By Reason Wafawarova

I am increasingly disturbed by ordinary Zimbabweans openly urging the police to use torture to extract confessions from the Guruve murder suspect. Some are even suggesting that the “best place” for the man is Braeside CID. I have no idea why Braeside, of all places, has become synonymous with justice through suffering—but that, in itself, tells us something uncomfortable.

This debate has stirred a personal memory I cannot ignore.

In 2001, while living in Bromley, I arranged with a neighbour to transport me to and from work in Harare after my car went in for service. After work, I was to wait for him at the corner of Robert Mugabe Road and Fourth Street—a kombi pick-up point for the Ruwa–Bromley–Marondera route.

When my neighbour pulled over to pick me up, rank marshals and kombi drivers descended on us. They demanded that I abandon the private vehicle and board a kombi instead. They threatened my neighbour, ordering him to drive off or face violence. They had already begun smashing his car, banging it violently from all sides.

I was armed—two licensed firearms concealed under my suit. But I made a conscious decision not to draw a weapon.

Instead, I was dragged into the middle of the road, beaten and kicked repeatedly as traffic ground to a halt and the city watched.

When the assault ended, I called a friend who was a police officer at Harare Central Charge Office. Within a short time, two truckloads of police officers arrived.

They asked me to identify my attackers. I had heard one name repeatedly shouted—Terrence—so I gave it to them. I also told them the truth: I had been assaulted by almost every rank marshal and kombi driver at that rank.

They arrested one man I identified and another named Terrence.

The head of investigations knew me well. He promised justice.

The police drove me home and dropped me off at Bromley Clinic. Before I left, I witnessed officers assaulting the two suspects—blows delivered under the feet, between the legs, and using other familiar “methods.”

Twenty-four hours later, a delegation led by Terrence’s parents came to see me. They pleaded for forgiveness. They told me plainly that only if I accepted their apology would their son be released so they could take him to hospital.

I accepted the apology. Terrence was released.

The next time I stood at that same spot in town, the rank marshals and kombi drivers surrounded me—not with violence, but with handshakes and embraces. They called me big brother. They apologised profusely.

Let us be clear about what happened.

I was assaulted. People were arrested. Punishment was meted out.

But no evidence was tested in court. No due process was followed. No law was applied—only force.

The police took the law into their own hands. And in the end, we resolved a criminal matter with apologies, forgiveness, and hugs.

This is not a story told to justify torture or mob justice. It is a story that exposes a policing culture we have normalised—where brutality substitutes law, and outcomes replace process.

This is the police culture we must interrogate.