The King and the Parasites: Chiwenga’s Parable and the Looming Shadow Over Zimbabwe’s Throne
MUREWA — Under the blistering April sun in Murewa, a small town northeast of Harare, the atmosphere at a Roman Catholic Church event was thick with more than just incense and prayer. Vice President Constantino Chiwenga, the former military general who once commanded the tanks that toppled Robert Mugabe, stood before the congregation not as a soldier, but as a preacher of omens. His message, delivered with the calculated precision of a man who knows the weight of silence, was a spiritual address that many in the corridors of power have interpreted as a direct broadside against his superior, President Emmerson Mnangagwa.
Extolling the virtues of Saint Francis of Assisi, Chiwenga urged Zimbabwe’s leaders to embrace “humility, radical simplicity, peace building and compassionate outreach to the most vulnerable.” He described these qualities as forming a “balanced leadership framework,” a pointed contrast to the perceived opulence and greed currently associated with the ruling elite. But it was his turn to the Book of Isaiah that left the audience in no doubt about the target of his rhetoric.
“When God asks you to do something, never question why. Why has God done this?” Chiwenga told the silent congregation. He then began the story of King Hezekiah, a biblical monarch who, in Chiwenga’s telling, became blinded by his own longevity and success.
“Hezekiah reigned over Judah for a very long time, and became a very prominent king,” Chiwenga said, his voice echoing through the church. “He began to see himself as not fit for death and thought he was supposed to reign over Judah forever.”
The parable of the king who wouldn’t let go was more than a Sunday sermon; it was a political manifesto wrapped in scripture. Chiwenga recounted how God sent the prophet Isaiah to warn Hezekiah that his time was up and that he must put his affairs in order. The king, however, refused to accept the divine decree.
“Hezekiah would have none of it, hitting on the walls of the palace: ‘What kind of a God are you? There is no any other king who can reign like me!'” Chiwenga said. The consequence of this arrogance, the Vice President noted, was a clouded judgment that led Hezekiah to reveal military secrets to foreign spies, eventually leading to his downfall. “He never managed even three months of the extended period. He spent the extended 15 years down in jail. God did not take away the 15 years, he let him have them, but he was in jail.”
This address comes at a time when Zimbabwe’s political landscape is being violently reshaped. The tabling of the Constitution of Zimbabwe Amendment (No. 3) Bill 2026 in parliament has ignited a fierce internal struggle within the ruling Zanu PF party. The bill introduces a sweeping package of changes that would fundamentally redraw the country’s political architecture in ways that benefit Mnangagwa and neutralise his potential rivals—most notably Chiwenga himself.
One of the most dramatic provisions in the bill is the abolition of the direct election of the president by popular vote. Instead, the president would be elected by members of parliament sitting in a joint session of the Senate and National Assembly. To win, a candidate would need more than half the valid votes cast by MPs. Crucially, the bill also erodes provisions on automatic succession by the vice president in the event of the president’s incapacitation, resignation, or death, effectively closing the path to the top office for Chiwenga and Kembo Mohadi, Mnangagwa’s two deputies.
Furthermore, the amendment proposes extending the presidential term from five years to seven and raising the number of senate seats from 80 to 90, with the president empowered to appoint ten additional senators. For Chiwenga, the co-architect of the November 2017 military coup, these changes represent a betrayal of the elite power-sharing understanding that many believe underpinned the transition from Mugabe. Insiders have long maintained that Mnangagwa was supposed to serve a single term before handing over the reins to Chiwenga. Instead, the President is now pushing for a stay in power that could last until 2030 and beyond.
The tension between the two men is not new, but it has reached a fever pitch. Chiwenga has increasingly used his public appearances to rail against what he calls “zvigananda”—a Shona term for blood-sucking parasites like ticks or bedbugs. In the lexicon of Zimbabwean politics, the word has become a loaded label for a small group of politically connected individuals who have accumulated massive wealth through state capture and corruption.
“We must shun unscrupulous so-called businesspeople operating from the shadows,” Chiwenga has warned in previous speeches. He describes them as “criminals surrounding the president,” echoing the very language used by the military to justify the 2017 intervention.
The most explosive evidence of this internal rift came in September 2025, when a seven-page dossier authored by Chiwenga was leaked following a heated Zanu PF Politburo meeting. In the document, Chiwenga accused businessman Kudakwashe Tagwirei of orchestrating “brazen and systematic looting” of state resources. He alleged that Tagwirei alone had siphoned more than US$1.9 billion from public funds through the Ministry of Finance under the pretext of selling a 35 percent stake in Kuvimba Mining House to the government.
The dossier further claimed that Tagwirei had illegally taken control of state assets, including Sandawana Mine and the Zimbabwe Defence Forces’ stake in Great Dyke Investments, incorporating them into his private business empire. Chiwenga also accused the businessman of concealing the ruling party’s supposed 45 percent shareholding in Sakunda Holdings, held through a company called Mvuto Investments.
But Tagwirei was not the only target. Chiwenga named Wicknell Chivhayo, Scott Sakupwanya, and Delish Nguwaya as other beneficiaries of what he called a “coordinated looting network.” He alleged that Chivhayo had stolen US$45 million from the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission and more than US$193 million “through one bank,” while Sakupwanya had taken more than US$800 million through a “gold incentive scheme” that Chiwenga branded as “tollgate fraud.” Nguwaya was accused of benefiting from US$222 million in inflated government contracts, including the controversial Pomona waste-to-energy project.
“The time for silence and inaction is over,” Chiwenga wrote in the dossier. “We cannot fold our hands while these criminals steal from our state coffers and use the same resources to corrupt our party and destroy our revolution.”
The Vice President’s anger is driven by more than just a desire for transparency. He views these “zvigananda” as the primary financiers of the “2030 Agenda”—the campaign to ensure Mnangagwa remains in power. By bribing party structures and securing loyalty through stolen wealth, these businessmen are effectively building a wall around the President, one that Chiwenga finds increasingly difficult to breach.
The human cost of this power struggle is also weighing heavily on the Vice President. In December 2025, during the wedding of Sibusiso Brendon Moyo, the son of the late Foreign Affairs Minister Sibusiso “SB” Moyo, Chiwenga’s speech took on a somber, reflective tone. SB Moyo and Air Chief Marshal Perrance Shiri were the other two pillars of the military triumvirate that led the 2017 coup. Both died under what many consider “mysterious” circumstances—Shiri in July 2020 and Moyo in January 2021—with the government officially citing COVID-19 complications.
“I want to reflect a little on my relationship with the late former Minister of Foreign Affairs and International Trade, Lieutenant-General Sibusiso ‘SB’ Moyo,” Chiwenga said at the wedding. “We enjoyed a cordial relationship from our military service into public service. It was founded on mutual trust, respect and integrity. It transcended professional life into brotherhood—we became family.”
To many observers, Chiwenga’s presence at the wedding as a “father figure” and his emphasis on “brotherhood” was a subtle but powerful reminder of the allies he has lost. Their deaths effectively collapsed his military power base, leaving him isolated within a government he helped create. The skepticism surrounding their passing continues to haunt the party, with many questioning whether the “sunshine and storms” Chiwenga spoke of were entirely natural.
The Vice President’s rhetoric has become a rallying cry for those within Zanu PF and the military who feel sidelined by the new money elite. By framing the struggle as one between the “genuine” revolutionaries and the “zvigananda” parasites, Chiwenga is attempting to reclaim the moral high ground. He often uses the burial of national heroes at the Heroes’ Acre to contrast the selfless sacrifice of the liberation struggle with the “unscrupulous” greed of the modern-day “shadowy entrepreneurs.”
However, the President’s camp is not sitting idle. The constitutional amendments are a clear signal that Mnangagwa intends to consolidate his hold on the state apparatus, regardless of the internal opposition. The push to have the president elected by parliament is seen as a way to bypass the unpredictable nature of a popular vote, where the economic hardships of the populace might lead to a defeat. By controlling the parliamentary list and the “zvigananda” who fund the MPs, the President can ensure his own survival.
As the late May deadline for the vote on the Amendment Bill approaches, the stakes could not be higher. Chiwenga’s parable of King Hezekiah serves as a warning that power, when clung to against the “will of God” or the natural order of succession, leads to ruin. The Vice President’s message is clear: the king who refuses to let go may find himself not in a palace, but in a prison of his own making.
The “zvigananda,” meanwhile, continue to operate in the shadows, their wealth growing even as the country’s economy falters. For the ordinary Zimbabwean, the spectacle of the two most powerful men in the country trading barbs through parables and dossiers offers little comfort. The “looting network” Chiwenga described has drained billions from the treasury, money that could have been used to fix hospitals, schools, and the crumbling infrastructure.
“We cannot fold our hands,” Chiwenga’s dossier warned. But as the “2030 Agenda” gathers momentum, it remains to be seen whether the Vice President has the remaining strength to do more than just speak. The tanks of 2017 are long gone, replaced by the subtle, yet equally powerful, machinery of constitutional law and financial patronage.
In the end, the story of Zimbabwe’s leadership may well follow the path of Hezekiah. Whether the “extended period” leads to a peaceful transition or a catastrophic collapse depends on which side of the palace walls the truth finally settles. For now, the “zvigananda” remain fat on the lifeblood of the nation, and the king shows no sign of letting go.
The resonance of Chiwenga’s words in Murewa will likely linger long after the church bells have stopped ringing. In a country where politics is often a matter of life and death, a parable is never just a story. It is a warning, a threat, and a plea for a future that seems increasingly out of reach.
As the sun set over the hills of Murewa, the congregants dispersed, carrying with them the image of a king hitting the walls of his palace, shouting into the void. It is an image that may soon become a reality for Zimbabwe, as the struggle for the throne enters its most dangerous chapter yet.
