuous consumption becomes a method of asserting value.
Cars, because they are public and tangible, offer the perfect outlet.
They are a form of social therapy, a way to scream: “I matter!” in a system that too often denies ordinary citizens recognition.
Cultural showmanship further compounds the problem.
Zimbabwean society has long celebrated display — whether in weddings, funerals, church events, or political rallies.
Cars are perfectly suited to this culture of spectacle.
They are moving stages, symbols of prestige that broadcast achievement wherever they go.
When a convoy of luxury cars rolls through a town or suburb, it does more than signal wealth; it communicates influence, social dominance, and visibility.
Social media amplifies this effect, creating a feedback loop of spectacle and validation.
Videos abound of people humiliating themselves in the hope of recognition, performing absurd acts to praise both Chivayo and President Mnangagwa.
Women pour milk over their bodies while declaring Zimbabwe a “land of milk and honey,” and men sing ridiculous songs clad in little more than the president’s scarf.
These performances are not acts of genuine admiration; they are desperate bids for visibility, attempts to secure a car that promises instant elevation in the social hierarchy.
The obsession cuts across social strata.
Wealth, influence, or prominence does not immunize anyone from the lure of a luxury vehicle.
The wealthy can be swayed just as the poor are, highlighting how deeply entrenched the cultural and psychological significance of cars is.
Yet the root of this obsession is not moral weakness or vanity alone; it is the result of a systemic failure.
In a functional economy where opportunities abound, cars would be ordinary, accessible items — essential tools of mobility, not coveted trophies.
The fact that they are not readily accessible in Zimbabwe makes them objects of desire and instruments of social power.
A useful comparison is mobile phones in the late 1990s and early 2000s: at the time, owning even a basic mobile phone was a clear signal of success, as few people could afford them.
People made sure everyone knew they had one, flaunting it as a status symbol.
Today, with mobile phones widely accessible and far more sophisticated, this display has vanished — because when something is common, it loses its power as a marker of status.
Cars, however, remain scarce enough, due to Zimbabwe’s economic challenges, to retain that social and psychological leverage, explaining their outsized significance in our society.
The consequences of this obsession are profound.
Instead of investing in long-term stability — homes, businesses, education, or collective welfare — society becomes distracted by fleeting symbols of success.
Instead of demanding accountability and systemic reform from leaders, citizens cheer for those who temporarily soothe their hunger with material displays.
In doing so, we perpetuate a cycle of dependence, vulnerability, and exploitation.
Cars have become a currency of influence, allowing elites to manipulate admiration, loyalty, and obedience with ease.
Zimbabwe’s fascination with cars, therefore, is not superficial.
It exposes the hollowness of our development model, where dignity is no longer earned through citizenship, work, or rights, but must be purchased through possessions.
It reflects a society stripped of functional institutions and left to cling to symbols.
Cars, in this context, are more than metal and tires; they are instruments of power, tools for maintaining control, and, for many, proxies for self-worth.
Ultimately, there is nothing inherently wrong with owning a car.
Mobility is essential.
Comfort is human.
But when society elevates cars to the level of gods, when people measure their worth by whether they own one, and when even those who have already “arrived” are swayed by another luxury model, we have lost something fundamental.
We have lost our sense of self-worth, our long-term vision, and our dignity as a people.
Cars should transport us, not define us, yet in Zimbabwe, they have become the primary measure of value and the ultimate instrument of social hierarchy.
The path forward is clear.
Zimbabwe does not need more cars to restore hope.
It needs systemic reform, genuine opportunities for prosperity, and a society where cars are ordinary possessions accessible to all, rather than extraordinary trophies.
Leaders must create sustainable pathways for dignity and opportunity, and citizens must reclaim self-respect from the grip of material obsession.
Until then, our dangerous love affair with cars will continue to expose us to manipulation, humiliation, and exploitation.
Wicknell Chivayo is merely the latest figure to exploit it, but he will not be the last.
The challenge, therefore, is not the cars themselves but our collective psychology, our historical conditioning, and the absence of a functional economy that allows dignity without spectacle.
Until Zimbabweans learn to assert value beyond metal and horsepower, the road to true freedom and respect will remain obstructed by our obsession with four wheels.
In a country rich in talent, resources, and potential, it is ironic that we are still so easily moved, controlled, and distracted by something as superficial as cars.
The question remains: when will we finally value ourselves for who we are rather than what we drive?
TENDAI RUBEN MBOFANA - THE UN-OPPRESSED MIND! 