Minister Machakaire Just Discovered What the Rest of Us Live With

I saw the post on X just after 9 a.m., while waiting in a queue for my grandmother's antibiotics at a local clinic. The power had gone out, again. There was no doctor on duty, again. And someone's mother was crying in the hallway because she'd just been told to "bring her own gloves." It was against this backdrop that I opened my phone and saw a government minister sharing his surprise - yes, surprise - at how bad things have become in our public hospitals.

Minister Tinoda Machakaire had visited a public health institution to see a relative and was, in his own words, "deeply concerned by the conditions." He called the experience "deeply moving." The post then spiraled into a soft letter to the President, laced with flattery and pathos, requesting His Excellency to personally witness what Machakaire had just seen. "There is no substitute," he wrote, "for seeing, listening and understanding firsthand what our citizens are going through."

It was one of those moments where you have to ask yourself: where has he been?

Because what Minister Machakaire described is not new. What he saw is not hidden. For millions of Zimbabweans, what moved him to write a public statement is just Tuesday. The overcrowded wards, the lack of medicine, the overwhelmed nurses, the broken equipment—this is not breaking news. This is the reality we survive every single day.

His post didn't read like a wake-up call. It read like a delayed reaction from someone finally forced to walk through the house he's helped maintain from the safety of the garden. We don't need his feelings. We need his action. And if the minister is only discovering this now, we have a much deeper crisis than we thought—one that includes not only a decaying health system but a political class entirely insulated from the pain of the people they claim to serve.

Let's be honest. Minister Machakaire is not a powerless observer. He is not some NGO officer sounding the alarm or a journalist breaking a story. He is part of the government. A Cabinet Minister. The man is in the room where the decisions are made—where budgets are slashed, where ghost workers get paid, where billions are lost through corruption while hospitals beg for sutures and saline drips. He is not a commentator. He is an administrator.

So why now? Why this sudden concern?

Because this time, the hospital was not just a statistic. It was personal. It was his relative. That is the quiet truth buried beneath his carefully worded post. The calamity only became real when it entered his life. That's when he looked up. That's when he remembered the rest of us.

But here's the danger of this kind of epiphany. It allows a minister to sound brave while avoiding responsibility. It turns suffering into a photo-op and grief into a performance. It rebrands complicity as courage. There was no admission of failure. No acknowledgment that the system is not simply suffering from neglect, but from active mismanagement, theft, and a refusal to prioritize the public good over private gain.

And as always, the message was wrapped in deference. "Your Excellency, you have earned the admiration of this nation for your compassion, humility and tireless dedication," he wrote to President Mnangagwa—an appeal so thick with praise it read more like a courtier's scroll than a serious call for reform. He ends with a plea for the President to visit these hospitals himself. But why must the President see in order to believe? Have we not shouted loud enough? Have the mothers who've given birth on bare floors not screamed sufficiently? Have the nurses who walked out during the pandemic not explained clearly enough why their own health was being sacrificed?

This kind of language is part of the problem. It treats the collapse of public services as a communication issue, not a governance one. As if the real failure is that the leadership hasn't seen the suffering, when in fact, it has been widely reported, widely documented, and widely ignored.

Let's talk plainly. Zimbabwe's healthcare system is not failing because of lack of awareness. It's failing because it has been systemically gutted. Ambulances are scarce, operating theatres are inoperable, drugs are stolen and resold, and the best medical professionals have fled the country in droves. The money that should keep the hospitals alive finds its way into luxury cars and foreign accounts. And the rest of us are left to stitch each other up with hope and handouts.

Minister Machakaire had the gall to commend "those who have had the courage to raise their voices on matters of public interest." One wonders who he means. Namatai Kwekweza, who was arrested for protesting constitutional changes? Blessed Mhlanga, who has documented these crises with consistency and integrity? Or the hundreds of ordinary Zimbabweans who risk arrest, assault, or unemployment every time they raise their voices about public decay? It is easy to commend courage when you're safe from the consequences of speaking truth. It is harder to stand beside it when it costs something.

If Machakaire truly means what he says, he must do more than tweet. He must act. Demand immediate increases in hospital funding. Push for transparency in procurement. Refuse to be part of a Cabinet that treats broken infrastructure as someone else's burden. He must use the platform he has to fight—not flatter.

Until then, this is not accountability. It is branding. It is reputation management in the middle of a humanitarian crisis. And it will not fix the broken generator in the maternity ward or stop another child from dying of something as treatable as dehydration.

Leadership means doing something before the pain knocks on your own door.

We saw your post, Minister. But we've seen the hospitals too. And the only thing more offensive than your surprise is the time it took for you to feel it.



Kumbirai Thierry Nhamo || Social Justice Activist
For Feedback: Call/app 0780022343, or visit https://zealousthierry.art.blog/ or email kumbiraithierryn@gmail.com