South Africa at a crossroads: Lessons from Zimbabwe's democratic decline

In the early years of Zimbabwe's independence, anyone predicting the eventual collapse of Robert Mugabe's rule would have been dismissed as a traitor or a doom merchant. Flags were new, rhetoric sounded sincere, and for a brief moment, it seemed that a country torn apart by racial injustice had discovered a shared future. Schools expanded, literacy rose, and the new state projected confidence in its democratic credentials.

Yet beneath the triumphant speeches, the seeds of decay were already being sown: intolerance of dissent, the demonisation of opponents, and the quiet fusion of party and state. What appeared to be democratic consolidation was, in reality, a fragile performance masking the growth of unchecked power. Gukurahundi was the first major crack in the façade — a brutal reminder that even a "people's government" can turn its guns on its own citizens when accountability is optional.

Over three decades, the promise of a prosperous and democratic Zimbabwe curdled into a nightmare. Zanu-PF hollowed out electoral institutions until voting became a ritual with a preordained outcome. The economy collapsed into hyperinflation and mass unemployment, and citizens learned that a party that once fought for freedom could just as easily suffocate democratic life in the name of "protecting the revolution."

The parallels with South Africa today are striking. The African National Congress (ANC), once the embodiment of hope, has moved from overwhelming popular support to a crisis of legitimacy. For three decades, it wrapped itself in the language of democratic struggle, presenting 1994 as a shield against criticism. Yet democratic legitimacy is not a once-off reward; it is a renewable contract that depends on performance, accountability, and the ability to self-correct.

As service delivery fails, corruption becomes systemic, and inequality deepens, that contract is visibly fraying. Unlike Zimbabwe, South Africa still has relatively independent courts, a noisy media, and a vibrant civil society. But institutions do not protect a country automatically; they must be defended every day by citizens who believe democracy is worth the fight.

Moments like Marikana, the 2021 unrest, and rampant local-level corruption have stripped the moral innocence from the liberation narrative, creating widespread disillusionment. For young South Africans, born long after apartheid, "democratic" often describes a system of joblessness, crime, and broken promises. Into this vacuum, populists offering easy answers — nationalisation, silencing critics, or a strongman — can easily gain traction, echoing the path Zimbabwe once took.

Yet trajectories are not destiny. South Africa still has a window to prove that democratic politics can address democratic crises. That would require a Parliament that enforces accountability, a prosecuting authority willing to act against the untouchable, and a ruling party prepared to lose positions in order to preserve its integrity. Opposition parties must embrace responsibility, and citizens must insist that democracy is more than a slogan.

The choice is stark: double down on a liberation mythology that justifies permanent power or reinvent the political culture so that no party, however historic, stands above democratic rules. If South Africa fails this test, the word "democratic" risks becoming hollow, as it did north of the Limpopo. If it passes, the next five years could mark not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning — the moment when South Africans move from celebrating democracy to truly practising it.