Mnangagwa - Chiwenga rivalry will shape Zimbabwe's next chapter

ZIMBABWE'S politics has once again been dragged into the shadows of intrigue, poison, coup whispers and factional bloodletting.

At the centre are President Emmerson Mnangagwa and his deputy, General Constantino Chiwenga, whose rivalry has broken out of State House backrooms and into the public arena. The result: a ruling party on edge and a nation watching nervously.

For months, rumours have swirled about mysterious deaths among senior security officials, alleged purges to weaken Chiwenga's military base and consolidate Mnangagwa's hold on power.

The speculation has been amplified by Blessed Runesu Geza, better known as Bombshell Geza. A war veteran turned YouTuber, expelled from Zanu-PF, Geza has reinvented himself as a digital provocateur, openly backing Chiwenga while branding Mnangagwa as corrupt, illegitimate, and destined to be toppled by a coup.

This mix of propaganda, mistrust, and succession politics has created a volatile cocktail at the heart of the Zimbabwean state.

The most sensational allegation is that General Anselem Sanyatwe, once Head of the Defence Forces and now Sports Minister, was poisoned. His fall from military command to a low-key cabinet role has long been seen as Mnangagwa's attempt to cut Chiwenga's influence.

The story now doing the rounds is darker. Social media posts allege that Kudakwashe "Queen Bee" Tagwirei, Mnangagwa's financier and ally, masterminded a poisoning plot against Sanyatwe. The claims say he was injected with a toxic substance at a public event in Nyanga before being flown to India for emergency treatment.

Neither Sanyatwe nor his office has confirmed the claims. Instead, insiders insist his trip abroad was for ongoing medical care. "He has been unwell for some time. His deployment back from Tanzania and later his removal from the army were linked to his health," one source told this publication.

"When he became Sports Minister, his condition worsened. He spent two months in India for treatment. He spent at least two months there and was not seen in the cabinet. It was a closely guarded secret, but detractors tried to cook up some rumours when he was there that his deployment to sports was a demotion and that he was boycotting meetings. That is not true; he was attending to his health. The rumours that he was poisoned in Nyanga are not true," the source said.

The insider added that it was sad to see his health being used for cheap politicking. But in Zimbabwean politics, facts often matter less than perception. Poison stories have long been part of the playbook, from Mugabe-era whispers to Mnangagwa's own alleged poisoning in 2017. They serve to terrify, to discredit, and to fracture alliances.

For Chiwenga's camp, the Sanyatwe narrative paints Mnangagwa's circle as ruthless power-hunters. For Mnangagwa's loyalists, it looks like a manufactured smear designed to drive a wedge between the president and the military.

The rumours also target Tagwirei himself. Long seen as Mnangagwa's banker, he was formally inducted into the Zanu-PF Central Committee in August 2025. That move cemented his shift from shadow financier to open political player.

His sudden rise has unsettled Zanu-PF's liberation war veterans and the military elite. They view him as a civilian outsider with money but no liberation credentials, a figure Mnangagwa could be grooming as a successor or at least a kingmaker. For Chiwenga, who has always believed the presidency is his birthright, Tagwirei's ascent is a direct challenge.

Against this backdrop, poisoning allegations serve a purpose. They are less about proving what happened to Sanyatwe than about casting Tagwirei and Mnangagwa as untrustworthy usurpers, men willing to turn on allies to secure power.

Into this combustible mix steps Geza. His YouTube rants, laced with military nostalgia and coup fantasies, have transformed Zanu-PF's succession fight into a digital street brawl. He portrays the army as Zimbabwe's only salvation and Mnangagwa as a usurper, hinting openly that only a military takeover can restore order.

Some see him as a brave whistleblower; others as a reckless agitator. But his influence is undeniable. His talk of "carnage" in the security forces has struck a chord with Zimbabweans long convinced that power is decided not at the ballot box, but in the barracks.

Zimbabwe has walked this road before. Poison allegations, coup whispers, factional purges, they are the recurring features of its politics. But with Mnangagwa, now 82, the stakes are higher than ever. Succession is no longer theoretical.

"Poisoning rumours are not about evidence," one Harare-based analyst said. "They are about perception. And in Zimbabwean succession politics, perception is power."

Each whisper erodes trust. Each online rant widens the rift. Each allegation feeds paranoia in the barracks and boardrooms alike. This is how factional battles metastasise into national crises.

The Mnangagwa–Chiwenga rivalry will shape Zimbabwe's next chapter. History suggests Zimbabwe's succession fights rarely end quietly. The poison stories and coup whispers are not mere gossip; they are early warning signs.