Understanding Zimbabwe’s dangerous love affair with cars and PhDs

There is an undeniable obsession in Zimbabwe with outward symbols of success—tangible markers that supposedly signal one’s arrival in life.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in our fixation with luxury cars and academic degrees.

These have become the twin pillars of status in Zimbabwean society, each revered not so much for its intrinsic value or utility, but for the illusion of prestige and power it bestows.

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The story of controversial businessman Wicknell Chivayo and his extravagant gifting of high-end vehicles to celebrities, musicians, church leaders, and ZANU-PF-aligned personalities is but a dramatic reflection of this social condition.

These recipients, many of them supposedly moral beacons or social influencers, have shown little hesitation in accepting these lavish “blessings”—despite widespread public concerns about the murky origins of Chivayo’s wealth.

From the stillborn Gwanda solar project, funded by a $5 million ZESA contract that produced nothing, to the R1.1 billion ZEC election materials tender routed through South African company Ren-Form CC—with R800 million mysteriously channeled into his business accounts—there is no shortage of scandals linked to his name.

And yet, instead of being shunned, he is idolized.

His gifts, particularly cars, are treated as divine favor.

What is it about a car that renders otherwise rational people speechless with excitement?

In Zimbabwe, a car is not merely a vehicle—it is an altar of worship.

It is a potent symbol of having made it.

People parade their new vehicles on social media, and congregants erupt into song and dance when a pastor rolls into church with a fresh SUV.

Even musicians use expensive cars as core props in music videos.

It is rare to witness the same communal excitement when someone builds a house, writes a book, or starts a successful business.

A car, unlike these other accomplishments, is mobile, flashy, and instantly recognizable.

Its impact is immediate and sensory—it demands attention and confers instant social value.

But this obsession is not only about material wealth—it is deeply psychological.

Many Zimbabweans grew up in circumstances where cars were a distant dream, associated only with the rich, the powerful, or the colonial elite.

To now own a car—or be gifted one—is to symbolically erase a history of lack and exclusion.

It becomes a form of psychological compensation, a declaration to the world that “I am no longer poor.”

Yet this declaration often comes with little regard to sustainability, practicality, or even morality.

Those who have always lived around cars, like myself—born in 1973 to a teacher and a nurse, both car owners—may not see them as anything more than a convenient tool for transport.

But for those denied that exposure, the car takes on a mythic quality.

It becomes an emotional need.

This very same psychological framing explains our parallel obsession with academic degrees, especially the PhD.

Just like the car, the PhD in Zimbabwe has become less about intellectual pursuit and more about spectacle.

In recent years, we have witnessed an explosion of individuals—politicians, church leaders, and businesspeople—clamoring for doctoral titles, many acquired through questionable means.

Fake universities, honorary degrees purchased online, and diploma mills have found a fertile market in Zimbabwe.

The point is rarely about making a meaningful academic contribution. It’s about attaching “Dr.” to one’s name for social elevation.

We see people who neither lecture, publish scholarly works, nor contribute to academia insist on being called “Doctor.”

Their degrees do not translate into thought leadership, innovation, or research—but they serve as badges of distinction, visible markers of superiority in a society where knowledge is often revered in the abstract, but rarely applied.

The historical marginalization of black Zimbabweans from the formal education system during colonial rule plays a critical role in explaining the contemporary obsession with academic degrees, particularly at the highest levels.

Under Rhodesian rule, access to quality education was severely restricted for the black majority, who were deliberately denied opportunities for intellectual advancement in favor of producing a laboring class that served settler interests.

This systemic exclusion created a deep-seated psychological void—one that many have sought to fill in the post-independence era through an almost compulsive pursuit of university degrees.

For many, earning a degree—especially a PhD—is not merely about acquiring knowledge or professional development; it represents a symbolic victory over a past of deliberate disenfranchisement.

It becomes a form of social and historical reclamation, a tangible badge of equality in a system that once dismissed black intellect as inferior.

However, this quest, born out of centuries of injustice, has also been twisted by a toxic desire for validation, where academic titles are worn more for prestige and power than for the ethical responsibility to produce and share knowledge.

In this way, the scars of educational deprivation continue to shape the national psyche—turning the pursuit of education into a compensatory ritual rather than a transformative process.

The degree, like the car, is a costume—worn not to do, but to impress.

It becomes a currency of legitimacy, even when the bearer is bereft of real expertise.

Our education system fuels this obsession.

From childhood, we are told the pinnacle of success is a university degree—preferably capped with a PhD.

Young people are pushed into academic paths they have no passion for, while practical skills and vocational training are treated as inferior.

A child who wants to be an artist, carpenter, or athlete is often redirected toward engineering or law, not out of genuine aptitude but because a degree confers prestige.

We have created an educational culture that sees knowledge not as a tool for empowerment and transformation, but as a symbol of elite status.

And so, even when the degree leads nowhere—no job, no impact—it still remains a prized possession.

Put side by side, our national obsession with cars and degrees reveals a deep hunger for recognition, respect, and legitimacy.

It exposes a collective trauma of colonization, poverty, and marginalization—conditions that made us feel invisible, powerless, and voiceless.

These symbols, however superficial, become shortcuts to dignity.

But they are also traps.

They deceive us into believing we have arrived, when in fact, we are still stuck.

We celebrate acquisition, not achievement; we praise appearance, not purpose.

The tragedy is that this mindset has made us vulnerable to manipulation.

When a corrupt figure showers people with cars, we look away from the source of the money and focus on the shine of the metal.

When someone with no academic track record flaunts a “doctorate,” we bow before them.

Our moral compass bends too easily in the presence of status.

We forget that real success is not in what you drive or what title you wear, but in what you build, what you give back, and how you uplift others.

If Zimbabwe is to move forward, we must re-evaluate our definitions of success.

We must teach our children that their worth lies not in consumption, but in contribution.

That a car is not an achievement, but a tool.

That a degree is not a badge, but a burden—one that must be used to serve society.

Until then, we will remain mesmerized by symbols, blind to substance, and vulnerable to those who know how to exploit our deepest insecurities.

• Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to WhatsApp or Call: +263715667700 | +263782283975, or email: mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com, or visit website: https://mbofanatendairuben.news.blog/