By Captain Netanyau Justin
Zimbabwe’s ruling party, ZANU-PF, has long treated presidential succession as a stage for melodrama rather than a democratic process. Each time the possibility of leadership change arises, the party erupts into factional wars, constitutional tinkering, and exaggerated displays of loyalty — a performance that betrays the very principle that fueled the liberation struggle: “one man, one vote.” To understand why this pattern persists, one must first understand the party’s history, its iron grip on state power, and the enormous stakes that make succession so dangerous for those involved.
A Party Built on Control
Founded in 1963 as a breakaway from the Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU), ZANU was forged in the crucible of armed resistance against white minority rule. Its identity has always been inseparable from the liberation war narrative — a narrative it has since weaponised to delegitimise opponents and justify one-party dominance. After independence in 1980, ZANU-PF systematically dismantled political competition, most brutally during the Gukurahundi massacres of the early 1980s, in which an estimated 20,000 Ndebele civilians were killed by the North Korean-trained Fifth Brigade in what many historians describe as ethnic cleansing. ZAPU was eventually forced into a unity accord in 1987, effectively creating a one-party state in all but name.
This history matters because it established a political culture in which power is never voluntarily surrendered — it is only taken by force or crisis. Succession, in that context, has never been a routine democratic exercise. It has always been an existential contest.
Mugabe’s Final Act
Robert Mugabe’s twilight years were defined by bitter factional battles and a culture of political immortality. Having ruled Zimbabwe since independence, Mugabe appeared genuinely to believe that the nation’s destiny was bound to his own. His wife, Grace Mugabe, famously declared that even in death, Mugabe should remain on the ballot — a statement that epitomised the party’s treatment of presidential rule as eternal and non-transferable.
By the mid-2010s, two rival factions had crystallised within ZANU-PF. The G40 faction — so named because it was comprised of younger, post-independence politicians — rallied behind Grace Mugabe and sought to block the ambitions of the liberation war veterans aligned with then-Vice President Emerson Mnangagwa. The Lacoste faction, loyal to Mnangagwa, drew heavily on the security establishment and war veterans’ networks. The rivalry grew increasingly vicious, culminating in Mnangagwa’s dramatic dismissal as Vice President in November 2017 — an act that proved to be Mugabe’s fatal miscalculation.
Within days, the military intervened. Generals who had long protected Mugabe turned against him, placing him under house arrest and forcing his resignation after 37 years in power. What was dressed up as a popular uprising was, in substance, a carefully orchestrated coup by a faction that had lost patience. The military intervention of November 2017 was less a peaceful transition than a chaotic climax to a long-running crisis of Mugabe’s own making — and a warning that in ZANU-PF, succession is ultimately settled not by votes, but by power.
Mnangagwa’s Encore
Emmerson Mnangagwa, who assumed power promising a “new dispensation” and an open-for-business Zimbabwe, has since adopted strikingly similar tactics to those of his predecessor. The reform rhetoric faded quickly. Constitutional amendments in 2021 — passed through a compliant parliament — extended presidential powers, created a new layer of appointed provincial ministers accountable only to the president, and weakened parliamentary oversight mechanisms. Critics described the amendments as a constitutional coup in slow motion.
More recently, speculation about whether Mnangagwa intends to remain in office beyond his constitutionally permitted term, which expires in 2028, has reignited factional maneuvering within the party. Some loyalists have floated the idea of yet another constitutional amendment to extend term limits, mirroring the very tactics used in Mugabe’s era. At rallies, Mnangagwa has warned that those who “fan factionalism will be crushed” — language that echoes Mugabe’s own threats and reveals how little the underlying culture of ZANU-PF has changed beneath the surface.
Meanwhile, Vice President Constantino Chiwenga — a former military commander who played a decisive role in the 2017 coup — has made little secret of his own presidential ambitions. Tensions between the Mnangagwa and Chiwenga camps have occasionally surfaced publicly, including through pointed speeches and strategic deployments of loyalists within the security services. The unresolved question of who succeeds Mnangagwa looms over every political development in the country.
The New Cast of Characters
Several figures have emerged as central players in the current succession drama, each representing different power centres within and around the party.
Kudakwashe Tagwirei, the petroleum, mining, and agribusiness tycoon, has become a powerful political kingmaker. Sanctioned by the United States and the European Union for allegedly undermining democratic processes and facilitating corruption, Tagwirei has nonetheless deepened his ties to the ruling establishment. Vice President Chiwenga once accused him of using vast wealth to capture the party’s structures, a charge that speaks to the growing influence of business elites in shaping ZANU-PF’s internal politics. Analysts view Tagwirei as emblematic of a new faction of economic oligarchs challenging the old guard of liberation war veterans for decisive influence over the party’s direction.
Wicknell Chivhayo, known for his flamboyant displays of wealth and conspicuous public loyalty to Mnangagwa, has positioned himself as one of the president’s most vocal supporters. His theatrics — lavish donations of cars and cash, elaborate public declarations of devotion — are emblematic of the performative loyalty rituals that now define ZANU-PF’s political culture. Whether Chivhayo represents genuine political capital or merely reflects the patronage system’s excesses remains a matter of debate among analysts.
Ziyambi Ziyambi, the Justice Minister, has become one of the loudest voices pushing for constitutional changes to extend presidential term limits, despite having no credible electoral mandate of his own within party structures. A close Mnangagwa ally, Ziyambi has framed constitutional amendments in the language of national interest while critics argue he is simply securing his own position under an extended presidency. His prominence illustrates how succession debates within ZANU-PF are driven less by democratic legitimacy than by the desire to secure and preserve patronage networks.
Analysts Weigh In
Political analyst Ibbo Mandaza has argued that succession in ZANU-PF is not a process but a performance — each act designed to project strength while masking deep insecurity. Commentator Farai Matiashe adds that once succession is genuinely opened up, the entire edifice of patronage risks collapse, which is precisely why the party resists it.
These observations expose a fundamental contradiction: a party born from a liberation struggle for democratic rights now uses melodrama to avoid genuine renewal. But beyond the political theatre lies a more urgent question — what happens when the music stops?
The Stakes: What Succession Battles Mean for ZANU-PF and Zimbabwe
The ramifications of ZANU-PF’s unresolved succession crisis extend far beyond the party itself. They touch the economy, national security, regional stability, and the everyday lives of ordinary Zimbabweans.
For the party, the stakes are existential. ZANU-PF’s cohesion has historically rested on two pillars: the liberation war narrative and the distribution of state patronage. As the generation of actual liberation fighters ages and diminishes, the ideological glue weakens. What remains is patronage — access to state contracts, land, mining licenses, and positions. A succession contest that fractures the party risks dismantling the patronage network that holds it together. The 2017 coup demonstrated that when factions reach breaking point, even the military — traditionally ZANU-PF’s most reliable enforcer — can turn against a sitting president. There is no guarantee history will not repeat itself.
For Zimbabwe’s already battered economy, political uncertainty carries a heavy price. Foreign investors, who have cautiously re-engaged since 2017, are acutely sensitive to signs of instability. A protracted succession battle would almost certainly deepen capital flight, depress the already fragile Zimbabwe Gold (ZiG) currency, and stall the limited economic reforms that have been attempted. With unemployment estimated at over 80 percent in the informal sector and inflation stubbornly persistent, the economy has almost no buffer against a political shock.
For ordinary Zimbabweans, the consequences could be severe. A destabilised ZANU-PF has historically responded to internal weakness by tightening the screws on civil society, the press, and the opposition. The pattern is well established: when the party is threatened from within, dissent outside is punished more harshly. Civic space, already heavily constrained under the Private Voluntary Organisations Amendment Act and the Criminal Law Codification and Reform Amendment Act, could narrow further as factions compete to demonstrate loyalty through repression.
Regionally, a Zimbabwe in political crisis would create headaches for SADC and the African Union, both of which have invested diplomatic capital in presenting Mnangagwa’s Zimbabwe as a stabilising force in southern Africa. A messy succession — particularly one involving the military — would undermine that narrative and potentially destabilise cross-border trade, migration flows, and regional security arrangements.
The Liberation Struggle Betrayed
The liberation war was fought on the principle of “one man, one vote” — a demand for universal suffrage, equality, and the right of every Zimbabwean to choose their leaders freely. Yet ZANU-PF’s approach to succession systematically undermines that principle. Constitutions are manipulated, rivals are silenced, and unelected loyalists are elevated to push through term extensions that serve the few rather than the many.
The irony is difficult to overstate: a party that once fought for democratic participation now appears to fear the very act of voting when it comes to its own leadership. And it is ordinary Zimbabweans — the descendants of those who risked everything for the promise of self-determination — who bear the cost of that fear.
Curtain Call
ZANU-PF’s melodramatic approach to succession is, at its core, a performance staged to mask institutional insecurity. But history offers a sobering lesson. Mugabe’s removal proved that even the most entrenched leaders cannot indefinitely defy time or circumstance. The coup that ousted him was, in many ways, a product of exactly the kind of factional warfare now simmering beneath the surface of Mnangagwa’s Zimbabwe.
The question now is not merely whether Mnangagwa’s succession saga will end in yet another chaotic climax. The deeper question is whether Zimbabwe can afford another one. The country’s institutions are fragile, its economy is under strain, and its people are weary. Another convulsive transfer of power — engineered in the shadows rather than sanctioned at the ballot box — would set Zimbabwe back further still.
If ZANU-PF is serious about its legacy, it must finally honour the liberation struggle’s foundational promise: not the promise of one man ruling forever, but the promise of “one man, one vote” — freely, fairly, and without fear
Netanyau writes in his personal capacity.
