Africa-Press – Zimbabwe. REPORTS that Vice-President Kembo Mohadi’s son, Mafenyadira, has evicted 21 families from a farm in Mazowe, Mashonaland Central province, are a painful reminder that in Zimbabwe, land remains both a symbol of liberation and an instrument of oppression.
The families, including young children, are reportedly sleeping in the open, exposed to the elements as the rainy season begins.
Their homes are gone, their crops destroyed, their lives uprooted — casualties of a system that continues to privilege the powerful at the expense of the powerless.
This is not the first time Arnold Farm, popularly known as Manzou, has witnessed such cruelty.
In 2015, armed riot police descended on the same land, demolishing homes reportedly on the orders of then First Lady Grace Mugabe.
The families fought back through the courts, which ordered the government to compensate some of the victims.
Yet, as history now repeats itself, it is clear that neither justice nor compassion ever took root.
The Mugabes had intended to turn the land into a private project hub — complete with a school, dairy farm and game sanctuary.
That dream died, but the culture of entitlement it represented lives on.
Today, it is another politically connected elite — the son of a vice-president — claiming the right to displace the poor.
The Manzou evictions are not isolated.
They are part of a long and shameful pattern of elite land grabs dressed in the language of empowerment, but executed through raw impunity.
In 2015, then Tourism minister Walter Mzembi, already a farm owner, sought to grab another — the Banquest Extension Farm in Masvingo — a lucrative chicken-breeding enterprise run by Helen Mitchell.
In 2018, then Deputy Chief Secretary in the Office of the President and Cabinet, Ray Ndhlukula, moved to destroy the home of Figtree farmer David Connolly at Centenary Farm in Matabeleland South.
The invasion was illegal, but the perpetrators faced no consequence.
And just this year, it took a High Court ruling to eject Zanu PF’s former secretary for administration Obert Mpofu and several Central Intelligence Organisation operatives from Esidakeni Farm in Matabeleland North, where they had unlawfully settled.
The pattern is unmistakable: when the politically powerful want land, the law bends or breaks.
What began as a land reform programme meant to redress colonial injustices has, over the years, degenerated into a system of patronage and personal enrichment.
The land — once a rallying cry for liberation — has become a tool for consolidating power and rewarding loyalty.
The poor, in whose name the programme was launched, remain landless, homeless and voiceless.
Each new eviction deepens Zimbabwe’s moral crisis.
It shows how far the nation has drifted from the ideals of equity, justice and dignity that once defined the liberation struggle.
Instead of empowering the dispossessed, land reform has entrenched new hierarchies of privilege — a feudal system where proximity to power determines access to property.
The courts have, at times, acted as a thin line of defence, as in the Esidakeni case, but their rulings rarely translate into accountability.
The perpetrators simply move on to the next farm, the next family, the next eviction.
The victims rebuild their lives, only to be uprooted again.
Zimbabwe’s land question will never be resolved through violence, nepotism or deceit.
It demands transparent allocation, lawful ownership and social justice.
Until land becomes a national asset rather than a political weapon, the dream of liberation will remain hollow.
For now, the rains have begun to fall on the fields of Mazowe, where 21 families sleep under the open sky — not because the land is scarce, but because power remains the only title deed that matters.
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