If I ever accept a bribe to stop my social justice advocacy, it will mean the end of my life

Tendai Ruben Mbofana

Yesterday, a lively conversation with a friend took an unexpected turn, forcing me to reflect on the deep-seated rot currently eating away at the fabric of our nation. 

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We were discussing the recent, grotesque spectacle of expensive luxury cars and thick wads of cash being handed out to various individuals and groups in Zimbabwe. 

These “gifts” are courtesy of tenderpreneurs deeply embedded within the ruling elite—a transactional strategy designed to buy loyalty or, at the very least, secure silence.

This bribery campaign has reached fever pitch for a reason. 

We are living under a largely unpopular regime that continues to plunge millions of ordinary citizens into abject poverty, even as those in power pillage our vast national resources for personal aggrandizement. 

This small clique has grown wealthy beyond measure. 

The mere thought of being removed from the feeding trough terrifies them so much that they are now on the verge of amending the Constitution to extend their stay in power. 

To make these unpopular, undemocratic amendments appear acceptable, the machinery of patronage has gone on steroids.

We have witnessed top ruling party officials, religious leaders, musicians, comedians, activists, and commentators being lavishly gifted. 

Unsurprisingly, Members of Parliament from both sides of the political aisle—the very people who will soon vote on these constitutional amendments—have not been spared this opulent courtship.

The most intriguing manifestation of this strategy occurred recently with long-time ZANU-PF activist Rutendo Matinyarare. 

Of late, Matinyarare had been highly disgruntled, publicly airing his grievances over an allegedly unfulfilled payment agreement with controversial tenderpreneur Kudakwashe Tagwirei for anti-sanctions advocacy work. 

In his frustration, Matinyarare went into overdrive, criticizing both Tagwirei and the plans to extend President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s term of office.

The establishment’s response was entirely predictable. 

Days ago, Matinyarare was offered a “peace deal” by another tenderpreneur, Paul Tungwarara, in the form of a high-end Toyota Land Cruiser. 

He excitedly accepted—likely in exchange for him reverting to his pro-establishment stance.

This is the anatomy of patronage in Zimbabwe. 

Those perceived as too vocal against the regime are either brutalized into submission or bribed into complicity.

In this country, political loyalty is never skin-deep; it is superficial, lubricated entirely by cars, cash, and shady tenders. 

Even those surrounding the Head of State—the tenderpreneurs themselves—cannot be said to genuinely support the President. 

Access to state resources is their sole driver. 

It is entirely logical to conclude that if these individuals were not securing multi-million-dollar public contracts, they would not be standing so passionately with the presidium. 

It is entirely, unapologetically transactional.

This brings me back to the conversation with my friend. 

Reflecting on my social justice advocacy, they noted that my voice had become an impactful force to be reckoned with. 

Then came the kicker: ”I’m sure one of these tenderpreneurs will soon offer you an expensive car and massive cash.”

I was floored. 

I never expected to hear such words from a friend I believed knew my character deeply.

The response left my mouth instinctively: if I ever accepted a bribe, no matter how life-altering the sum, and allowed it to silence my work, I would literally be dead within six months. 

That is not hyperbole.

What I do is not a job. 

It is not consultancy work. 

It is not employment. 

It is a calling from Jehovah God. 

That is why I am not on the payroll of any donor, organization, or political outfit to write the truths I write.

In fact, my refusal to monetize my conscience began in 1991. 

As a Lower Six student, I penned a weekly column for a local Kwekwe newspaper, fiercely criticizing the government’s anti-poor Economic Structural Adjustment Programme (ESAP), which resulted in the retrenchment of tens of thousands of workers. 

I was never paid a single cent by the publisher. 

I spoke out of pure passion.

Back then, my writing caused immense friction at home. 

My parents, terrified for my life, watched me risk everything against a brutal regime that was only a few years removed from the horrors of the Gukurahundi genocide. 

They could not comprehend why I would court such danger for zero financial reward.

The threats came swiftly. 

A local ruling party enthusiast, who worked as a nurse alongside my mother at Torwood Hospital, ominously warned her that they would soon silence me and fill our Redcliff neighborhood “with the noise of roosters” (the ruling party’s symbol at the time).

Even my best friend, Brian Taurai Murau, tried to dissuade me out of genuine love and concern for my safety. 

He warned me that if I persisted, I would become the “suppressed mind”—a sobering play on my column’s title, The Un-Oppressed Mind.

Later, I was nearly expelled from school after exposing the misappropriation of funds meant for a new school bus, after the administration bought a cheap, second-hand minibus instead. 

The furious headmaster called a mandatory meeting of all A-Level students and, without naming me, launched into a tirade accusing “one of you” of being a “Judas Iscariot.”

Yet, as a mere high school student, I remained unmoved and undeterred. 

Thirty-five years later, that reality has not changed.

Why? 

Because this has never been about me, nor what I can gain. 

From day one, it has been about fighting for the oppressed, the marginalized, and the impoverished people of Zimbabwe. 

It has always been about them.

My reward is giving a voice to the voiceless. 

It is the entire purpose of my existence.

In His goodness and mercy, God takes care of me through the kindness of ordinary Zimbabweans. 

These are people who are themselves struggling to make ends meet, yet are so touched by my advocacy that they contribute the little they have to keep me going. 

I am forever humbled and profoundly grateful for their support.

So, what would happen to me if I chose to abandon the people of Zimbabwe for a life of state-sponsored luxury?

How could I survive having traded away the very reason for my existence? 

How could I sleep at night, or look at my reflection in the mirror, knowing the magnitude of the betrayal I had committed against millions of my compatriots? 

More importantly, how could I live with myself after betraying Jehovah God?

This work is my daily bread and my oxygen. 

I write every single day—not to fulfill an editorial quota, and not for a paycheck. 

I do it because it is my purpose. 

Take that away from me, and I immediately cease to exist.

I could drive a brand-new luxury vehicle and hold wealth I never dreamed of, but deep down, I would be empty, impoverished, and spiritually dead. 

My greatest fear is that I would simply lose the will to live. 

If I made the foolish mistake of accepting a bribe to be silent, my spirit would not survive past six months.

It is deeply heartbreaking to witness fellow citizens who seem to have no qualms accepting these poisoned chalices, changing their tunes or looking away from systemic repression while our national wealth is stripped bare.

​Whenever I read about the latest compromised activist or bought official, I am left with a profound sense of disgust and disbelief. 

How do they manage to drive their comfortable, air-conditioned luxury cars past suffering vendors struggling to earn a mere dollar in the scorching sun? 

How do they casually enjoy these large, ill-gotten amounts of money, fully aware that there are innocent children going to bed hungry every single night? 

They retreat into their opulent, high-walled mansions, seemingly untroubled by the reality that our elderly are dying in squalor within broken, underfunded hospitals that lack basic medication.

I am left with just one haunting question: Do these people have a soul?

• 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