Tendai Ruben Mbofana
Yesterday evening, the nation of Zimbabwe was greeted with shocking news that spread fast and hard, like wildfire across dry brush.
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Word began circulating that controversial tenderpreneur Wicknell Chivayo and his wife Lulu had perished in a helicopter crash near Marondera, alongside four others, including two pilots.
At first, it appeared to be just another wild internet rumor, until authorities officially confirmed the tragic reality.
Social media instantly exploded into a frenzy.
As someone who has written extensively about this deeply polarizing figure, my phone immediately lit up with inquiries from individuals across the globe asking whether the unbelievable was true.
Online and in the streets, the reactions were a stark reflection of the man himself.
Some kept their feelings reserved, processing the sudden loss of human life.
Others, however, felt this outcome was almost inevitable—the logical, tragic conclusion for a man who had become completely unhinged.
For months, we watched him engage in nearly weekly million-dollar splurges, handing out luxury cars and wads of hard cash to church leaders, musicians, and political loyalists.
It was a grotesque parade of obscene wealth that turned grown men and women into a laughingstock, forcing them into public theatrics on social media just to beg for his favor.
Even I was dragged into this circus.
Because of my extensive commentary on Chivayo, my phone number frequently appeared next to his name on Google search results.
Desperate citizens, seeking a lifeline and failing to read carefully, assumed my line was his.
For two years, I received countless calls and messages from desperate people pouring their hearts out for financial aid, only to hear their crushing disappointment when I explained I was not the benefactor they were looking for.
This total subservience from every corner of society—from powerful elites to ordinary, impoverished citizens treating him like a deity—went straight to Chivayo’s head.
He revelled in seeing entire congregations sing his praises and hearing pastors preach about him as a savior.
Eventually, he crossed a line that disturbed me deeply as a devout Christian.
He began referring to himself as Mukuru we Mazuva—the Ancient of Days, a title reserved strictly for Jehovah God.
He was no longer content being “Sir Wicknell”; he had convinced himself he was divine.
Yet, this self-proclaimed god was a convicted fraudster who had served time at Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison, and whose endless wealth was always steeped in deep scandal.
Who can forget the $5 million advance payment for the non-existent Gwanda Solar Power Plant?
Or the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission scandal, where R1.1 billion was paid to a South African firm for inflated election materials, only for R800 million to be redirected into bank accounts linked to Chivayo?
Then there was the true nature of his car donations.
While his followers celebrated it as philanthropy, many of us saw it as a classic money-laundering mechanism.
In a classic gold-smuggling enterprise, a runner transports illicit gold abroad—say, to Dubai—and returns with bulk, untraceable cash.
To “clean” those dirty funds, the runner buys luxury vehicles at vastly inflated prices from friendly dealerships, effectively converting dirty paper into legitimate assets and receiving clean dividends or commissions in return.
Whether this exact scheme was his primary engine or not, something was deeply amiss.
Nowhere else on earth—not even in the wealthiest enclaves of Dubai or the United States—do individuals engage in weekly, unearned giveaways of luxury fleets without a single visible, legitimate enterprise producing a single product.
It was a dark, unsettling spectacle, made worse by clergy who accepted these gifts while bestowing divine titles upon a mortal man.
It was blasphemy of the highest order.
I often warned that he was pushing his luck, recalling the Shona proverb: kangoma kana koririsa kave pedyo nekubvaruka—when a drum plays too loudly, it is on the verge of tearing.
Corruption is never victimless.
It starves public hospitals of basic medicines, leaves schools crumbling, and collapses essential infrastructure—a decay that ultimately spares no one, not even the rich and powerful.
Following the crash, fleets of emergency vehicles were spotted racing over 74 kilometers from Harare to Marondera.
While major disasters draw national resources, one cannot help but ask: why were there no adequately equipped local ambulances in Marondera to reach the crash site in time?
This tragic void is the direct consequence of systemic looting that destroys the very services designed to save lives.
Like Icarus, who crafted wings of feathers and wax, Wicknell Chivayo flew too close to the sun.
Blinded by his own hubris, the heat melted his illusions and sent him crashing back to the harsh earth below.
His life and sudden demise stand as a grim warning to a nation drunk on false prophets and dirty money.
True divinity cannot be bought.
Corruption eventually devours its own.
And no mortal can proclaim themselves God without facing the inevitable, crushing weight of their own humanity.
No man can crowned himself God and expect the sun not to melt his wings.
- Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to contact him on +263715667700 or mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com