Opinion / Columnist
Ian Smith never named anything after himself – why then are Zimbabwe leaders so insecure and desperate for self-glorification?
3 hrs ago | Views
There is something quite unnerving about sitting leaders obsessing over naming things after themselves.
Today, the Emmerson Dambudzo Mnangagwa Law School is set to be officially opened in Kwekwe.
To directly receive articles from Tendai Ruben Mbofana, please join his WhatsApp Channel on: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaqprWCIyPtRnKpkHe08
What makes this particularly unsettling is that this is not even a private institution personally funded by Mnangagwa, but a faculty within the Midlands State University, where - by virtue of being President - he is conveniently Chancellor.
This immediately raises a troubling question: why is it so important for Zimbabwe's sitting president to stamp his name on a public institution, especially one financed by taxpayer money?
Why do our post-independence leaders seem so preoccupied with immortalizing themselves while still in power?
This is hardly an isolated case.
Zimbabwe's landscape has, over the years, become cluttered with the names of its rulers.
During his long rule, Robert Mugabe ensured his name was engraved across the country.
We have Robert Mugabe International Airport, Robert Mugabe School of Intelligence, and countless streets and other institutions named after him.
Mnangagwa appears to be following the same script.
In Mutare, the main road leading into the city center was renamed Emmerson Dambudzo Mnangagwa Avenue.
In Kwekwe, one of the busiest roads also bears his name.
Beyond streets, there are schools, clinics, and projects across the country already branded with Mnangagwa's name, with the law school now joining the list.
The pattern is unmistakable: our leaders cannot wait for history to render its verdict - they prefer to write it themselves.
Elsewhere in the world, the practice is starkly different.
Leaders are usually honored after leaving office, often posthumously, when their legacies can be weighed with fairness.
Airports, universities, and monuments are named after figures whose contributions have been tested by time and acknowledged by posterity.
In the United States, every president since Herbert Hoover has a presidential library, but these are established after their terms and usually through private fundraising, later handed over to the National Archives.
John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, renamed in 1963 following his assassination, is one such example of how a nation collectively chooses to memorialize a leader after their passing.
In Africa, Nelson Mandela's name is attached to numerous institutions and landmarks - Nelson Mandela University in South Africa, the Nelson Mandela Children's Fund, and streets in many cities around the world - but all of these came after he left office, reflecting the global appreciation of his leadership and moral authority.
Julius Nyerere of Tanzania, who stepped down voluntarily in 1985, had the Julius Nyerere International Airport in Dar es Salaam named after him only later, along with institutes of higher learning and roads - again, decided after his presidency.
In Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah, the founding father of independence, has the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the University of Science and Technology (renamed in his honor), and streets bearing his name, but these were largely posthumous recognitions.
Even in Europe, we see similar patterns.
Charles de Gaulle, who led France during and after World War II, had Paris's main airport renamed Charles de Gaulle Airport in 1974 - four years after his death.
In the United Kingdom, institutions and landmarks tend to carry neutral or historical names, with very few directly honoring political leaders, and certainly not while they are still in office.
What stands out in all these examples is that the honors came as a result of reflection, legacy, and collective national decision-making - not self-decrees during the leader's own tenure.
It is a recognition earned, not demanded.
This contrast raises the question: why do Zimbabwean leaders feel the need to immortalize themselves prematurely?
The answer likely lies in insecurity.
Zimbabwe's rulers know, deep down, that their records are fragile and tainted.
They are not remembered for transforming lives, building thriving economies, or strengthening democratic institutions.
Instead, their years in office are associated with corruption, repression, economic collapse, and failure to deliver on the promises of independence.
And so, rather than wait for history's judgment, they attempt to pre-empt it.
They carve their names into the nation's geography as if to say: "Even if we did not change your lives, you shall never forget us."
This obsession with self-glorification is especially galling when set against the daily realities of Zimbabweans.
Hospitals collapse, roads crumble, schools go without textbooks or desks, and millions live in poverty.
Yet, amid this decay, the priority of those in power is to immortalize themselves.
They live in obscene wealth, far removed from the suffering of ordinary people.
Sprawling mansions, luxury cars, and multiple farms define their lives, even as they demand the public's reverence.
It is a politics of personal grandeur at the expense of national progress.
Even more scandalous is the hypocrisy.
Colonial rulers were condemned as ‘vapambipfumi' - plunderers who monopolized land and wealth.
Yet today, it is the "liberators" who have become the greatest plunderers.
Robert Mugabe's daughter, Bona, alone is reported to own around twenty-one farms.
What then of the rest of the Mugabe family, or Mnangagwa's allies, many of whom are also known to control vast estates?
Redistribution, which was supposed to uplift the landless majority, has instead enriched a small political aristocracy.
Ordinary Zimbabweans remain without land, without wealth, and without hope, while their leaders hoard the very resources they once promised to share.
At this point, the irony becomes almost unbearable.
Ian Smith, who ruled Rhodesia under a system that denied political rights and freedoms to the black majority, nonetheless lived a far more modest and restrained personal life than the leaders who came after him.
Despite being prime minister for 15 years and effectively the most powerful man in the country, Smith owned only one farm in Shurugwi, where he retired quietly after leaving office.
He did not accumulate multiple farms, mansions, or vast personal wealth at the expense of ordinary Rhodesians.
Neither did he force his name onto streets, airports, schools, or institutions.
There are no "Ian Smith International Airports" or "Smith Universities" in Zimbabwe today, nor did he ever attempt to engineer such during his time in power.
For all his faults as a leader who presided over an unjust system, he exhibited a degree of restraint, even humility, that starkly contrasts with the almost compulsive self-glorification and accumulation of obscene wealth seen among many of our post-independence leaders.
His life, austere and relatively quiet in retirement, only makes the vanity and greed of today's ruling elite appear even more glaring.
It is a shocking paradox that the very people who once accused Smith and his colleagues of being plunderers and oppressors now live in ways that make them appear even worse.
Who then are the true plunderers?
Who are the real oppressors?
The Emmerson Dambudzo Mnangagwa Law School is not just a name on a building - it is a mirror reflecting the political culture that has taken root in Zimbabwe.
It speaks of leaders who prefer monuments to themselves rather than service to their people.
It reveals a mentality that values personal glory over national progress.
It exposes rulers who would rather be remembered in stone than in the hearts of their citizens.
But history is not fooled so easily.
When the dust eventually settles, no number of schools, airports, or highways will cleanse a tainted legacy.
Leaders are remembered not for the names they forced onto buildings, but for the lives they changed, the justice they upheld, and the dignity they restored to their people.
And when Zimbabweans look back, they may find that the names Mnangagwa and Mugabe so desperately plastered across the land will not stand as monuments of greatness, but as stark reminders of greed, insecurity, and failure.
● Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to WhatsApp or Call: +263715667700 | +263782283975, or email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com, or visit website: https://mbofanatendairuben.news.blog/
Today, the Emmerson Dambudzo Mnangagwa Law School is set to be officially opened in Kwekwe.
To directly receive articles from Tendai Ruben Mbofana, please join his WhatsApp Channel on: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaqprWCIyPtRnKpkHe08
What makes this particularly unsettling is that this is not even a private institution personally funded by Mnangagwa, but a faculty within the Midlands State University, where - by virtue of being President - he is conveniently Chancellor.
This immediately raises a troubling question: why is it so important for Zimbabwe's sitting president to stamp his name on a public institution, especially one financed by taxpayer money?
Why do our post-independence leaders seem so preoccupied with immortalizing themselves while still in power?
This is hardly an isolated case.
Zimbabwe's landscape has, over the years, become cluttered with the names of its rulers.
During his long rule, Robert Mugabe ensured his name was engraved across the country.
We have Robert Mugabe International Airport, Robert Mugabe School of Intelligence, and countless streets and other institutions named after him.
Mnangagwa appears to be following the same script.
In Mutare, the main road leading into the city center was renamed Emmerson Dambudzo Mnangagwa Avenue.
In Kwekwe, one of the busiest roads also bears his name.
Beyond streets, there are schools, clinics, and projects across the country already branded with Mnangagwa's name, with the law school now joining the list.
The pattern is unmistakable: our leaders cannot wait for history to render its verdict - they prefer to write it themselves.
Elsewhere in the world, the practice is starkly different.
Leaders are usually honored after leaving office, often posthumously, when their legacies can be weighed with fairness.
Airports, universities, and monuments are named after figures whose contributions have been tested by time and acknowledged by posterity.
In the United States, every president since Herbert Hoover has a presidential library, but these are established after their terms and usually through private fundraising, later handed over to the National Archives.
John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, renamed in 1963 following his assassination, is one such example of how a nation collectively chooses to memorialize a leader after their passing.
In Africa, Nelson Mandela's name is attached to numerous institutions and landmarks - Nelson Mandela University in South Africa, the Nelson Mandela Children's Fund, and streets in many cities around the world - but all of these came after he left office, reflecting the global appreciation of his leadership and moral authority.
Julius Nyerere of Tanzania, who stepped down voluntarily in 1985, had the Julius Nyerere International Airport in Dar es Salaam named after him only later, along with institutes of higher learning and roads - again, decided after his presidency.
In Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah, the founding father of independence, has the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the University of Science and Technology (renamed in his honor), and streets bearing his name, but these were largely posthumous recognitions.
Even in Europe, we see similar patterns.
Charles de Gaulle, who led France during and after World War II, had Paris's main airport renamed Charles de Gaulle Airport in 1974 - four years after his death.
In the United Kingdom, institutions and landmarks tend to carry neutral or historical names, with very few directly honoring political leaders, and certainly not while they are still in office.
What stands out in all these examples is that the honors came as a result of reflection, legacy, and collective national decision-making - not self-decrees during the leader's own tenure.
It is a recognition earned, not demanded.
This contrast raises the question: why do Zimbabwean leaders feel the need to immortalize themselves prematurely?
The answer likely lies in insecurity.
Zimbabwe's rulers know, deep down, that their records are fragile and tainted.
They are not remembered for transforming lives, building thriving economies, or strengthening democratic institutions.
Instead, their years in office are associated with corruption, repression, economic collapse, and failure to deliver on the promises of independence.
And so, rather than wait for history's judgment, they attempt to pre-empt it.
They carve their names into the nation's geography as if to say: "Even if we did not change your lives, you shall never forget us."
This obsession with self-glorification is especially galling when set against the daily realities of Zimbabweans.
Hospitals collapse, roads crumble, schools go without textbooks or desks, and millions live in poverty.
Yet, amid this decay, the priority of those in power is to immortalize themselves.
They live in obscene wealth, far removed from the suffering of ordinary people.
Sprawling mansions, luxury cars, and multiple farms define their lives, even as they demand the public's reverence.
It is a politics of personal grandeur at the expense of national progress.
Even more scandalous is the hypocrisy.
Colonial rulers were condemned as ‘vapambipfumi' - plunderers who monopolized land and wealth.
Yet today, it is the "liberators" who have become the greatest plunderers.
Robert Mugabe's daughter, Bona, alone is reported to own around twenty-one farms.
What then of the rest of the Mugabe family, or Mnangagwa's allies, many of whom are also known to control vast estates?
Redistribution, which was supposed to uplift the landless majority, has instead enriched a small political aristocracy.
Ordinary Zimbabweans remain without land, without wealth, and without hope, while their leaders hoard the very resources they once promised to share.
At this point, the irony becomes almost unbearable.
Ian Smith, who ruled Rhodesia under a system that denied political rights and freedoms to the black majority, nonetheless lived a far more modest and restrained personal life than the leaders who came after him.
Despite being prime minister for 15 years and effectively the most powerful man in the country, Smith owned only one farm in Shurugwi, where he retired quietly after leaving office.
He did not accumulate multiple farms, mansions, or vast personal wealth at the expense of ordinary Rhodesians.
Neither did he force his name onto streets, airports, schools, or institutions.
There are no "Ian Smith International Airports" or "Smith Universities" in Zimbabwe today, nor did he ever attempt to engineer such during his time in power.
For all his faults as a leader who presided over an unjust system, he exhibited a degree of restraint, even humility, that starkly contrasts with the almost compulsive self-glorification and accumulation of obscene wealth seen among many of our post-independence leaders.
His life, austere and relatively quiet in retirement, only makes the vanity and greed of today's ruling elite appear even more glaring.
It is a shocking paradox that the very people who once accused Smith and his colleagues of being plunderers and oppressors now live in ways that make them appear even worse.
Who then are the true plunderers?
Who are the real oppressors?
The Emmerson Dambudzo Mnangagwa Law School is not just a name on a building - it is a mirror reflecting the political culture that has taken root in Zimbabwe.
It speaks of leaders who prefer monuments to themselves rather than service to their people.
It reveals a mentality that values personal glory over national progress.
It exposes rulers who would rather be remembered in stone than in the hearts of their citizens.
But history is not fooled so easily.
When the dust eventually settles, no number of schools, airports, or highways will cleanse a tainted legacy.
Leaders are remembered not for the names they forced onto buildings, but for the lives they changed, the justice they upheld, and the dignity they restored to their people.
And when Zimbabweans look back, they may find that the names Mnangagwa and Mugabe so desperately plastered across the land will not stand as monuments of greatness, but as stark reminders of greed, insecurity, and failure.
● Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to WhatsApp or Call: +263715667700 | +263782283975, or email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com, or visit website: https://mbofanatendairuben.news.blog/
Source - Tendai Ruben Mbofana
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