Zimbabwe's constitutional crisis exposes the reality of the 'prisoner of power'

When a prison is mistaken for a palace, a nation's tragedy begins.

The approval of Constitutional Amendment Bill No. 3 by the Zimbabwean Cabinet on February 10, 2026, marks a watershed moment in the nation's history.

If you value my social justice advocacy and writing, please consider a financial contribution to keep it going. Contact me on WhatsApp: +263 715 667 700 or Email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com

Not as a milestone of progress, but as a chilling confirmation of a psychological and political phenomenon: the leader who has become a prisoner of his own power. 

What is framed by the state as a move for "policy continuity" and "stability" is, in reality, the desperate barricading of a sanctuary. 

It is an admission that the seat of power is no longer just a throne of service, but the only remaining fortress against the consequences of a long, controversial tenure. 

When a leader seeks to amend the constitution mid-game to extend a term from five to seven years, they aren't just changing the rules; they are signaling a profound, existential terror of the life that awaits them outside the State House gates.

This fear is not unfounded. 

For leaders who have presided over decades of "fierce and vindictive power struggles", the "sanctuary of power" is the only thing standing between them and a reckoning. 

In Zimbabwe, the transition from "His Excellency" to "Private Citizen" is not a retirement; it is often a descent into legal, political, and even physical vulnerability. 

We have seen this script play out across the globe. 

From Charles Taylor to Omar al-Bashir, leaders who once treated their nations as personal fiefdoms found that once the immunity of office evaporated, they were no longer untouchable titans, but fugitives or prisoners. 

In Zimbabwe, the memory of Robert Mugabe's final days—stripped of power by the very lieutenants he raised—serves as a permanent, haunting reminder that in the world of ZANU-PF politics, loyalty is a fleeting currency. 

Those currently in power have watched their rivals flee into exile or face the humiliation of the dock; it is only logical that they now view the presidency not as a mandate, but as a life-preserver.

There is also the undeniable, intoxicating nature of power itself. 

It functions as a potent drug, one that reshapes the psyche until the leader can no longer imagine a world where they are not the center of the national orbit. 

The status, the control over vast resources, and the ability to shield one's family from the "questionable activities" that often flourish in the shadow of the throne create a dependency that is nearly impossible to break. 

To leave office is to leave one's entire lineage exposed to the winds of retribution. 

Consider the bank robber who, in the heat of a heist gone wrong, finds himself barricaded inside the vault. 

From the outside, it looks as though he is in total control—he holds the gold, he commands the space, and he dictates the terms of the standoff. 

To the casual observer, he is the master of the building.

But look closer at the man inside. 

He is not staying in that vault because he loves the cold steel walls or because he is "winning." 

He is staying because the moment he turns the handle and steps onto the sidewalk, the sirens stop being a distant noise and become his reality. 

He is staying because he knows that outside that door, there is no more immunity, no more "negotiation," and no more sanctuary.

He is not a master; he is a prisoner who has mistaken a hiding place for a home. 

He will fight to keep the door locked, not out of greed for the gold he holds, but out of a paralyzing terror of the handcuffs waiting in the light. 

He is "eager" to stay only because he is terrified to leave. 

In his mind, the vault is a palace; in reality, it is merely the first cell of a much longer sentence.

Thus, the "term extension" agenda is not a vision for the country; it is a survival strategy for a dynasty.

The irony of Zimbabwe's leadership stagnation is both stark and embarrassing. 

It is a staggering historical fact that the colonial regime, for all its structural evils, saw more leadership fluidity than the "independent" state that replaced it.

Between 1923—the year the territory transitioned from company rule to a self-governing colony—and the end of the Rhodesian era in 1979, the country saw eight different leaders in the space of 56 years.

Names like Coghlan, Huggins, Whitehead, and Smith came and went through various political shifts. 

In contrast, independent Zimbabwe has been a sovereign state for 46 years and has known only two leaders: Robert Mugabe and Emmerson Mnangagwa. 

For a nation that prides itself on having broken the shackles of the past, we have essentially replaced one form of rigid control with another. 

The math is simple and humiliating: colonial Rhodesia was more capable of leadership change than "democratic" Zimbabwe.

In fact, the last time Zimbabweans witnessed a peaceful, ceremonial transfer of power from one leader to another was in April 1980. 

The imagery of that day remains etched in the collective memory—Prince Charles, representing the departing colonial power, handing over the reins to Robert Mugabe in a packed stadium. 

It was a moment of profound pride and hope. 

Yet, in nearly half a century since, that hope has never been renewed through a constitutional process. 

The only other change in leadership occurred in 2017 through the barrel of a gun during a military coup d'état. 

The tragedy of our time is that we have transitioned from a liberation movement to a regime that views the popular vote as a threat to be managed and the constitution as a "living document" that can be surgically altered to suit the survival needs of a few.  

However, there is a different way to lead. 

The mark of a truly great leader is not how long they can hold onto the scepter, but how safely they can set it down. 

There is an immense, underrated beauty in the "blue pen" transition—the sight of a former president sitting in the front row of a stadium, watching their successor take the oath. 

This is only possible when a leader governs with the exit in mind. 

To lead without fear of leaving, one must lead with transparency, respect for the rule of law, and a genuine commitment to the collective good over personal or familial enrichment. 

A leader who does not weaponize the state against their rivals does not need to fear those rivals when they eventually take the stage. 

A leader who treats the treasury as a public trust rather than a private bank does not need to fear the auditor's report of the future.

The current efforts to extend the presidential term to 2030 and beyond via Constitutional Amendment Bill No. 3 are a tragic confession of failure. 

They signal to the world that the current administration is too terrified to face its own citizens and too compromised to trust the very laws it helped craft in 2013. 

By attempting to bypass Section 328(7)—which specifically forbids an incumbent from benefiting from a term extension—the government is entering a legal and moral wilderness. 

If they succeed, they will have "won" a few more years of immunity, but they will have permanently lost the respect of history. 

They will remain prisoners in their own palace, surrounded by guards, terrified of the day the sanctuary doors eventually, inevitably, fly open.  

True power is the ability to walk away and still be greeted with a handshake in the streets of one's own country. 

For Zimbabwe's current leadership, that simple freedom seems to have been traded for a few more years of a gilded, anxious captivity. 

The tragedy is that while the leaders are prisoners of their own deeds, the entire nation remains a prisoner of their fear.

© Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. To directly receive his articles please join his WhatsApp Channel on: https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaqprWCIyPtRnKpkHe08