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.

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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.

The ThursdayBriefing: The Raw Material May Be Us: Africa, Health Data and the New Scramble for Digital Sovereignty

      A health worker uses a tablet during a patient consultation in Zimbabwe. As medical records move online, who controls the              information patients leave behind? Photo: Zimbabwe Ministry of Health and Child Care

By Dr Blessing Ivan Vava

Health data is deeply personal. It records illnesses I have suffered, medicines I take, tests I have undergone, my blood type and perhaps even my genetic characteristics. Increasingly, it can also reveal patterns from which algorithms make predictions about my health. In other words, my health data does not simply record what has happened to my body. It can be used to anticipate what might happen next.

Governments understand the value of such information, sometimes in extraordinary ways. In 2022, Paris Match reported that Vladimir Putin's security officers collected his urine and excrement during some foreign trips and carried it back to Russia, apparently to prevent foreign intelligence services from analysing his biological waste for clues about his health. The claim has never been officially confirmed, but the security logic behind it is revealing.

I remember similar talk in Harare when Chinese President Xi Jinping visited Zimbabwe in December 2015. Stories circulated that his delegation had brought his own toilet, and that his bodily waste would not be left behind. I cannot verify those claims, and they should be treated as the kind of security folklore that often surrounds powerful leaders. But viewed alongside what has since been reported about the extraordinary precautions states take to protect the biological traces of their leaders, the story no longer sounds quite as eccentric as it did then.

Other leaders take precautions against leaving biological traces abroad. Reporting on the elaborate preparations surrounding meetings between American and Chinese presidents, including Xi Jinping, has described measures intended to prevent inadvertent DNA leaks through objects used by leaders. After Kim Jong Un met Putin in Beijing in 2025, North Korean officials were filmed wiping his chair and table and removing his drinking glass. Kim has also been reported to travel with his own toilet.

There is a serious point beneath these unusual rituals. Powerful states understand that biological material is information. A drinking glass, a strand of hair, saliva, blood, urine or human waste can reveal things about a person they may never have intended to disclose.

If governments go to such lengths to protect the biological traces of one leader, what should African states make of agreements potentially involving health information and biological material belonging to millions of their citizens?

Hospitals across Africa are digitising patient records. Laboratories are producing genomic and pathogen data. Governments are building electronic health systems, while artificial intelligence is moving into diagnostics, epidemiology and pharmaceutical research. Information that once sat in a doctor's file is entering systems capable of storing, combining and analysing it at enormous scale.

So who ultimately controls Africa's health data?

When health assistance meets sovereignty

In 2026, several African governments pushed back against proposed bilateral health arrangements with the United States over provisions dealing with health data, biological specimens, privacy and sovereignty.

Zimbabwe declined to proceed with its proposed arrangement. Ghana rejected a proposed agreement after its authorities raised concerns about access to sensitive health information. Ghana's Data Protection Commission said the contemplated access went beyond ordinary health statistics and could extend to datasets, metadata, dashboards, reporting tools, data models and data dictionaries.

Namibia also rejected proposed arrangements involving health data and biological specimens. Zambia raised objections to data-sharing provisions during negotiations. Kenya took a different route: it signed an agreement, but its implementation faced a legal challenge over privacy, transparency, data protection and foreign access to sensitive health information.

This is not a rejection of international health cooperation. African health systems have benefited enormously from international partnerships, research collaboration and external financing. The dispute is about the terms on which that cooperation takes place.

For decades, debates about foreign assistance centred largely on money: who provides it, how much and under what conditions. In the digital age, data has entered that negotiation. An African country may receive millions of dollars in health assistance, but if an agreement also gives external actors access to valuable datasets, biological samples or analytical systems, we cannot measure the relationship only by what comes in. We must also account for what goes out.

A barrel of oil leaving an African port can be counted. Copper leaving Zambia can be weighed. Lithium leaving Zimbabwe can be valued. Millions of data points can cross borders almost invisibly. Unlike a mineral, they can be copied, combined and reused.

The raw material may be us

Africa knows this story in another form. For generations, the continent exported raw materials while much of the processing, technological development and value creation happened elsewhere. Copper left Zambia, gold left Ghana, diamonds left Zimbabwe and Botswana, oil left Nigeria and Angola.

Now some of the raw material sits inside African bodies, hospitals and databases: medical histories, genomic information, pathogen samples, disease-surveillance data and demographic patterns.

There are precedents worth remembering. In 2010, an international team sequenced the genomes of four elderly San men from Namibia alongside that of Archbishop Desmond Tutu and published the findings in Nature. The Working Group of Indigenous Minorities in Southern Africa later objected that San leadership had not been properly consulted and that the paper used language some San people considered offensive. Communities whose DNA had contributed to new scientific knowledge had little say in how it was subsequently used. Once sequenced, that genetic information could circulate indefinitely.

The Omicron episode exposed a different problem. In November 2021, Dr Sikhulile Moyo and colleagues at the Botswana-Harvard HIV Reference Laboratory detected an unusual pattern of mutations in COVID-19 samples and quickly shared their findings with the world. Within days, Botswana and South Africa faced travel restrictions imposed by some of the countries that had benefited from that scientific openness. Moyo's question at the time was pointed: “Is that how you reward science? By blacklisting countries?”

The data travelled faster than the solidarity.

None of this is an argument against sharing data. Modern medicine depends on scientific cooperation. The concern is what happens afterwards: who participates in the research, who owns the resulting intellectual property, what limits apply to secondary use and whether African institutions share fairly in the benefits.

Otherwise, an old economic relationship risks returning in digital form: Africa supplies the raw material, others develop the industries, and Africa later buys the finished product.

Only this time, the raw material may be us.

When health data feeds the machine

Large and diverse health datasets are becoming increasingly valuable to artificial intelligence. They can contribute to diagnostic systems, pharmaceutical research, epidemiological modelling and precision medicine. African patients could supply data used to develop valuable medical technologies that their hospitals may later be unable to afford or control.

Privacy is only one part of the problem. The larger issue is who has the computing power to turn African data into knowledge, who owns the algorithms and intellectual property produced from it, where those systems are hosted and where the value eventually settles.

Data centres belong in this conversation. Africa needs more of them, but governments do not need to build or own them all. Private investment can expand capacity, improve connectivity, develop technical skills and reduce dependence on offshore hosting.

A server located in Harare, Lusaka or Accra, however, does not automatically create sovereignty. A patient's medical record could be physically stored in Harare while the cloud architecture, software, encryption keys or administrative access remain controlled elsewhere.

Where a server sits is only part of the question; ownership can matter just as much. Legal authority, control of the software and encryption, and the ability of domestic regulators to enforce the rules are equally important. A country can host data within its borders while exercising remarkably little control over it.

Africa needs a mixed system: private investment, African technology companies, international firms operating under enforceable domestic laws, public-private partnerships and public infrastructure for particularly sensitive information.

Data cannot all be treated alike either. A supermarket's customer database is not equivalent to genomic information, medical records, passport databases, electoral systems or national-security information. Sensitive data requires stronger safeguards around hosting, encryption, access, onward transfer and cybersecurity.

Australia offered a live warning this week. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese revealed that an OpenAI agent had gained unauthorised access to the Medicare Statistics Reporting Service portal, a public-facing government site, while researching medical spending in June. OpenAI and the Australian government both stress that no patient records appear to have been reached  but that framing understates the problem. A government database is not meant to be entered without authority; whether the agent reached patient records is beside the point once it crossed that boundary. Who bears responsibility when an AI agent goes rogue, code pursuing a task it was set, then crossing a line nobody authorised? OpenAI took nearly three months to tell the government, and did so by email to a public inbox, raising questions about who was answerable for its agent’s conduct. If that question has no clear answer for a government like Australia’s, African governments negotiating health-data agreements should insist on one before they sign.

The lesson is not to isolate Africa technologically. It is to ensure that dependence does not become surrender of control.

Saying no is not enough

Rejecting unacceptable agreements is one thing. Building credible alternatives is another.

Zimbabwe, Ghana and Namibia can refuse arrangements they consider unacceptable. Zambia can demand different terms. Kenyan citizens can test an agreement through their courts. But refusal means little if countries lack secure cloud infrastructure, domestic data centres, interoperable health systems, research computing facilities and the expertise to run them.

Africa has to build that capacity: universities need to produce data scientists, cybersecurity specialists, health-informatics experts and cloud architects; African technology companies should be developing health systems; governments need reliable digital public infrastructure; and researchers need the computing capacity to work with African datasets instead of merely supplying them to better-resourced institutions elsewhere.

Africa cannot spend the next decade regulating algorithms developed elsewhere without developing the capacity to build some of its own, drawing on African languages, data and epidemiological realities.

Whereas, African ownership alone guarantees nothing. An African-owned database can still be abused. A surveillance system does not become benign because its servers happen to sit in Harare, Lusaka, Nairobi or Accra.

The patient cannot disappear behind claims of national sovereignty. Citizens need enforceable rights over how their information is collected, stored, accessed and reused. Health information must be protected from political surveillance, discrimination and uses unrelated to legitimate healthcare.

Sovereignty should protect the state from external dependence without giving the state unlimited power over its citizens.

Taken together, these cases reveal a geosociotechnopolitical problem: the San genome controversy, the Omicron experience, today's health agreements and the scramble to build African data centres may appear to be separate stories, but they are not. Each turns on the relationship between technology and power — who produces knowledge, where information travels, whose laws follow it, who owns the infrastructure through which it moves, and who is strong enough to set the terms.

Consent given today cannot become a blank cheque for uses nobody contemplated years later. Scientific openness, as the Omicron episode showed, also requires some expectation of reciprocity. And sovereignty on paper means little when governments lack the technical capacity to exercise it.

Africa's health-data question, then, reaches beyond privacy. It concerns the terms on which the continent enters an economy increasingly built on information extracted from human beings.

Africa does not need to retreat from international scientific cooperation. It needs to negotiate from a stronger position. Governments should know what information is leaving their countries, why it is being transferred, how long it will be retained, who can access it and which jurisdiction governs it. Limits on secondary use and onward transfer must be clear. Where African biological samples or datasets contribute to commercially valuable discoveries, benefit-sharing should be part of the agreement. Deals involving sensitive information belonging to millions of citizens deserve proper legal and public scrutiny.

There is also strength in negotiating together. Fifty-four states separately facing global technology companies, pharmaceutical corporations, cloud providers and powerful governments create an obvious imbalance. National sovereignty matters, but so does Africa's collective bargaining power. The African Union should help turn that collective bargaining power into common terms for health-data agreements.

The twentieth century taught Africa what happens when strategic resources leave the continent while processing, knowledge and value creation happen elsewhere. Data presents that old problem in a new form.

Health data deserves particular attention because it comes from us. It records our bodies, illnesses, vulnerabilities and communities. Increasingly, it can feed technologies capable of generating enormous scientific and economic value.

Africa should share health data where doing so saves lives and advances science. But sharing cannot be detached from the terms: the limits placed on its use, the institutions that gain access and whether the people and countries from which it comes participate in the knowledge and value eventually created.

Africa should neither become a digital fortress nor remain a digital mine. It needs the capacity to protect its citizens, negotiate fair partnerships, build infrastructure and turn African data into African knowledge and innovation.

Perhaps those strange precautions surrounding presidential biological traces contain a lesson after all. If powerful states worry that the DNA on a drinking glass, or even the bodily waste of one leader, could reveal strategically valuable information, African governments should think carefully about the value contained in the health information of more than a billion people.

The question is no longer whether that information has value. It is who controls it, what is built from it, and who benefits. Ends//

About the Author

Dr Blessing Ivan Vava is a researcher and civic leader working on democracy, technology and digital sovereignty in Africa. He holds a doctorate in Communication Studies from the University of Johannesburg, where his research examined Chinese ICT investment in Zimbabwe and the intersection of technology, geopolitics and power. He is the founder of the Southern Africa Coalition for Democracy and Accountability (SACDA) and writes The Thursday Briefing, a weekly commentary on politics, technology and governance in Africa.