From Boreholes to Private Jets: The curious rise of Paul Tungwarara

Zimbabwe has a long and painful relationship with promises. Grand ones. Glittering ones.

The kind that arrive wrapped in patriotic language, escorted by motorcades, and announced at rallies where hope is amplified by loudspeakers and applause. Sometimes those promises materialise. Often, they don’t. And occasionally, they raise far more questions than answers.

Few recent figures embody this paradox more dramatically than Paul Tungwarara.

In just a few years, Tungwarara has travelled a remarkable distance—from relative obscurity to proximity with State House, from borehole launches to diplomatic credentials, from empowerment rhetoric to ownership of high-value assets that would make even seasoned industrialists blush.

The question is not whether success is illegal. It is not. The real question is far more uncomfortable: how did these promises translate into such extraordinary privilege, and at whose expense? This is not a verdict. It is an inquiry.

The Borehole That Started It All:

April 2022 marked Tungwarara’s public breakout moment. In Chitungwiza, ahead of by-elections, he launched the Presidential Borehole Drilling Scheme, a project framed as humanitarian, developmental, and patriotic. Boreholes, after all, are not a luxury in Zimbabwe—they are survival infrastructure.

The scheme was accompanied by heavy political symbolism and mobilisation. Varakashi structures were reportedly roped in for publicity, allegedly on the promise of empowerment that, four years later, many claim never materialised.

The more troubling question is numerical: how many boreholes were actually drilled? Figures circulating in the public domain suggest as few as eight—a number wildly disproportionate to the scale of publicity and political capital extracted from the initiative.

Even more striking is the claim that the boreholes were donated by “Dubai billionaire friends,” a narrative that helped catapult Tungwarara into national prominence. If true, why did the project stall so dramatically? If untrue, why was such a claim made to the Head of State and the public?

Empty promises are not crimes. But misrepresentation to the State, if proven, is something else entirely.

From Boreholes to the President’s Office:

By June 2022—barely two months after the Chitungwiza launch—Tungwarara was appointed Presidential Advisor on Investment Affairs (UAE–Zimbabwe).
Appointments of this nature are meant to be transactional: access in exchange for delivery.

The expectation was clear—massive foreign direct investment from the UAE, billionaire-backed projects, transformative infrastructure.

In July 2022, the optics intensified. Dubai billionaire Shaji Ul Mulk visited Zimbabwe, and a high-profile ground-breaking ceremony for “Cyber City” was officiated by the President himself.

Fast-forward four years.

Where is Cyber City?

No cranes. No skyline. No progress reports. No visible construction. No explanation.

Again, the question is not mockery—it is accountability. How does a project significant enough to warrant a presidential ground-breaking simply evaporate without consequence? At what point does ambition become misrepresentation?

Political Proximity and the Immunity Question:

Throughout 2023, Tungwarara became a regular feature at Presidential Star Rallies, his visibility suggesting deepening political proximity. In Zimbabwe, proximity is not merely social—it is often interpreted as protection.

This raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: does political association function as informal immunity? Is influence being leveraged to bypass scrutiny, procurement processes, or public accountability?

Public office and advisory roles do not merely confer status—they impose fiduciary duties. If those roles are used to blur lines between private enrichment and public programmes, then scrutiny is not persecution; it is obligation.

The Age of Mega-Promises:

By 2024, the promises expanded dramatically. By 2025–2026, they reached near-biblical proportions. Houses for all war veterans. Empowerment for all ZANU-PF structures and affiliates. National-scale upliftment anchored in “Presidential Empowerment Funds.”

These are not small undertakings. They require transparent financing, audited flows, delivery frameworks, and measurable outputs. Which leads to the central question: where are the delivery reports?

If even a fraction of these commitments were fulfilled, Zimbabwe would be witnessing one of the most successful empowerment programmes in its history. Instead, what persists is silence—and spectacle.

The Benefits That Followed:

While many of the public-facing projects reportedly stalled, Tungwarara’s personal asset profile appears to have grown at astonishing speed.

Publicly circulating claims allege:

Acquisition of a private aircraft and jet soon after involvement in empowerment funds
Ownership of multiple mansions in Zimbabwe and Dubai
A fleet of top-of-the-range vehicles
Millions in liquid USD holdings

Success is not suspicious. But timing is.

When wealth accumulation coincides so precisely with access to State programmes, advisory roles, and non-tendered contracts, questions are inevitable.

State Contracts and Closed Doors:

Tungwarara has been linked—again, in public discourse—to several major State projects:

Presidential Hospital Rehabilitation Programme
Presidential Rivers Rehabilitation Programme
Construction works at State House (Durawall)

The recurring allegation is that normal tender processes were bypassed. If false, it should be easy to disprove. If true, it raises red flags about procurement integrity, influence peddling, and abuse of office.

Zimbabwe’s procurement laws exist precisely to prevent elite capture of public resources. When exceptions become routine, the system collapses into patronage.

Land, Power, and the Dead:

Perhaps the most emotive allegation concerns land in Chegutu—specifically claims that Tungwarara bulldozed a farm belonging to the family of the late national hero Dr Nathan Shamuyarira. The matter has been publicly referenced before, including by political figures.

If untrue, it demands correction. If true, it represents a profound moral failure: the powerful dispossessing the dead who once served the nation.

The Diplomatic Passport Question:

Tungwarara is reportedly in possession of a diplomatic passport, ostensibly linked to his advisory role on UAE–Zimbabwe investment affairs. Diplomatic passports are not souvenirs. They are instruments of trust and responsibility.

So the question writes itself: what measurable diplomatic or investment outcomes justify this privilege? And more bluntly—is it insurance “kana zvashata”?

Possible Legal and Political Implications:

No one is calling for lynching. But accountability has pathways:
Civil litigation, should any contractual breaches or damages be established
Criminal investigation, if fraud, misrepresentation, or abuse of office is evidenced
Administrative action, including review of advisory status
Political consequences, including restrictions on leveraging State platforms for private programmes

None of these are radical. They are standard responses in functioning democracies.

Conclusion: A Call for Light, Not Fire:

This article does not pronounce guilt. It demands clarity.

If Paul Tungwarara is a legitimate entrepreneur, then transparency will vindicate him. If these are misunderstandings, documentation will correct the record. If promises were exaggerated, humility and honesty can still salvage trust. But silence? Silence only deepens suspicion.

Zimbabwe does not need more messiahs with microphones and motorcades. It needs delivery, disclosure, and accountability. And until those arrive, the questions will—and must—continue to rain. Paul Tungwarara is invited to respond to the issues raised herein.