Riot at the College: When Chief Hwenje Roared and ZIMURA’s House of Cards Began to Shake

Zimbabwean musicians confronted ZIMURA in a historic protest over royalties, governance and transparency, as Chief Hwenje’s fiery address symbolised growing industry unrest (image source)

If you wandered past the Zimbabwe College of Music this past Monday, you might have thought a once-in-a-generation collaboration was loading. Trevor Dongo. Seh Calaz. Guspy Warrior. Ndunge Yuti. Chief Hwenje. All present. All serious. But there were no microphones, no soundchecks, and no hype men shouting “levels.” What filled the air instead was frustration — thick, heavy, and long overdue.

I’ve covered Zimbabwe’s music industry long enough to recognise a “crisis meeting.” Usually, it’s three disgruntled musicians, a plastic chair, and a warm Fanta. Monday was different. This was not noise. This was pressure. This was the day the Zimbabwean artist finally got tired of being the only person in the music industry who doesn’t get paid.

From Classroom to Confrontation

What began as a meeting at the College turned into a march — not chaotic, not violent, but deliberate. Artists walked to ZIMURA offices demanding answers, not favours. They were not there to sing. They were there to audit.

At the centre of the gathering stood board members Dereck Mpofu, Joseph Garakara, and Gift Amuli, men who didn’t whisper complaints — they signed their names to them. Allegations of board capture, illegal voting, questionable asset disposals, and royalty opacity were laid bare. But the real turning point came when the artists were refused entry into their own building. Instead of the board, they were met outside by Deputy Director Henry Makombe, addressing them like unruly tenants rather than shareholders. That’s when the mood shifted.

When Chief Hwenje Roared

Chief Hwenje doesn’t speak often. When he does, people listen. Standing among younger artists, the veteran musician unleashed what can only be described as a lion’s roar — not insults, not theatrics, but cold, factual fire. He recited figures. Asked pointed questions about collections versus distributions. Queried why artists earning airplay across the country were receiving royalties that wouldn’t cover kombi fare.

Witnesses say Makombe visibly shrank.

“This is not noise,” Hwenje thundered. “These are facts. This is our money. And you will answer.”

There are moments in history when elders stop being ceremonial and become dangerous — dangerous to lies. This was one of them. Younger artists fell silent. Phones came out. The mood hardened. The fortress walls cracked.

The Fortress of Silence Crumbles

ZIMURA has long operated like a medieval stronghold: easy to feed, impossible to question. Calling the gathering “unauthorised” only deepened the insult. These artists are the owners. Calling them outsiders is like telling a farmer he needs permission to harvest his own maize.

When board members abandon the boardroom and stand with artists in the street, you don’t have a communications problem — you have a legitimacy crisis.

The “Goodchild” Board and Old Shadows

Then there’s the current leadership — the Goodchild-led board — which many artists now openly describe as a costume change, not reform. The name whispered loudly is Albert Nyathi, a cultural giant whose long shadow still looms over the institution. Many believe the old guard never left; they simply swapped chairs.

Grievances remain unresolved: the murky Avondale property sale, unanswered governance questions, and the continued tenure of an Executive Director whose legal standing has been challenged in court. These are not rumours. These are documented concerns now discussed in public, by artists with nothing left to lose.

NDS2 Meets Street Reality

Here’s where the grumpy old man in me clears his throat. We keep talking about NDS2 and turning the arts into an economic engine. But how do you industrialise music when the collection house behaves like a black box? You cannot build an industry on silence and intimidation. ZIMURA is supposed to be the engine room. Right now, it’s overheating, leaking oil, and refusing to open the bonnet.

The Verdict

Monday was historic. Artists stood together — not divided by genre or chart position. Hunger is the great unifier. You can only tell a musician to “wait for the next distribution cycle” so many times before he stops clapping politely and starts knocking on doors.

Loudly.

ZIMURA now faces a choice: radical transparency or terminal irrelevance. A forensic audit, real reform, and the removal of entrenched interests — or a slow fade into silence. The gloves are off. The elders have spoken. The artists are awake.

And when Chief Hwenje roars, even fortresses listen.

Ko dzorirazve!