Elon Musk’s X Suspends 13,000 Accounts, Raising Questions for African Elections

Illustration: Digital platforms, electoral integrity and the struggle for digital sovereignty in Africa.

The ThursdayBriefing 14/10/2026

By Dr Blessing Ivan Vava

X says it has suspended more than 13,000 accounts linked to suspected foreign influence operations ahead of the United States midterm elections on 3 November. In its announcement on 14 October, the company said networks associated with Iran, Russia and China used fake accounts to post and amplify political content targeting candidates and public figures across the political spectrum.

Removing deceptive accounts may help protect an election. But the announcement also reminds us how much authority a private platform exercises over political debate. X investigates suspicious activity, decides which accounts to remove and explains its decisions largely on its own terms. The public has limited access to the evidence behind those decisions.

African countries should pay attention before the next election dispute. Political parties, candidates, civic organisations and ordinary citizens use these platforms to organise, campaign and reach voters. Decisions taken thousands of kilometres away can determine whether their messages are heard at home.

Suppose X suspends an African opposition political party’s accounts days before voting, describing them as part of an influence operation. The party disputes the accusation; however, where can it obtain a timely, independent hearing? Restoring its accounts after polling would not recover the lost campaign days.

The latest announcement does not establish that X targeted legitimate political parties or that Elon Musk personally ordered the removals. Yet political participation should not depend on the goodwill of Musk or any other platform owner. Safeguards against selective enforcement matter regardless of who owns the company.

None of this means online deception should be tolerated. During Kenya’s 2022 election, a fabricated graphic circulated claiming to show a joint media tally declaring Raila Odinga the winner. Africa Check also investigated a fake news screenshot alleging that thousands of votes had wrongly been added to his total. Both borrowed the appearance of familiar news sources.

A voter receiving such a graphic from a trusted relative on WhatsApp may forward it without checking. By the time a correction arrives, people could already be arguing about why the electoral commission’s figures differ from what they believe they have seen. Even if no result changes, public confidence can be shaken while votes are still being counted. Election observation can no longer stop at the polling station; it must also pay attention to the information reaching voters online.

Platforms have a responsibility to confront coordinated deception. Ahead of Uganda’s January 2021 election, Facebook (now Meta) removed a network of accounts and pages for coordinated inauthentic behaviour. The company later reported that its investigation found links to a government communications centre. That example shows why the scrutiny cannot be directed only at foreign actors: domestic political power can also be implicated in online manipulation.

Still, an activist using a pseudonym for safety is not the same as an operation pretending to be hundreds of unrelated citizens. Nor is a political party’s organised campaign automatically deceptive. These distinctions matter where accusations of foreign interference or misinformation could put legitimate critics at risk.

There is another, less visible way platforms exercise power. X’s published rules allow it to restrict the reach of posts, including by excluding them from search results and recommendations.

Imagine a candidate publishing evidence of a failed public project. The post stays on their profile but barely travels beyond existing supporters. The candidate may never learn whether voters simply lost interest, the algorithm favoured other material, or the post was quietly restricted for breaking a rule. Ordinary ranking and a penalty are very different things, but without meaningful transparency they look the same from the outside.

A platform can therefore affect a campaign without closing its accounts. Voters may never know what they were not shown. That is why researchers need ways to examine suspected discriminatory enforcement and the broader effects of recommendation systems, with proper privacy safeguards.

This is where digital sovereignty matters for African elections. Who holds these companies accountable when their decisions affect political participation? African institutions must be able to demand explanations, while candidates and citizens need somewhere to challenge decisions that could affect an election. Closer cooperation with Big Tech means little without transparency, accountability and protection of political rights. African countries cannot claim sovereignty over their elections while powerful companies make consequential decisions about electoral debate without adequate scrutiny.

There is also the danger that governments could abuse such cooperation for political advantage. An agreement supposedly intended to protect elections from misinformation could become a convenient route for those in power to flag their opponents’ material. Criticism of a president or ruling party might be reported as misinformation, with posts restricted or accounts suspended. Those affected may not know whether a decision followed a government complaint or the platform’s own assessment. By the time they secure an explanation or appeal, the election may already be over.

Government requests to technology companies are already a documented practice. Google publishes information about removal requests from courts and public agencies, including requests to review content under its own policies. A request does not necessarily lead to removal.

African governments should disclose the purpose and procedures of election-related arrangements with platforms. Requests affecting political speech should be recorded and subject to independent scrutiny. Citizens gain little if authority simply shifts from a company acting alone to a company acting alongside an incumbent government.

Electoral commissions need direct channels to report fabricated results and misleading voting instructions. But they should not be the only ones with access to the platforms. Independent observers and civic organisations must also be heard, particularly when political accounts are suspended. An appeal resolved after polling day offers little comfort to a candidate who has already lost valuable campaign time.

African countries should not have to negotiate these matters individually with powerful technology companies. The African Union (AU) and regional bodies such as SADC and the East African Community (EAC) could establish common expectations on transparency, political content moderation and electoral accountability. Election observers also need to understand what is happening online, including conversations in local languages that international platforms may struggle to interpret. Independent researchers need access to relevant evidence, with privacy safeguards, to assess whether suspected influence operations actually reached voters.

X’s announcement should prompt more than a debate about 13,000 accounts removed ahead of America’s midterms. African electoral authorities need to ask what would happen if a similar operation targeted their elections, how they would assess the company’s response, and where affected citizens or parties could turn for redress. Those questions should be settled before the next campaign, not in the middle of a dispute.

The future of democratic elections will be decided as much in the weeks before polling day as in the count itself. Ballots may be secret and tallies accurate, yet an election can still be unfair if one side’s message was quietly suppressed or the other side’s falsehoods travelled unchecked. Electoral integrity has always meant protecting the vote. It must now also mean protecting the conditions under which voters make up their minds, and that requires scrutiny of companies whose decisions never appear on the ballot.

If an African political party loses access to its supporters days before voting, a platform’s assurance that it acted to protect the election will not be enough. The decision may be justified, but the party needs a fair opportunity to challenge it before the damage becomes irreversible. That is what digital sovereignty should mean for voters: institutions that can demand answers from powerful companies, even when their owners are beyond our borders.

The ballot will still record the voter’s choice. We also need to know who had the power to restrict the debate that preceded it, and what stopped them from abusing that power.

Dr Blessing Ivan Vava is a Zimbabwean political analyst and Executive Director of the Southern Africa Coalition for Democracy and Accountability (SACDA). His work examines elections, digital politics and democratic accountability in Southern Africa, and he recently co-authored PARI-Africa’s briefings on Zambia’s 2026 general election. He holds a doctorate in Communication Studies from the University of Johannesburg and writes The Thursday Briefing at blevava.blogspot.com.

Zimbabwe’s Wicknell Chivayo: The Patron Is Gone, the Patronage Remains

Zimbabwe mourned a tenderpreneur, a businessman enriched by government contracts, as though it had lost a cabinet minister. That tells us less about the man than about the state that made him possible.

     Wicknell Chivayo with Kenyan President William Ruto. Credit: Sir Wicknell Facebook page

By Dr Blessing Ivan Vava

The immigration officer in Nairobi was still holding my passport when, learning I was Zimbabwean, he suggested Kenya had lost Wicknell, the president’s friend.

He seemed not quite to believe the man was dead. During my short stay, Wicknell’s name came up at almost every introduction. Some Kenyans spoke of his generosity; others of corruption, Rolls-Royces and the imagined riches of Zimbabwean men. Before I could explain what brought me to Kenya, the conversation turned to him. Kenyan colleagues told me his death had dominated media coverage.

I found myself wondering how one man’s presidential friendships and conspicuous wealth had become such a recognisable image of Zimbabwe abroad.

Chivayo, the self-styled “Sir Wicknell”, died with his wife Lucy Muteke and three others when their helicopter crashed in Marondera on 30 September. Every family that lost someone that day deserves compassion. But a public life invites a public reckoning, and the response to his death was itself a political event.

When public services fail, and wages cannot sustain a household, a wealthy patron gains power over people’s choices. Chivayo’s gifts came with publicity, and his political loyalties were explicit. Why had citizens’ livelihoods and dignity become so dependent on the favour of men with access to President Emmerson Mnangagwa?

The informal foreign ministry

His reach went far beyond Mnangagwa. He met Kenya’s William Ruto, Uganda’s Yoweri Museveni, Tanzania’s Samia Suluhu Hassan and Nigeria’s Bola Tinubu, and cultivated a relationship with King Mswati III of Eswatini. Samia was reported to have visited the family home to pay her condolences. What was a private tenderpreneur doing with such ready access to heads of state, and what public scrutiny accompanied it?

Eswatini’s government confirmed that he had been granted citizenship and a diplomatic passport following his audience with King Mswati III in June, citing his “philanthropic contributions”. It also announced that Intratrek, the company at the centre of the Gwanda dispute, would build a 3 billion South African rand solar plant in the kingdom. In Kenya, his name appeared on a leaked immigration list allegedly showing passports issued to foreign nationals, prompting lawyer Peter Wahinya to demand the application records. Each government owes its citizens an explanation of the privileges it granted him and any public business conducted through those relationships.

Former Kenyan Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua alleged that Chivayo held and moved money on Ruto’s behalf. The reports supplied no evidence substantiating those allegations. Chivayo had nevertheless become a figure in Kenya’s disputes about presidential power as well as Zimbabwe’s.

When Ruto personally drove him to a helipad in August, Chivayo publicised the encounter. One Kenyan I spoke to saw it as evidence of his importance. The photographs told us who would receive him, but little about the businesses financing his lifestyle and gifts.

At home, the mourners included politicians, pastors, musicians, comedians, sports stars, civil servants, and judges from the Supreme Court and High Court. Ministers came in procession. Presidential adviser Paul Tungwarara recalled frequent meetings with Mnangagwa involving himself and Chivayo. Justice Minister Ziyambi Ziyambi also recalled regularly finding Chivayo at the president’s private office. The president visited the family himself, and Chivayo was declared a provincial hero.

Citizens seeking a hearing about nurses’ pay, water supplies or public expenditure rarely command such visible attention. Watching the succession of ministers visiting the family, it felt as though almost the whole government had stopped to mourn. The accounts left me wondering whether a small circle of businessmen enjoyed more ready access to Mnangagwa than his own ministers. Citizens should know where public decisions are made and whose interests are heard.

Nobody begrudges a family its grief. What grates is the public celebration of a model of success whose rewards were always on display and whose workings never were.

Follow the five million

The Gwanda solar project is where the questions become concrete. Chivayo’s company, Intratrek, won a major public contract that led to litigation and criminal proceedings, in which he and the company were acquitted. That must be accepted. But an acquittal answers a criminal charge. It does not answer the auditor’s question: what did the public pay, and what did it receive?

At the funeral, his younger brother Joachim "G6" Chivayo gave an account of what followed the Gwanda payment.  His story drew laughter, but it deserved scrutiny. He recalled that once the US$5 million arrived, Wicknell stopped taking his calls. Joachim followed his brother’s movements on Facebook instead: shoes he valued at US$90,000 and a trip to America. When they finally spoke, Wicknell said the money was finished. The US$1 million promised to Joachim had become a car. Joachim called it his brother’s “hustling mentality”. The mourners laughed.

By his brother’s own account, Wicknell broke his word to the man who had sold his cars to back him. But this was not family money. It was paid for a public power project, under a contract ZPC terminated in 2018. G6’s story does not establish where those funds went. It does make the question impossible to dodge. If a brother who trusted him could not get a straight answer about the money, Zimbabweans are entitled to one from the records: what happened to the money, and what did the public receive for it?

Then there are the recordings that surfaced during his feud with Mike Chimombe and Moses Mpofu. In audio attributed to him, the speaker boasts of presidential trust while discussing a maize-supply contract and other government business. Chivayo disputed their authenticity, alleging voice cloning. In the world described by those recordings, trust from “mukuru”, a Shona term of respect for an elder or boss, widely taken to mean Mnangagwa, appears to count for more than competitive bidding. The allegations require independent examination against procurement and payment records. Friendship is not an audit.

The cars and the constitution

Constitutional Amendment No. 3, commonly known as CAB3, brought the political consequences into focus. The amendment extended presidential terms from five to seven years and replaced direct presidential elections with selection by Parliament. CITE, a Bulawayo-based news outlet, reported that Samantha Mureyani of the opposition Citizens Coalition for Change (CCC) and Remigious Matangira of the ruling ZANU-PF each received a 2026 Toyota Fortuner and US$50,000 from Chivayo while publicly backing the bill. According to that report, Chivayo linked the rewards to their support.

A legislator watching those gifts could reasonably conclude that support for the next amendment might attract similar generosity. Parliament should have examined that risk, regardless of whether a particular vote could be shown to have been purchased.

There was also an offer to the whole of Parliament. On 18 April, Independence Day, Chivayo pledged US$3.6 million: US$10,000 for each of the 360 MPs and senators, opposition included, for “constituency development”, to be handed over through Speaker Jacob Mudenda. He called it an “olive branch” and claimed Mnangagwa had personally approved it. There was a catch. Any legislator who refused would see the money go instead to a “competent and pro-development individual” in their constituency: a former MP, a shadow MP, an aspiring rival. The pledge did not mention the constitutional amendment. It did not need to. The vote was weeks away.

Refusal had a price: turn down the patron’s money and fund your challenger. What independence could Parliament claim when a government contractor, invoking the president’s blessing, was offering money to its members weeks before they voted on that president’s powers?

Bulawayo Mayor David Coltart pointed to Parliament’s Code of Conduct, which prohibits MPs from promoting matters for personal benefit and requires disclosure of gifts exceeding US$4,500. He also argued that Parliament had not fulfilled the broader disclosure requirements of Section 198 of the Constitution. The public should be able to inspect the members’ interests register and see whether these gifts were declared. Disclosure is the starting point for scrutiny, rather than a substitute for it.

Chivayo’s own political preference was explicit. In a Facebook post published on the morning of the crash, he wrote: “EVERYDAY isu tachinja slogan yave VISION 2040.” The post declares that the slogan is now “Vision 2040”. He had also publicly connected CAB3 with that ambition. Set that beside the Munhumutapa imagery surrounding the president, which recalls the emperors of the pre-colonial Mutapa state, and I read this as support for a presidency with no foreseeable end. The concern is that the presidency is increasingly presented as belonging to a person instead of being an office held in public trust.

The economy of gratitude

A car can leave its recipient feeling indebted long after the handover. Gratitude and the hope of another gift raise the cost of criticising the benefactor or his political associates. People who depend on the next gift can feel obliged to support politics they would otherwise question.

His giving also reached the institutions entrusted with enforcing the law. Last December, The Herald reported a donation package worth about US$5.6 million for the army, police and prison service’s welfare funds: 20 Land Cruisers and US$2 million in cash. In August, he offered CID Homicide ten bulletproof Fortuners, US$250,000 in tactical equipment and an iPhone for every officer in the department, subject to official approval. Its detectives had investigated the armed robbery at his in-laws’ farm. Could an ordinary citizen trust the same department to investigate a complaint against him without fear or favour? The security services should disclose what they accepted, who benefited and how they protected their independence.

The spectacle of “twerking for cars” revealed how little ordinary work seemed to offer. People made public appeals and performed for Chivayo’s attention because being noticed could change their circumstances. Mocking them avoids the harder question of why they needed to do so. A functioning economy should allow people to earn decent livelihoods without auditioning for a benefactor.

Advocate Lewis Uriri drew that boundary last month when he declined Chivayo’s public offer of a US$250,000 Range Rover and US$100,000 in cash for him and his wife. Uriri said his past legal work had been fully remunerated and rejected gifts that could create a perception of continuing financial obligation. ZimLive also reported footage of him accepting an earlier vehicle. His later refusal nevertheless recognised the danger of financial obligation outlasting a professional relationship.

Not every beneficiary surrendered their independence. But the churches, newsrooms and artists who accepted his generosity should ask honestly whether they still feel free to say what this article says. Ubuntu, an ethic of shared humanity, protects the dignity of the receiver, including the freedom to disagree. Generosity turns corrosive when criticism is rebranded as ingratitude.

Chivayo’s death leaves intact the political arrangements that enabled his rise. Zimbabwe Power Company should publish the Gwanda payment and delivery records, and the Auditor-General should establish what the public received for its money. Parliament should disclose MPs’ gifts and interests during the CAB3 proceedings and examine whether those gifts breached its rules.

Churches, media houses and civic bodies receiving large donations should disclose them and explain how they protect their independence.

Accountability also extends beyond Zimbabwe. Eswatini should disclose the basis for granting him citizenship and a diplomatic passport, and publish the proposed solar project’s terms and procurement process. Kenya’s immigration authorities should answer the questions already put to them about his reported passport. Presidents who received him should explain what public business, if any, arose from those relationships. Mourning cannot close the public record.

In Nairobi, his name became my introduction to Zimbabwe. The work at home is to build a country recognised for institutions that serve its people. Zimbabweans should not have to become anyone’s favourite to be treated as citizens. 

Dr Blessing Ivan Vava is a Zimbabwean political analyst and Executive Director of the Southern Africa Coalition for Democracy and Accountability (SACDA). He writes on democracy, governance and Southern African politics. He can be contacted at blessingvava@gmail.com

Trump’s AI Ambitions Demand a Clearer Response from Africa

The ThursdayBriefing 8 October 2026

By Dr Blessing Ivan Vava

Donald Trump’s administration was clear about whose future it was celebrating. As the US president gathered technology executives at the White House on September 29, his officials hailed a coming “Golden Age”. The same day, Trump signed an executive order directing federal agencies to use “super intelligence” instead of “artificial intelligence” in official communications, to the extent permitted by law. Watching from Africa, I was struck by how plainly the ambition was stated. These companies may serve the world, but the political project has a national address.

The gathering produced the White House Accord on Super Intelligence, signed by Trump and leaders from Google, Anthropic, Meta, OpenAI, xAI and Nvidia. It sets out voluntary commitments to internal controls, external audits and board oversight. Trump called it “morally binding”. The document leaves open the possibility of legislation later.

Decisions made by the US government and major AI suppliers will shape which systems African health and education ministries, public hospitals and schools can buy, and on what terms. The accord names cybersecurity, biosecurity and chemical threats among its concerns. It offers no explicit route to redress for a patient harmed by an AI-assisted decision or a child poorly served by an AI tutor. African governments should ensure that national laws and procurement contracts protect those using these systems. Health and education authorities should enforce standards, while independent regulators and courts provide avenues for complaints and remedies.

Trump knows what he wants AI to deliver for America. The harder question is whether African governments know what they want before they sign a technology agreement.

Washington has put its intentions in writing. A July 2025 executive order seeks worldwide adoption of American AI technologies, standards and governance models. It backs exports of complete technology packages, from computing infrastructure to applications, and explicitly aims to reduce dependence on technologies developed by US adversaries. Selling technology is part of a strategy for extending American power. At the White House meeting, Trump put the rivalry plainly: “We have a very big lead, and we’re going to keep our lead.” He has also resisted sweeping federal regulation on the grounds that it could slow American innovation and benefit China.

China’s Global AI Governance Action Plan offers another route, promising open-source cooperation and support for the Global South. Those promises deserve the same scrutiny as Washington’s. Open-source tools may be difficult to put to lasting use if local institutions lack the expertise to adapt them or the money to maintain them. Still, credible alternatives from Chinese suppliers could give African governments more room to negotiate better terms with American companies. 

That leverage is greatest before a contract is signed and can vanish soon after. Suppose Zimbabwe's Ministry of Health and Child Care buys an AI system to support patient care in public hospitals. Once patient records and daily services run on that supplier's software, replacing it requires costly data transfers and retraining staff. If fees rise, the ministry may simply pay, because switching would disrupt treatment. One procurement decision can narrow the choices of future governments.

Such dependence can be built into contracts, where a government’s need to improve public services meets a supplier’s commercial interests. I examine these encounters through geosociotechnopolitics, a framework that connects local needs and political choices with the ambitions of powers such as the US and China. African officials may have limited bargaining power and face pressure to secure investment quickly. They still need to establish who controls the system and where the data goes, and ensure that citizens have someone to hold to account.

These questions surfaced in Zimbabwe’s 2018 facial-recognition partnership with CloudWalk. Contemporary reporting described plans for Zimbabwean facial data to help train the Chinese company’s systems. MISA Zimbabwe raised concerns about the anticipated transfer and called for parliamentary scrutiny. Those reports do not establish what data was ultimately transferred. They do show why consent and oversight belong in the discussion before a partnership proceeds.

The supplier’s nationality cannot settle these questions. An American product carries no automatic guarantee of accountability, just as a Chinese agreement does not by itself establish dependence. The terms of the deal matter, along with the institutions responsible for enforcing them.

Connecting schools and training teachers to use an AI tutor may leave an education ministry dependent on software it cannot properly assess or adapt. Teachers might notice that it gives poor answers in Shona, but who can investigate the problem and get it corrected? That requires local expertise and an agreement that gives the ministry a say over how the system is used. Teachers should have time to test the tutor against the curriculum before purchase, and their findings should influence the decision. Otherwise, once schools rely on it, officials could struggle to resist higher fees or proposed changes to the use of pupils’ data. This is the governance divide that concerns me: expanding access without giving public institutions the means to protect the people using the technology.

For a district hospital in rural Malawi, an AI tool that helps interpret scans could ease pressure on scarce specialist services. Before accepting such an offer, hospital managers and clinicians would need evidence that it works reliably for their patients. They would also need to establish where patient records would be stored, who could access them and who would remain responsible for clinical decisions. If the supplier withdrew the service, the hospital would still need a way to assess and treat patients.

Africa has policy foundations for this work. The African Union’s Continental AI Strategy, endorsed in July 2024, calls for an Africa-centred approach and cooperation among member states. The Malabo Convention on cybersecurity and personal data protection entered into force in 2023. The AU also has a Data Policy Framework. Turning these commitments into effective oversight requires public institutions with staff, budgets and the authority to act.

Procurement offers an immediate starting point. Before signing a major agreement, a government should require evidence that the system works in its intended setting, clear limits on the use of sensitive information and a practical way to change providers. Independent scrutiny at this stage could prevent years of avoidable dependence.

Smaller countries need not shoulder every cost alone. The Southern African Development Community (SADC), the East African Community (EAC) and the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) could help member governments share the cost of technical teams to evaluate AI systems and advise on contracts. Universities within these regions could pool computing resources and contribute researchers to those teams. Officials would then have access to expertise independent of the company seeking their signature.

Hospital staff might leave a training workshop knowing how to use an AI system, yet still have nobody locally to turn to when it produces questionable results. That is a limited return on the promise of capacity building. Paying domestic firms to develop and maintain applications would help build expertise that institutions could draw on long after the training ends. Universities also need sustained access to computing resources to test tools in Shona, Swahili or Chichewa. Much of that investment could be lost if public institutions cannot afford to keep trained staff. Governments should ask what their institutions will be able to do for themselves once the supplier’s team has gone home. The answer need not be a home-grown ChatGPT. It should at least include enough expertise to recognise a poor offer and negotiate a better one.

Citizens also need protection from their own governments. Putting an AI system under national control does not, by itself, prevent officials from using facial recognition to track critics or algorithms to deny public services without explanation. People need a way to challenge those decisions, backed by independent oversight and enforceable limits on state power. Otherwise, sovereignty may merely change who holds the power to misuse the technology.

Trump has put American power behind the AI industry. African leaders should be able to explain what their own agreements are for, and remain answerable for them years later. When a hospital’s system fails, it matters whether help is available locally. A university should have more to show for a partnership than staff trained to use somebody else’s software. Citizens have a right to know what these deals cost and who has access to their data, long after the officials who signed them have left office.

America is entitled to pursue its golden age. Africa’s task is to negotiate a future its own citizens have reason to welcome. 

Dr Blessing Ivan Vava is a Zimbabwean researcher and Executive Director of the Southern Africa Coalition for Democracy and Accountability (SACDA). His work examines technology, sovereignty and democratic accountability in Africa. He holds a doctorate in Communication Studies from the University of Johannesburg, where he researched Chinese ICT investment in Zimbabwe, and writes The Thursday Briefing on his blog, The Vuvuzela Times.

Intotal Band’s Legends Night Has the Crowd. Who Gets the Royalties?

.      Image credit: Ecobank Zimbabwe Facebook page

By Dr Blessing Ivan Vava

I had chosen to stay out of the Intotal Band debate. But after Ecobank Legends Night Africa 2.0 at Alex Sports Club in Harare on Saturday, September 26, it's becoming difficult to stay quiet. These young musicians deserve credit for what they have built.

They have attracted Ecobank’s backing and taken Legends Night beyond Zimbabwe’s music to include artists such as Salif Keita and Yondo Sister. In an interview with Tafadzwa Zimoyo for the Sunday Mail, Keita said he had been following Intotal’s work and added: “I love the boys.”

Having talent and running a professional outfit are different things. Plenty of musicians can play familiar songs. Putting together a show of this ambition, finding sponsors and giving audiences a reason to return requires organisation. That is part of Intotal’s achievement.

The programme also included Tanga WekwaSando, Alick Macheso and Leonard Zhakata. This creates room for established musicians and younger performers to work together.

I support the concept. I also understand why musicians and their families want to know what they earn when those songs fill venues. The success of Legends Night makes that question more pressing.

Some of this music can find its way back into people’s lives through these shows. An am2k hears a song, asks who sang it first and looks for the recording. Someone older returns to an album they have not played for years. We still need figures to establish whether that interest has increased streams of the original recordings. The opportunity is there.

UB40 built much of its international appeal through interpretations of existing songs, alongside its original material. “Red Red Wine” was written and recorded by Neil Diamond before becoming one of UB40’s signature recordings. The band’s Labour of Love album showed how covers could reach fresh audiences and establish a band’s own identity.

The late country singer and songwriter Dolly Parton understood the financial value of a successful cover. Responding to people who associated “I Will Always Love You” with Whitney Houston, she joked: “That’s fine, she can have the credit, I just want my cash.” Houston’s recording reportedly earned Parton about US$10 million in songwriting royalties during the 1990s.

I would like Zimbabwean songwriters to have that confidence when someone performs their work. They need to know that permission has been obtained and that the money due to them will arrive.

Performing someone else’s song is lawful when the necessary permissions are in place, and their conditions are met. Recording a cover can also be lawful, although recording, distributing and uploading it involve additional rights. Permission for a concert does not automatically extend to every subsequent use of its recording.

The US$150 receipt mentioned in this debate was being cited as evidence that Intotal had a ZIMURA licence. Producer Clive “Mono” Mukundu had defended the band as licensed. In its September 9 statement, ZIMURA said the receipt related to a licence for one event on one day, not continuing permission for later shows. It also said it had received no royalties from the Ecobank Legends Night tours. ZIMURA’s account needs to be checked against the actual licences and payment records.

Online earnings are not automatic either. YouTube allows revenue sharing on eligible covers claimed by music publishers, but uploading a performance does not guarantee that all its proceeds reach the composer. The rights and payment arrangements still matter.

Before we can follow the money, though, we have to establish who owns what.

The musician whose voice we recognise may not own the original recording. A label may control the master recording, while the songwriter or publisher controls the composition. Ownership of the recording does not, by itself, give a company control over a band’s entirely live interpretation of the song.

That means looking again at the contracts behind Zimbabwe’s older recordings, and at how companies such as Gramma Records, Zimbabwe Music Corporation (ZMC) and Records and Tape Promotions (RTP) operated. Gramma recorded Leonard Dembo, System Tazvida and Biggie Tembo, the three musicians whose families have now spoken out, while ZMC recorded Oliver Mtukudzi, Leonard Zhakata and Lovemore Majaivana.

I have heard of musicians being recorded without paying for studio time. For a musician without money, an offer of studio time and distribution could be difficult to turn down. But being recorded without paying upfront was not necessarily a free service. Depending on the agreement, a company could recover its costs from royalties or obtain ownership of the recording. Payment disputes did not end there. In 2017, Alick Macheso sued Gramma Records for US$15,863 in royalties he alleged were unpaid between March 2009 and September 2014. We need the agreements to know what each musician retained.

Questions about recording costs and ownership also reach into the urban grooves years. In the early 2000s, producers such as Delani Makhalima and Take 5 (Tatenda Jenami), and labels such as Galaxy Records, gave young artists access to recording opportunities. In The Chamhembe Story, SoProfound’s documentary series on the era, Take 5 defends the financial arrangements, pointing to the studio, electricity and distribution costs. Artists brought their music and recorded without paying upfront. Makhalima has described how one act’s earnings paid for the next: “Roy and Royce’s money was used to finance Plaxedes, Plaxedes’ money was used to finance Shame and Nathan…” That model helped launch careers. But the agreements still matter: what costs could be recovered, how was income shared, and who owned the recordings?

In 2016, Leonard Zhakata questioned the proposed sale of Gramma Records, Zimbabwe Music Corporation and Ngaavongwe Records without consultation with musicians. He also complained about unpaid royalties.

Who controls those catalogues now, and for how long? Renewed interest in an old recording may bring in money without substantially improving a family’s circumstances. That interest alone will not change the terms under which those families are paid.

Solomon Linda’s story shows how far apart a song’s success and a family’s fortunes can be. His “Mbube” became the basis of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”, which found international fame while his family struggled financially. A 2006 settlement secured payments for past uses, future royalties and recognition of Linda’s contribution, with a trust to administer his heirs’ interests. That outcome required legal action and negotiation.

Closer to home, Leonard Dembo’s son, Tendai, and the widows of Biggie Tembo and System Tazvida have also raised objections. Tazvida’s widow, Babra Mabuyaye, described struggling financially while others benefited from performances of her husband’s music.

Telling such families that the music keeps a legacy alive is hardly enough. They can appreciate its popularity and still ask why they are not benefiting.

ZIMURA must be transparent in its dealings and accountable to the musicians it represents. It should disclose what it collects, what it deducts, how royalties are allocated and when payments are made. Where money remains unpaid, musicians and their beneficiaries deserve clear explanations and a way to challenge errors. Collecting royalties carries a responsibility to account for every dollar.

That accountability must extend to how ZIMURA’s secretariat treats musicians. Questions about royalties deserve clear, respectful answers, not defensiveness or condescension. The secretariat should not behave like overzealous high school prefects: musicians are asking about their earnings, not seeking permission to leave the classroom. It serves the people whose rights it administers and must answer to them.

Labels and publishers must account for the income they handle too. Missing payments can also arise from incomplete records, unresolved estate documents or failures to license performances. Families still deserve to be told what has gone wrong and how it will be put right.

Britain’s PRS for Music matches concert setlists to registered works to allocate royalties. Australia and New Zealand’s APRA AMCOS requires performance reports that include covers, with promoters submitting setlists for promoter-organised events.

South Africa’s SAMRO publishes distribution schedules and provides an unclaimed-royalties search facility. Musicians should be able to find out when payment is expected and how to pursue money that has not reached them.

Intotal should now sit down with musicians and their families, explain its licensing arrangements and submit complete setlists. Recordings and uploads need separate clearance where required. Agreements with estates and collaborations with living legends could help more people benefit. The band should credit songwriters and direct listeners to authorised recordings. Covers are a legitimate business. The audience Intotal has built gives it a platform to introduce its own compositions and develop a catalogue from which it can earn in its own right.

This deserves a national conversation. The government and the National Arts Council of Zimbabwe (NACZ) should bring the parties together to clarify licensing responsibilities and identify where policy or legislation needs to change. NACZ and musicians’ associations could arrange practical copyright education in local languages and help artists and estates obtain legal advice.

Musicians need support to understand their contracts and keep ownership and beneficiary records current. Promoters, venues and bands should agree who obtains each licence before a show. Sponsors can require evidence of licensing and performance reporting as a condition of support.

I would rather see this debate lead to an open conversation than a lasting feud among musicians. The grievances need answers. Intotal has demonstrated what can be done with music that people still love.

Let the young musicians play, with the proper permissions. Let a new generation discover the songs. And make sure that celebrating our legends includes paying the people entitled to benefit from their work. Ends

Dr Blessing Ivan Vava is a Zimbabwean researcher, political analyst and civic leader with more than 15 years' experience in civil society and regional advocacy. He is Executive Director of the Southern Africa Coalition for Democracy and Accountability (SACDA) and previously wrote the Drumbeat column in The Standard. He holds a Doctor of Literature and Philosophy in Communication Studies from the University of Johannesburg, and his work examines democracy, governance, digital politics and Southern African affairs. He publishes The Thursday Briefing.

3

Mnangagwa’s Meeting with Google’s James Manyika Must Deliver for Zimbabwe

By Dr Blessing Ivan Vava

I was pleased to see reports of President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s meeting with Google executive James Manyika in New York on the sidelines of the 81st Session of the United Nations General Assembly. There is something satisfying about seeing a Zimbabwean who began his university education here help shape the future of technology. But I also wondered what would happen once the delegation returned home.

According to TechnoMag’s report, ICT, Postal and Courier Services Minister Tatenda Mavetera and Chief Secretary to the President and Cabinet Dr Martin Rushwaya also attended. The reports describe exploratory discussions about AI training, access to Google’s scholarship programmes and possible cooperation around a proposed technology park. They give no details of a concluded investment agreement or delivery timetable. Mnangagwa and the officials involved now have an opportunity to turn the conversation into something Zimbabweans can benefit from.

TechnoMag also reports that Zimbabwe’s National AI Strategy was launched in March this year, to help the country move towards a knowledge-based economy. That gives the Google discussions a policy framework to work within. The government should explain which parts of that strategy this cooperation could help put into practice.

I would like to see this engagement encourage a more serious commitment to technology and innovation in our own economy. Government needs to fund research, while banks and established businesses should look more closely at local technology enterprises. We cannot expect an overseas partner to carry ambitions we are unwilling to fund ourselves.

The potential extends well beyond the technology sector. A small manufacturer could avoid costly interruptions by using systems that detect equipment faults early. Timely information about crop disease could help a farmer protect a harvest. Better management of stock and deliveries can save a business money, leaving more to invest in its growth.

Zimbabwean developers and researchers could earn a living solving such problems. Some of their products might find customers elsewhere in the region, bringing in export income and supporting skilled employment at home. Getting a promising idea that far, however, takes money and time. Young firms need investors prepared to support development and testing before sales begin to cover the costs.

Manyika’s involvement also makes me think about the students following him through our universities today. A young researcher may have an idea she cannot test because her department lacks the computing resources. A university partnership could give her access to the computing resources and experienced collaborators she needs. That is the sort of opportunity I hope officials have in mind when they speak about cooperation.

We could also make better use of Zimbabwean expertise abroad. A software engineer based overseas could mentor a university team developing a product for local businesses, reviewing its work online over several months. A researcher could jointly supervise a postgraduate student and help arrange access to specialist facilities. People do not have to return permanently to contribute, but our universities need the resources and arrangements to sustain that collaboration.

Land has reportedly been secured for the proposed technology park. I would now want to hear from the researchers and businesses expected to use it. Dependable electricity and affordable internet will matter every day, as will equipment and competent management. The plans must explain how those services will be paid for once the buildings are occupied.

There is also the question of customers. Government could support local innovation through fair, transparent procurement that gives Zimbabwean companies a reasonable chance of competing for public contracts. A first serious contract, followed by payment on time, may do more for a young business than another entrepreneurship workshop.

A local authority, for instance, could commission a Zimbabwean company to develop a system through which residents track water faults, and the council records repairs. Starting with a small, paid pilot would allow both sides to establish whether it works before expanding it. The company would gain experience and a reference customer, while residents would have a way to see what happened to their reports.

In agriculture, a farmer in Gokwe could send a photograph of damaged maize leaves to a locally developed service that helps an extension officer identify the problem. Advice delivered in Shona or Ndebele, with an option to receive it through ordinary text messages, could make the service more useful. Its developers would need to work with farmers and agricultural specialists to test whether it gives reliable advice under local conditions.

My research on technology and development has made me attentive to what a partnership leaves behind. I would want our institutions to gain the expertise to maintain and adapt the systems they adopt. They also need to understand the continuing costs, the rules governing data use and their options if they decide to change providers. Those details will affect how much control they retain over their own work.

Having participated in the meeting, Mavetera should ensure that her ministry follows up on these discussions and brings universities and local technology companies into the process. The ministry should explain which proposals can proceed, who will carry them forward and when Zimbabweans can expect to benefit. Where scholarships or training opportunities become available, the application details should be public and easy to find. People should not need a connection in government to hear about them.

Mnangagwa should give that work sustained attention and ensure that the officials responsible have the resources to carry it through. I would be pleased to return to this story in a year and find that a student’s research had received support or a local developer had secured a contract through the engagement. That would give Zimbabweans a reason to remember the meeting long after the photograph has stopped circulating. ENDS

Dr Blessing Ivan Vava is a Zimbabwean researcher and civic leader whose work examines technology, power and development in Africa. He holds a doctorate in Communication Studies from the University of Johannesburg, where his research explored Chinese ICT investment in Zimbabwe. He writes The Thursday Briefing on democracy, digital sovereignty and technology governance.