By Fanuel Chinowaita
What started off as a routine assignment in Mutare quickly turned into one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
On 21 March 2026, I made my way to a gathering in Mutare where Tendai Biti, the Constitution Defenders Forum (CDF) convener and the organisation’s programs director, Morgan Ncube were supposed to address a meeting .
Before any meaningful discussion could take place, the meeting was abruptly disrupted. Men believed to be members of the Zimbabwe Republic Police (ZRP), along with other unidentified individuals, stormed the premises. What followed was not just an arrest— but an unraveling nightmare.
I remember being manhandled , grabbed by the neck and awfully humiliated and my trousers were torn in process. In that moment, I was no longer seen as a citizen exercising a fundamental right, but as a criminal and second class human being.
During the ensuing melee the goons demanded to see my phone and camera. I cooperated with them despite their violent disposition but I asked them to wait for uniformed police officers who were said to be on their way to take us to the station. That request seemed to trigger even more aggression.
They forcefully tried to take my belongings, one of the men—allegedly from the President’s Office—cocked a pistol. It is a sound I will not forget easily, in a very long time.
All this was happening while Tendai Biti, Morgan Ncube and Nyasha Gerald Mukonyora, a legal practitioner with Gonese and Ndlovu Law Firm, sat calmly, watching events unfold. None of us resisted arrest. We were ready to follow the law yet, the force used against us suggested otherwise.
Eventually, a Mahindra , a police vehicle arrived, and we were taken to Mutare Central Police Station. What struck me was not just the detention—but the confusion.
We sat in the charge office for close to two hours without being told why we had been arrested. The officers present appeared as uncertain as we were. It was as if the arrest had happened first, and the justification was being figured out later. Even then, it was clear to me that the arrest was unlawful.
I am a journalist with The Wasu Post, but that is not the point. Whether I was there to cover the proceedings or simply to attend as a citizen, I was exercising my right of assembly as provided for by the constitution. That right is an inalienable right guaranteed to every Zimbabwean and it is not a crime.
What is more, I have no criminal record and I have the right to freedom of association. The CDF is not a political party, yet we were being treated as though our gathering was an act of sedition. Adding to the illegality, some of the individuals who seized us had no arresting powers at all.
Later, we were transferred to the Law and Order section, where questioning began. I was asked how many people were at the meeting. I estimated that they were around ten, explaining that I had not counted. The State would later allege that approximately 50 members of the public attended, a figure that did not match what I had witnessed. They pressed for certainty I did not have.
They also asked me about the ownership of the house where the meeting was held—information I could not provide because I did not know.
The second round of questioning took a more disturbing turn. I was ordered to unlock my phone but I flatly refused.
As a journalist, my phone is not just a device—it is a tool of my trade, a repository of sensitive information, sources and professional material. Unlocking it under pressure, without due process, was something I could not do. Even if I were not a journalist, no citizen should be forced to surrender their private property under threat of violence.
They threatened to beat me up but I still refused to budge. That is when they took away my phone—without my consent and my camera was also seized. Later, I was made to sign documents acknowledging their confiscation. I was told the devices would be sent to Harare for analysis by a data protection unit and to this day, those gadgets remain out of my reach.
It was only in the dead of night that the situation became clear , after hours of uncertainty, we were told that there was no charge against us. Imagine , after having endured several hours of detention and humiliation at the hands of state security agents, I was released alongside Mukonyora. We were told that we were now being treated as witnesses. No formal statements were taken from us.
Meanwhile, Biti and Ncube remained behind bars , we were later informed, they were charged with contravening the Maintenance of Peace and Order Act (MOPA)—specifically Section 7(5), which criminalizes convening a public meeting without notifying the relevant regulatory authority. The randomness of it all—the delay, the silence, the selective charges—only underscored the lawlessness of the entire operation.
The State’s case against them, as I would later learn, rested on the claim that the meeting was public rather than private, and that no notification had been received from the Mutare Central District Regulating Authority. However, whether the gathering was public or private misses a larger point: the right to assembly is not conditional on a permit but a constitutional right. To criminalise citizens for simply gathering to discuss a constitutional amendment is to turn the law on its head.
Both men were granted bail on 22 March 2026, with the State not opposing their release. They were each ordered to deposit US$500 with the Clerk of Court in Mutare. Morgan Ncube was instructed to remain at his Beitbridge residence, while Tendai Biti had to surrender his passport as part of the bail conditions. They were both were barred from convening or addressing public gatherings without prior authorization, and ordered to report twice weekly to the CID Law and Order section.
Meanwhile, I am stuck a strange limbo—free, but without the important tools of my trade, and without the satisfaction of seeing those who terrorized us being held accountable.
In a statement issued on 22 March, the Constitution Defenders Forum condemned the arrests as unlawful and politically motivated, arguing that the private meeting did not violate any provisions of the law.
As I reflect on events of that day, one question continues to trouble me: What does it mean to be a citizen in a country where simply gathering with others to discuss the law can result in armed men storming through the door and manhandling innocent citizens whose crime is only exercising their constitutional rights?
I was violently arrested and released without a charge. Yet, the tools I depend on to do my work—my phone and camera—are still in the hands of authorities.
While I may be free, part of my work—and my voice—remains confiscated. What is more, the principle that citizens may freely assemble has been assaulted. Is this what it means to be free and independent, in this country?