HARARE – In a nation where the price of a single loaf of bread can represent a significant portion of a daily wage, the digital sphere has become a battlefield for Zimbabwe’s soul. The latest volley was fired not from the floor of Parliament, but from the social media account of Colonel Miniyothabo Baloyi, the wife of Vice President General (Retired) Constantino Chiwenga. Her target? The “mbinga culture” — a phenomenon of ostentatious wealth and performative generosity that has come to define the nation’s nouveau riche.
The spark that ignited this national conversation was deceptively small: a US$100 gift. Baloyi had promised content creator Rue the Dark Girl a meal at Nando’s and subsequently delivered US$100. In most parts of the world, a hundred-dollar tip would be seen as generous. In the hyper-inflated, status-obsessed ecosystem of Zimbabwean social media, it was met with derision. Followers mocked the amount as “paltry,” a slight against the “Second Lady.”
Baloyi’s response was swift and uncharacteristically blunt for a member of the ruling elite. “MaZimbo musadaro, hanzi US$100 yamakapa Rue the Dark Girl ishoma. One Nando’s meal is what I promised and is what I gave her. In fact yakawandisa, ko full chicken imari ikoko?” she wrote, her frustration palpable. “Well, we live in a society where we are now afraid to give people US$100 because vajaira kupihwa ma100 000 if not one million.”
Her remarks have pulled back the curtain on a growing social cancer. The term ‘mbinga,’ once a colloquialism for a wealthy person, has evolved into a caricature of excess. It describes a class of businessmen—often with murky links to state contracts and natural resources—who flaunt luxury vehicles, designer wardrobes, and stacks of hard currency while the majority of the population grapples with a crumbling currency and failing infrastructure.
The Wedding of the Century
To understand why a US$100 gift caused such a stir, one must look at the event that has become the benchmark for Zimbabwean excess: the recent wedding of Taonanyasha John Tagwirei and Poneso Tinomuda Janda. The groom is the son of Kudakwashe Tagwirei, a man frequently described by international observers and the US Treasury as a “notoriously corrupt” businessman with deep ties to the highest offices in the land.
Even President Emmerson Mnangagwa was part of the gift-giving, reportedly presenting the couple with a pedigree Brahman bull. For many Zimbabweans, the spectacle was a bitter pill to swallow. While the elite traded millions in a polo club, the national inflation rate, though officially stabilising in some sectors, continues to erode the purchasing power of the common man.
The Sources of Splendour
The “mbinga culture” is not merely about having money; it is about where that money comes from and how it is used to buy social and political capital. Our investigation into the sources of this wealth reveals a recurring pattern of state patronage.
Then there is Scott Sakupwanya, whose Better Brands Jewellery has been at the centre of allegations regarding gold smuggling and the exploitation of artisanal miners. A recent documentary by Al Jazeera, Gold Mafia, further implicated the Zimbabwean gold trade in large-scale money laundering schemes.
Wicknell Chivayo, perhaps the most vocal of the mbingas, has made a habit of gifting high-end vehicles to musicians and socialites who praise the ruling party, ZANU-PF. His wealth, frequently questioned but rarely audited by the state, appears to be an endless fountain of “blessings” for those willing to sing for their supper.
A Calculated Distraction?
Baloyi’s critique of this culture is significant because of who she is. As the wife of General Chiwenga — the man who led the 2017 coup that toppled Robert Mugabe — she is at the very heart of the establishment. This raises a critical question: Is her call for modesty a genuine plea for a return to traditional values, or is it a strategic move in a larger political game?
“Ini ndopa zvandino afforda and enough for the purpose,” Baloyi wrote. “Next time, if someone asks me for mari yekombi, I will definitely give them US$10 if not US$5… we shouldn’t discourage people from giving or helping others in whatever small ways. It’s the thought that counts.”
On the surface, it is a relatable sentiment. However, political analysts suggest that Baloyi’s comments may be a veiled attack on the business allies of President Mnangagwa. The “mbingas” like Tagwirei and Chivayo are widely seen as being in the President’s camp. By criticising their ostentatious displays, Baloyi—and by extension, her husband—may be attempting to distance themselves from the perceived corruption and greed of the “Second Republic” elite.
This theory is bolstered by Baloyi’s recent professional turbulence. She was recently reassigned within the Zimbabwe National Army, moved from a sensitive military intelligence role to the “Commander’s Pool”—a unit often described as a “holding pen” for officers without specific duties. While some government spokespeople, like George Charamba, suggest this allows her more freedom to travel with the Vice President, others see it as a sign of victimisation or a move to curtail her influence.
The Public’s Cynicism
The public reaction to Baloyi’s statements has been a mixture of cautious praise and deep-seated cynicism. For some, her words resonate. “Finally, someone in power is saying what we all feel,” said one Harare resident who asked not to be named. “These people are dancing on our graves with their millions.”
Others are less convinced. They point to the fact that the Chiwenga family itself lives a life far removed from the struggles of the ordinary citizen. The Vice President’s own wealth has been a subject of public scrutiny, particularly during his acrimonious divorce from his former wife, Marry Mubaiwa, which revealed a lifestyle of luxury properties and high-end medical travel.
“It’s a performative gesture,” says a local political commentator. “They are all part of the same system. Criticising the ‘mbingas’ is an easy way to win public sympathy without actually changing the policies that allow these people to get rich while the country starves.”
The Shadow of Scams
Adding another layer of complexity to the saga is the recent rise in scams targeting the Chiwenga household. The government recently issued an urgent alert about imposters using foreign telephone numbers from South Africa and Nigeria to solicit money while posing as the Vice President or Colonel Baloyi.
“Any and all official communication involving the Vice President, his Office or his household follows proper, official channels,” stated George Charamba. The irony is not lost on the public: while the real Baloyi is being criticised for giving “too little,” scammers are using her name to extract “too much” from unsuspecting citizens.
A House Divided?
The critique of “mbinga culture” by a member of the inner circle suggests that the narrative of a unified ruling elite is a myth. There are clear fractures, and these fractures often manifest in the cultural sphere before they erupt in the political one.
Baloyi’s discomfort with the public nature of her gift is telling. “It’s unfortunate she posted out of appreciation, and I shared the post too, otherwise it was not even worth news,” she wrote. “Besides, biblically, it’s not encouraged to publish when you help others.”
This biblical reference serves as a sharp contrast to the mbingas, who seem to live for the “post” and the “share.” Their generosity is a brand, a tool for social media engagement and political insurance. By invoking the Bible and the “thought that counts,” Baloyi is attempting to reclaim a moral high ground that many feel the ruling party lost long ago.
Conclusion: The Real Cost of ‘Mbinga-ism’
As Zimbabwe moves towards another cycle of political uncertainty, the debate over “mbinga culture” is likely to intensify. It is a debate about more than just money; it is about the values that will define the nation’s future.
Is Baloyi’s critique a sign of a genuine shift towards accountability? Or is it merely a calculated distraction, a way to manage public perception while the underlying structures of state capture remain untouched?
For the ordinary Zimbabwean, waiting in a queue for water or struggling to pay school fees in a currency that loses value by the hour, the answer may not matter as much as the reality. Whether it is a US$2.5 million wedding gift or a US$100 tip, the money is circulating in a stratosphere that most will never reach.
The “mbinga culture” is a symptom of a deeper malaise—a system where wealth is disconnected from productivity and where success is measured by the ability to flaunt what others lack. Until that system is addressed, the words of the elite, no matter how well-crafted or “captivating,” will continue to be viewed through a lens of profound suspicion.
The story of Colonel Baloyi and the US$100 gift is not just a social media spat. It is a microcosm of a nation in crisis, a place where the display of wealth has become a substitute for the delivery of service, and where the wife of a Vice President finds herself at odds with the very culture her husband’s government helped create.
In the end, the “mbingas” will continue to drive their luxury cars through the potholed streets of Harare, and the public will continue to watch, wonder, and wait for a change that feels as distant as a million-dollar wedding gift.