Why I won’t be too surprised if Blessed Geza is awarded hero status

​If Zimbabwe chooses to bestow national hero status upon the late Blessed Geza, it will not be a historical mistake. Rather, it will represent the logical endpoint of a political strategy that has been carefully refined since 2017.

In the current climate, the real shock would be a state that chooses to exclude rather than embrace.

​The calls for this recognition are already loud. ZANU PF spokesperson Chris Mutsvangwa has led the way, stating that the former legislator deserves to be buried with befitting honours.

Mutsvangwa insists that Geza’s history “will not change despite what happened recently.” From the political sidelines, former MP Temba Mliswa has echoed this, arguing that liberation credentials are indelible and cannot be wiped away by later disagreements.

These are not merely sentimental words; they are deliberate signals in a system where the curation of memory is as vital as the exercise of power.

​To understand why Geza’s posthumous rehabilitation makes sense, one must first abandon the myth that national hero status is a neutral historical award.

It is, and has always been, a political instrument that reflects the specific priorities and anxieties of the ruling elite. The National Heroes Acre is less a cemetery and more a narrative stage where the state performs its preferred version of history.

​Blessed Geza’s life story is difficult to fit into that official narrative. As a liberation war veteran and a former senior figure in ZANU PF, he eventually became a stinging critic of President Emmerson Mnangagwa.

He accused the post-Mugabe administration of grand corruption and a total betrayal of the revolution. His dissent was public, aggressive, and deeply uncomfortable for the establishment.

In life, the state treated Geza as a threat to be neutralised. In death, he has been transformed into a political opportunity.

​Many observers see this shift as a sign of magnanimity. They point to Mnangagwa’s record of reconciliation, such as his relative leniency toward the Mugabe family, as proof of a more forgiving leadership style.

However, these gestures are not necessarily born of personal kindness. Instead, they demonstrate how power operates when it feels secure. In this context, forgiveness is a strategic tool.

​The contrast with Robert Mugabe is illuminating. Mugabe’s natural reaction to challenge was total rupture. To cross him was to be branded a traitor not just to the party, but to the nation itself.

His refusal to grant hero status to Ndabaningi Sithole, the founding president of Zanu, remains a classic example of this politics of excision. Mugabe could not tolerate any competing source of legitimacy.

​Mnangagwa has adopted a different tactic. By posthumously awarding Sithole hero status, he did more than correct a historical wrong; he signalled a transition to a politics of incorporation.

He understands that exclusion creates martyrs and allows grievances to fester, whereas inclusion disarms the opposition and allows the state to conclude difficult chapters on its own terms.

​Crucially, this is a one-way magnanimity. Forgiveness is granted by the victor to the defeated, usually when the target no longer poses a functional threat. Mugabe was reconciled with only when he was politically powerless.

Grace Mugabe was left alone once she lost her constituency. Geza is being embraced now that he is deceased and his dissent can no longer mobilise a single soul.

​Viewed through this lens, hero status is not a judgment on the totality of Geza’s life, but a statement of the state’s confidence. It is a way of saying that the challenge has passed and the threat has evaporated.

There is also a practical calculation involved. Mnangagwa leads a party often divided by succession talk and a war veteran community that remains the symbolic bedrock of ZANU PF.

Showing benevolence to a veteran, even a rebellious one, helps soothe internal wounds and reinforces the party’s role as the sole guardian of the liberation legacy.

​This is precisely why Temba Mliswa’s intervention is so pointed. By insisting that service in the 1970s cannot be cancelled by a 2025 rebellion, Mliswa highlights the conditional nature of heroism as defined by the state.

He forces a question the ruling party usually avoids: is this status an objective recognition of sacrifice, or a reward for staying in line?

​Mutsvangwa’s rhetoric provides the party’s answer. By characterising Geza as someone who simply “faltered at the last mile,” he reframes a fundamental political rebellion as a minor late-stage error.

It is a masterful move that protects the sanctity of the liberation struggle while simultaneously stripping Geza’s recent critiques of their weight. The man is forgiven, but his message is ignored.

​Critics will naturally view this as cynical, arguing that honouring a man while rejecting everything he stood for in his final years empties the honour of its meaning. They are right, but in politics cynicism is often the primary operating system.

Death simplifies the landscape; it removes the agency of the dissenter and leaves only the symbol. A living critic is a problem, but a dead one can be safely integrated into the national story.

​Therefore, the conferment of hero status on Blessed Geza would not be a surprise to me. It would not signal a new era of pluralism, but rather a more refined exercise of authority.

If the previous era was defined by cutting people out, the current one is defined by pulling them back in. Both methods serve the same master. In Zimbabwe, forgiveness is not a sign that power has softened; it is proof that power has become shrewder.