By Reason Wafawarova

There is something almost poetic—if not outright comedic—about watching ZANU-PF, the self-appointed custodian of the liberation legacy, suddenly develop a nostalgic affection for colonial governance models.

Yes, colonial.

Because what else do you call a system where the masses are politely thanked for their sacrifices, then gently ushered away while a few hundred well-fed legislators retire behind closed doors to “decide” who should rule them?

Apparently, this is now the enlightened constitutional thinking of the 2030 brigade orbiting Emmerson Mnangagwa.

We are told—by the ever-confident historians-for-hire like Patrick Chinamasa and the Mangwana bothers, Nick and Paul — that the liberation struggle was never about how a President is elected.

That universal suffrage was, one assumes, a minor administrative detail. A side quest. A clerical issue that somehow escaped the attention of people who spent years in the bush fighting a war.

One almost expects them to argue next that the war itself was a misunderstanding. A long, unfortunate picnic with guns.

But history, that stubborn thing, refuses to cooperate.

Enter Jealousy Mawarire, armed not with slogans or press statements, but with actual documents—those inconvenient relics of a time when words meant something. The 1973 Mwenje No. 2 ZANU Political Programme does not stutter. It does not hedge. It does not say, “Every citizen shall vote… except when it becomes politically inconvenient in 2030.”

It says every citizen shall have the right to vote for all state institutions.

Not some institutions. Not selected institutions. Not institutions approved by the Politburo after tea. All.

Now, unless the presidency has quietly been downgraded to a side hustle—somewhere between District Administrator and Grain Marketing Board clerk—it is difficult to see how it escapes that definition.

But perhaps we are being unfair. Perhaps this is not hypocrisy. Perhaps it is evolution. After all, even revolutionaries are allowed to grow. Some grow into statesmen. Others, it seems, grow into the very system they once claimed to have dismantled.

Because what is being proposed here is not innovation—it is restoration.

A restoration of the logic that governed Rhodesia under Ian Smith: governance by a controlled few, with the masses safely kept at arm’s length from real power. Back then, it was justified by race. Today, it is justified by “constitutional design.” Progress, we are told.

And one must give special credit to Comrade Chinamasa, who appears remarkably comfortable with this arrangement—both in its original colonial packaging and now in its revolutionary rebranding. Consistency is a virtue, after all.

Let us also not pretend that history began in 1980.

Yes, Zimbabwe inherited a compromised system through the Lancaster House Agreement—a negotiated settlement that temporarily accommodated the very structures the liberation struggle sought to destroy.

White reserved seats, parliamentary presidential selection, and all the colonial trimmings were part of that uneasy transition.

But here is the inconvenient part: we moved on.

By 1987, those compromises were being dismantled. By 1990, Zimbabwe had settled into a clear democratic rhythm—the President is chosen by the people. Not by Parliament. Not by factions. Not by strategic caucuses over lunch.

By the people. For 36 years. Thirty-six.

Which is slightly longer than the lifespan of most political slogans and considerably longer than the patience of citizens being told to surrender their vote for the “greater good.”

So when the 2030 enthusiasts now suggest that Parliament should elect the President, they are not defending history—they are selectively editing it. They are not preserving the liberation legacy—they are auctioning it.

And the irony is exquisite.

For decades, ZANU-PF has guarded the liberation narrative like a jealous landlord—evicting anyone who dared question its moral authority.

Opposition parties were told they had no liberation credentials, no standing, no right even to speak in the same historical room.

Yet today, it is not the opposition proposing to dilute universal suffrage.

It is the landlord himself.

The revolution, it seems, has developed a curious habit of eating its own principles—then blaming the menu.

We are now being asked to believe that taking power away from millions of citizens and handing it to 360 politicians is somehow an expression of democracy. That fewer voters equals deeper representation.

That exclusion is, in fact, participation—just with better coordination.

One almost admires the creativity.

But Zimbabweans are not suffering from historical amnesia.

They know that the liberation struggle was not fought so that power could migrate from white minorities to black political elites while the masses remain spectators.

They know it was fought for something dangerously simple: one person, one vote—without conditions, without substitutions, without parliamentary middlemen.

So let us be clear.

If the President of Zimbabwe is no longer to be elected by the people, then the liberation struggle did not triumph.

It merely changed uniforms.