Will Zimbabweans mourn or celebrate the passing of those in power?

The manner in which one lives their life ultimately follows them beyond the grave.

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of a well-respected member of our Redcliff community.

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As speaker after speaker took the podium—family, friends, church members, neighbours—one striking thing stood out: the unanimity of their testimony.

They spoke glowingly about the man’s integrity, his love for others, his quiet generosity, and his commitment to his church and community.

This was not the customary “wafa wanaka” politeness that often sanitises the memory of the departed in our culture.

It was sincere, heartfelt, and credible.

As someone who knew him reasonably well, I believed every word.

That experience stirred a deeper reflection about legacy.

What will people truly remember about us when we are gone?

Will their words be spoken from obligation, fear, or convenience—or from genuine respect?

A true legacy is not what a few admirers say while others hold a vastly different view.

It is broader than that.

It is the general consensus that forms over years, even decades, about who you were, how you lived, and how you affected the lives of others.

Of course, none of us are perfect.

No one can please everyone.

Even a thief can be remembered fondly by those with whom he shared the proceeds of his crimes, regardless of the pain inflicted on his victims.

On the other hand, Jesus Christ himself faced a crowd that shouted “crucify him” when Pontius Pilate asked what should be done with him.

Yet, despite these extremes, there is usually a prevailing judgment—a dominant truth about a life lived.

I was reminded of this again at my own mother’s funeral in October this year.

Speaker after speaker testified to how she had positively touched their lives during her six decades as a nurse.

They spoke of her compassion, her selflessness, her tireless work ethic, and her unwavering commitment to helping others—even during her decade-long battle with cancer.

These were not rehearsed praises.

They were sincere reflections of a life that had left an indelible mark across family and community.

Then came today.

In a WhatsApp group, someone shared news of the alleged death of a Chinese investor in Zimbabwe, reportedly struck by lightning.

What followed was sobering.

There was not a single message of sympathy.

Some mocked the death.

Others appeared to receive the news with thinly veiled satisfaction, even delight.

Why such a reaction to a human tragedy?

The answer, uncomfortable as it may be, lies in lived experience.

Many Chinese investors—particularly in the mining sector—have become synonymous, in the eyes of ordinary Zimbabweans, with gross injustice.

Communities have been forcibly displaced from ancestral lands.

Graves and sacred sites have been desecrated.

Rivers, mountains, and ecosystems have been destroyed.

Workers are underpaid and overworked.

Meanwhile, the communities from which these minerals are extracted remain trapped in poverty and underdevelopment, seeing no tangible benefit from the wealth beneath their soil.

These investors often operate with arrogance and impunity, shielded by powerful political patrons.

For people who feel powerless in the face of this exploitation, such news can appear as a form of “nature’s justice.”

It is regrettable, yes—but also revealing.

Which brings me to those in power in Zimbabwe today.

If news were to break tomorrow that a member of the ruling elite had passed on, how do they honestly believe Zimbabweans would react?

Would the nation mourn—or would there be celebration, mockery, indifference?

We should be frank.

Beyond the choreographed rallies, the state-sponsored propaganda, and the transactional praise flooding social media, how sincere is the loyalty on display?

History offers a clear lesson.

For nearly four decades, the late Robert Mugabe was portrayed as a beloved, even revered, national icon.

His rallies were packed.

His face adorned ZANU-PF regalia.

Songs praising “Gushungo” echoed across the country.

Yet when news of his death broke on 6 September 2019, the national mood was strikingly subdued.

There was no visible outpouring of grief.

No spontaneous tributes describing an unbearable loss.

Instead, many Zimbabweans responded with indifference, mockery, or quiet relief.

I recall a man interviewed on television at Rufaro Stadium when Mugabe’s body arrived, bluntly stating that he had come only to confirm that “the evil man was indeed dead.”

There were no songs of sorrow.

No poems mourning a fallen giant.

Instead, stories resurfaced—of massacres, repression, economic ruin, and millions plunged into destitution.

And this reaction did not begin with his death.

When the military moved against Mugabe in November 2017, thousands flooded the streets of Harare in celebration, dancing, singing, and taking selfies with soldiers.

The once-deafening praise fell silent overnight.

The Mbare Chimurenga Choir, which had long sung songs in praise of “Gushungo,” did not lift their voices.

Those who had sworn undying loyalty vanished just as quickly.

Mugabe was abandoned with breathtaking speed.

Days before the 2018 elections, a bitter, broken man appeared on television, vowing to vote for the opposition he had spent years persecuting.

He died in Singapore, estranged from the very country he had ruled as if it were his personal property.

It is therefore not difficult to imagine how Zimbabweans might react to the passing of those currently in power.

The manufactured loyalty would evaporate within hours.

Unless mourners are mobilised with handouts—boxes of chicken and chips—there would be little genuine grief.

How else should people respond when nearly 80 percent are trapped in poverty, over 90 percent lack decent employment, and millions are forced into a precarious, dehumanising informal sector?

What emotions are expected when those responsible for collapsing public hospitals—leading to countless avoidable deaths—are themselves gone?

And what are people supposed to feel when the ruling elite enrich themselves from looting national resources while the country burns?

How are citizens meant to react when those in authority drive expensive cars on neglected roads, turning a blind eye to overflowing sewage and basic public decay?

This is the uncomfortable truth that those in authority must confront.

Legacy matters.

Propaganda does not outlive reality, nor does it write history.

No matter how glowingly Mugabe was portrayed by The Herald, Sunday Mail, or ZBC for decades, history books will record the truth of his rule.

The same fate awaits today’s ruling clique if nothing changes.

Yet it is not too late.

There remains an opportunity to alter the trajectory of this country—and of their own legacy.

That requires confronting corruption at the highest levels, abandoning catastrophic, self-serving policies, and placing the interests of Zimbabweans above personal enrichment and political survival.

Only then can there be hope—not just for national renewal, but for a legacy that will be mourned rather than mocked.