When Names Change but Systems Don't: School Renaming and the Struggle for Decoloniality in Africa

More than four decades after the end of formal colonial rule in Zimbabwe in 1980, and over three decades after independence in Namibia and South Africa, the last three states to attain black majority rule in Africa, it has become increasingly apparent that colonialism was never designed to end with the departure of colonial administrators or the lowering of imperial flags. Rather, it was a carefully constructed project intended to outlive its architects through the enduring institutions, knowledge systems, cultural norms, and power relations it established.

Decolonial scholars describe these enduring structures as coloniality, the persistence of colonial patterns of power long after colonialism has formally ended. Across Africa and the broader postcolonial world, societies continue to grapple with the challenge of dismantling these inherited systems. Yet efforts to pursue meaningful decoloniality are often constrained by political, economic, and geopolitical realities. Many governments remain hesitant to alter colonial-era institutions for fear of economic repercussions, such as reduced foreign investment, or political isolation from contemporary centres of global power. Consequently, while the aspiration for decoloniality has frequently been expressed in policy and political rhetoric, its practical implementation has often proven far more difficult, which is exactly what colonial architects sought to achieve. The challenge has not been recognising the need for decoloniality but rather determining how it should be pursued in ways that move beyond symbolism towards genuine structural and epistemic transformation. It is within this broader context that Zimbabwe's recent efforts to rename colonial-era schools must be understood.

To understand why school names matter, one must examine the precise political intent of the colonial regime. In September 1890, the Pioneer Column hoisted the Union Jack Flag in Salisbury (now Harare), marking the start of a harsh occupation backed by Cecil John Rhodes' British South Africa Company. Rhodes deliberately chose his burial site at the topographically significant World's View in Matopos to usurp the Ndebele's spiritual and political significance at Entumbane, the resting place of King Mzilikazi KaMashobane.

His grave is an emblem of enduring colonial supremacy. As Duncan Clarke notes in Rhodes' Ghost, it served as a spatial anchor to project posthumous colonial dominance and to restrain any errant native behaviour. Secular schools like Milton, Eveline, Northlea, and Townsend were established as ideological fortresses within the same mythos that sought to normalise minority rule and socialise African minds into perpetual second-class status.

This institutional subjugation, however, was not restricted to the secular state. In British colonies, the state often avoided funding education and healthcare for black communities and instead relied on missionary institutions to provide those services. While churches offered schools, hospitals, and relief, they did so within a colonial system that granted them land, legitimacy, and influence. The church became a tool of colonial power, supporting government authority, making colonial rule seem more acceptable, and establishing a system in which many Africans could gain education, health care, and better opportunities only through mission institutions and schools. These missionary schools encouraged Christian conversion but also weakened local customs. For that reason, the church was not merely present under colonialism but was deeply implicated in its governance structures.

At the heart of this system was an epistemic project: colonialism was never only about controlling land and labour, but also about controlling knowledge itself. African epistemologies were systematically marginalised, while European forms of knowledge were elevated as universal, rational, and objective. This process produced what decolonial theorists describe as epistemic violence, where entire knowledge systems, languages, and intellectual traditions were rendered inferior, invisible, or irrelevant. Schools thus became not only instruments of social control but also sites where African children were taught to disbelieve their own worlds and to see themselves through colonial categories of value. From this perspective, decoloniality cannot be reduced to symbolic substitution such as renaming; it requires a fundamental epistemic shift that recentres African knowledge systems, languages, and intellectual traditions within education.

In mid-2024, Zimbabwe launched a new cultural heritage curriculum. Instantly, demands erupted to rename colonial-era schools. Theoretically, stripping away these colonial vestiges should have provoked widespread national celebration. Instead, it triggered a fierce cultural war.

Social media flared as defensive school alumni demanded, "You dare touch my school". This reflects the complexity of coloniality, where historical domination continues to shape identity, attachment, and meaning even among those who have materially benefited within postcolonial systems. Some contended that the state should build new institutions rather than rename existing ones.

This clash exposes a deep tension between symbolic transformation and material educational realities. Names are not neutral historical markers; they are embedded within broader histories of power, memory, and belonging. However, they do not operate in isolation from the material conditions that shape schooling systems. From a decolonial perspective, symbolic change is significant, but it must be understood as part of a wider process of structural and epistemic transformation rather than as an end in itself.

Resistance to renaming often comes from alumni, whose attachments to schools are shaped not only by historical naming but by lived experiences of belonging, identity formation, and social mobility. These attachments reflect the affective and social dimensions of institutional life, rather than simply ideological alignment with coloniality. They are also shaped by broader political and economic stagnation, which has contributed to nostalgic readings of the past, including distorted valuations of colonial-era institutions.

Today, more than 45 years after Zimbabwe's independence, for example, there is a persistent gap between official historical narratives and the lived realities of young people. Many young citizens contend with the enduring effects of socio-economic inequality, political disillusionment, and strained educational systems. High rates of dropout and poor academic performance further contribute to weakened institutional trust and disconnection from the state.
Renaming schools poses a classic Morton's Fork where policymakers face a difficult choice between addressing deteriorating infrastructure and undertaking symbolic transformation, as under-resourced systems struggle to do both simultaneously. This dilemma is intensified by the financial and administrative costs of renaming, including changes to signage, uniforms, stationery, textbooks, examination systems, and certification processes.

However, beyond these practical constraints lies a deeper concern: the risk of historical erasure. Eliminating colonial place names may unintentionally obscure histories of resistance, struggle, and survival under colonial rule. It is therefore essential to preserve historical memory even as symbolic landscapes are transformed.

At the same time, colonial infrastructures and institutions must be understood in their full historical complexity. While figures such as Alfred Beit, through the Beit Trust, and Sir Henry Birchenough, associated with the Birchenough Bridge, are often cited for their infrastructural contributions, such developments were never neutral or philanthropic in origin. They were embedded within colonial systems of extraction and control. Their contemporary use reflects postcolonial repurposing rather than colonial benevolence, underscoring the need for a critical distinction between preserving historical infrastructure and legitimising colonial power.

Furthermore, as Zimbabwe and Africa in general embark on these and similar reforms, it is essential to avoid rushed and top-down approaches to renaming. Without meaningful community participation, such initiatives risk producing superficial changes that fail to generate genuine transformation. Weak community ownership may even result in symbolic reproduction of colonial naming patterns under new guises.

To avoid tokenism, Africa must approach renaming as part of a broader educational transformation agenda rather than an isolated symbolic intervention. This requires participatory evaluation processes in which school communities assess whether proposed changes enhance institutional identity, reflect shared aspirations, and strengthen belonging. Policymakers must also ensure that changes emerge from genuine consensus and are supported by evidence of long-term educational and social value.

An effective implementation strategy should follow a phased process: beginning with grassroots consultation, progressing through pilot initiatives, and culminating in external review and institutional reconfiguration. Public forums involving learners, educators, parents, alumni, and communities are essential for ensuring democratic ownership of the process. These processes must be supported by adaptive governance structures capable of responding to contextual realities while maintaining accountability.

Within this framework, renaming can contribute meaningfully to decolonial transformation when embedded within inclusive and ethically grounded governance systems. Changing names associated with colonialism to those reflecting lived realities and local histories can strengthen belonging and support broader projects of African self-determination. While such changes do not automatically translate into improved academic performance, they remain significant for identity formation, historical consciousness, and symbolic reorientation.

In essence, the debate over renaming schools is not simply about replacing one signboard with another. It is about confronting the enduring legacies of colonialism, which sought not only to control land and resources but also to shape identities, knowledge systems, and collective consciousness. School names matter because schools are sites of memory, belonging, and ideological reproduction. Yet decolonisation cannot be reduced to symbolic change alone; it must also address the material, institutional, and epistemic structures through which colonial power continues to operate. Africa, therefore, requires a balanced and critically grounded approach that recognises the value of symbolic reclamation while advancing substantive structural transformation. Crucially, these processes should be rooted in genuine community participation and democratic ownership, ensuring that new names emerge from collective reflection on the histories, values, and futures that societies seek to cultivate.

Diligent Mpofu, CA(SA), and Prof. Mpumelelo E. Ncube, PhD, write in their personal capacities.