Tendai Ruben Mbofana
There is always something suspicious when an authoritarian regime suddenly expresses concern over rising cybercrime and the need to “protect” its people.
When the Zimbabwean government, through the Postal and Telecommunications Regulatory Authority of Zimbabwe (Potraz), proposes to register every mobile phone handset in the country—supposedly to deter theft and secure mobile financial transactions—it is never just about crime or public interest.
There’s always something darker lurking beneath the surface.
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Potraz wants to establish a Central Equipment Identification Database (CEID) that tracks every mobile handset through its unique IMEI number.
This database, we’re told, will allow mobile operators to disable any device reported stolen or lost.
On the face of it, this sounds noble—something aligned with global trends, as seen in South Africa and Kenya.
But in a country such as Zimbabwe, with a well-documented history of weaponizing laws and state institutions to silence dissent, this move demands far more scrutiny than it is being given.
Let’s be clear: Zimbabwe already has mandatory SIM card registration in place.
Authorities already have access to subscribers’ identity information and call records.
Now, they want to take it a step further—linking every device itself to a name and profile, creating a new layer of traceability that opens the door to increased surveillance and intimidation.
The implications are immense, particularly in a country where opposition voices, activists, journalists, and even disgruntled ruling party members are routinely monitored, harassed, arrested, or worse.
This push for handset registration is not occurring in a vacuum.
It comes at a time when anti-Mnangagwa sentiments are growing—shockingly, even within ZANU-PF’s own ranks.
The ruling elite has become increasingly paranoid, realizing that their grip on power is no longer as firm as it once was.
In response, they have been threatening the enactment of a new “cyber use policy” meant to silence and punish those who dare oppose President Emmerson Mnangagwa.
In a recent ZANU-PF meeting broadcast on state-controlled television, senior party officials lied with astounding confidence, claiming the government already possesses the capability to intercept private messages on WhatsApp—despite the platform’s end-to-end encryption.
This was not an innocent mistake.
It was a calculated act of psychological warfare designed to intimidate ordinary Zimbabweans from freely expressing their dissatisfaction with the current leadership.
If people believe the government can read their messages, they will self-censor.
That is the real goal.
What the authorities understand is that fear is a powerful tool.
It allows an unpopular government to maintain power even as the country crumbles around it.
Over 80% of Zimbabweans are living in poverty, while more than 90% are without formal employment.
The country is bursting with natural resources, yet our living standards continue to deteriorate.
We endure 18-hour power outages, towns have gone for years without a single drop of water from their taps, and public institutions—schools, hospitals—are barely functional.
Thousands die from preventable diseases due to the lack of medicines, ambulances, or cancer machines.
Yet, while the masses languish in suffering, the politically connected elite—“Zvigananda”—live in obscene luxury.
Corruption is rampant, with over US$3 billion lost annually to illicit financial flows, smuggled minerals, and grossly inflated public tenders.
Transparency International’s latest score places Zimbabwe at a shameful 21 out of 100, making us the most corrupt nation in southern Africa under Mnangagwa’s watch.
This is the real source of public anger.
And this is what the ruling establishment seeks to mute with intimidating tactics masquerading as policy.
The proposed handset registration is likely just another tool of control—a way to monitor, or at least frighten, citizens into silence.
Once again, the regime will tell people: “We now know which device you’re using; we can track you down; we can read your messages.”
It doesn’t even need to be true.
The fear alone is enough.
This is not the first time Zimbabweans have been lied to in order to suppress dissent.
In previous elections, ZANU-PF and government officials shamelessly told voters that biometric registration enabled the authorities to trace how each person voted.
They claimed the voter registration number could be linked to a specific ballot paper, thereby identifying who voted for which party.
It was a lie, but a very strategic one—meant to terrorize voters into choosing ZANU-PF or risk retribution.
If they could spin such a tale around ballot secrecy, what stops them from lying again about mobile phone traceability?
Let’s also consider the comparisons Potraz is eager to make.
South Africa and Kenya may run similar handset databases, but the context is entirely different.
These are countries with relatively functioning democracies, an independent judiciary, and vibrant civil society spaces.
In South Africa, for instance, citizens can challenge government surveillance in court and win.
Journalists can investigate corruption at the highest levels without fearing arrest or abduction.
That is not the case in Zimbabwe.
Here, the lines between the ruling party, state institutions, and the judiciary are deliberately blurred to protect the powerful and persecute the dissenting.
In Kenya, the Central Equipment Identity Register (CEIR) is used to curb the importation of counterfeit devices and reduce handset theft.
Its implementation has focused on protecting consumers and securing mobile networks—not on intimidating citizens or threatening their digital privacy.
More importantly, there has been relative transparency in how the data is handled, and public trust in the process is considerably higher.
Zimbabwe, on the other hand, has no proven track record of safeguarding citizens’ data or respecting their privacy.
But let us assume, for argument’s sake, that the government is sincere about fighting crime—especially crime committed using mobile phones.
Even then, why would a whole new layer of bureaucracy be necessary?
Mobile Network Operators (MNOs) already register SIM cards as a statutory requirement.
Many of them also sell mobile handsets, especially through contracts or credit payment plans.
The government could simply work with these operators to enhance existing controls without creating an entirely new surveillance infrastructure.
If someone commits a crime using a mobile phone, the SIM is traceable.
So is the phone, through its IMEI, which MNOs already capture and store.
There is absolutely no compelling reason to duplicate this function unless the aim is political.
So why this push for a central device register, controlled not by independent institutions but by a government agency known for doing the regime’s bidding?
Why the need to go beyond what already works, unless the goal is to install a more direct line of control over citizens’ private lives?
It is precisely because this is not about curbing mobile phone theft, cybercrime, or protecting financial transactions.
It is about cowing a restless population into obedience.
It is about silencing outrage over the economic decay, the plunder of national resources, and the moral rot at the heart of power.
It is about preventing a fed-up nation from organizing itself—digitally or otherwise—against its tormentors.
The danger is not in the database itself, but in whose hands it falls, and with what intent.
Zimbabwe’s government has repeatedly shown that it will abuse any tool at its disposal to silence critics and entrench power.
Whether it’s a voter’s registration number, a social media post, or now a phone’s IMEI number—everything becomes a potential weapon.
We must not be fooled by the sugar-coated rhetoric of fighting cybercrime.
The regime’s true goal is not to protect the public, but to protect itself—from the people it has betrayed, impoverished, and oppressed.
- Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to WhatsApp or Call: +26371667700 | +263782283975, or email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com, or visit website: https://mbofanatendairuben.news.blog/