Tendai Ruben Mbofana
When a tragedy like the Kariba ferry disaster strikes, taking precious lives and exposing the appalling state of safety infrastructure in our country, a familiar and agonizing quiet settles over a specific class of citizens.
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The flamboyant figures who dominate social media feeds on any given week—parading stacks of US dollars, handing luxury vehicles to musicians, and doling out gifts to popular religious leaders—are suddenly nowhere to be seen.
One might wonder why individuals who clearly possess vast financial resources and a desperate thirst for public attention do not jump at the chance to play the savior when genuine disaster strikes.
Besides, do they not style themselves as ‘philanthropists’?
The answer lies in a calculated strategy of self-preservation, political alignment, and psychological distraction.
The term Zvigananda has come to describe this elite class of ostentatious spenders whose wealth is often deeply entangled with state patronage and political connections.
For these individuals, stepping into a disaster zone with open wallets is not a heroic public relations opportunity; it is a minefield of immense political risk.
To publicly finance search-and-rescue equipment, buy basic life-saving gear, or compensate grieving families would directly illuminate the catastrophic failures of the state.
It would be a implicit admission that the institutions responsible for civil protection, public safety, and basic infrastructure are thoroughly decayed.
For someone whose privilege depends entirely on remaining in the good graces of the ruling establishment, acting as a surrogate government in times of national crisis is an uncomfortable, dangerous critique.
Giving aid to disaster victims inadvertently answers a question the regime does not want asked: why was the public authority unable to protect its own people in the first place?
The same unpalatable truth applies across every facet of basic service delivery.
To step in and drill boreholes, repair crumbling schools, or restock empty hospital wards is to expose a state that has effectively abdicated its most fundamental duties.
Every act of private rescue in public crises serves only to highlight the abysmal collapse of civic infrastructure that leaves citizens vulnerable long before tragedy strikes.
Nonetheless, handing a luxury vehicle to an influencer or a mega-church leader carries no such danger.
It is politically safe, devoid of awkward institutional questions, and serves a very specific transactional purpose.
Co-opting influential public figures buys instant access to their massive followings and secures their silence or active praise.
A religious leader or popular artist who receives such patronage becomes a shield, deterring scrutiny of how that wealth was acquired.
Furthermore, in entertainment and religious spaces, lavish displays of excess are normalized and celebrated as signs of success or divine favor.
In a disaster zone, however, that same ostentation is rightly viewed with hostility and suspicion, inviting uncomfortable questions about the origin of those funds while ordinary citizens suffer from basic neglect.
There is also a deeper, more insidiously strategic dimension to this behavior.
The constant, loud spectacle of Zvigananda spending is designed to create a grand illusion—the theatrics of an extraordinarily wealthy society.
By flooding the public consciousness with images of high-end sports cars, massive cash giveaways, and extravagant lifestyles, a false narrative of national prosperity is carefully constructed.
It is a deliberate circus intended to distract from the reality of widespread poverty, decaying public hospitals, collapsed municipal services, and deadly infrastructure.
This staged opulence encourages the public to forget the stark reality: that as a country, we are struggling, underfunded, and vulnerable to preventable tragedies.
It shifts the collective mindset from demanding institutional accountability to admiring individual excess, fostering a culture where citizens are conditioned to chase the crumbs of selective philanthropy rather than demand the basic rights of functional governance.
Ultimately, genuine disaster relief requires long-term, unglamorous commitment, accountability, and systemic repair—things that offer zero return on investment for the Zvigananda.
A disaster news cycle moves on quickly, leaving no lasting political leverage for a donor who steps in to help.
In contrast, purchasing the loyalty of a prominent celebrity or religious figure yields continuous dividends in crowd mobilization and narrative control.
As long as private wealth in Zimbabwe remains an extension of political patronage, our country’s elites will continue to shun the victims of national tragedies.
They will leave the grieving to fend for themselves, choosing instead to keep the cameras rolling on their theatrical displays of excess.
In doing so, they ensure the public remains mesmerized by the illusion of wealth while ignoring the grim realities of our poverty.
- Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to contact him on +263715667700 or mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com