Just before I boarded my flight from China last Wednesday, Faith Zaba wrote to wish me a safe journey.
That is Faith — maternal when you least expect it, a big sister in solidarity, and an editor who somehow carries an entire newsroom with grace and grit. By the time I landed in Harare, Faith had already followed up to check if I had arrived safely, and I was deeply touched.
A few hours later, she wrote again — this time, not as the boss, but as a colleague in distress. She was unwell. Yet even in illness, her instincts were fixed on the newspaper.
She asked me to take up the editorship. Unknown to us at the time, events were moving at breakneck speed — the system was baying for her punishment.
I was setting the tone for this week’s edition in the newsroom on Tuesday morning when I was told Criminal Investigation Department officers were at reception asking for Faith.
The receptionist had rightly told them she was not in. For about 30 minutes, we sat with them in the boardroom, asking why they wanted to see her.
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They would not budge. Moments later, I was told they had returned. Despite being informed she was not on the premises, they declared her “under arrest”.
When I called Faith — calm as ever — she said she was preparing to hand herself over.
She probably knew the script. She had seen it before — just not as the protagonist.
That moment, surreal and gut-wrenching, marked yet another low point for the Zimbabwe Independent and for Zimbabwean journalism.
Faith was thrown behind bars — not for corruption, not for fraud, not for breaking any criminal statute — but for journalism.
For using her pen to improve the lives of even those who arrested her. Specifically, they caged her for satire — the Muckraker column that dares to speak in metaphor and mirror the truth.
In a functioning democracy, satire is the lifeblood of public accountability. Here, it has become an offence. Her arrest is part of a disturbing pattern.
The State is chillingly clear: write what you must, at your own peril. The law has become a blunt instrument of fear, weaponised not just to punish dissent, but to humiliate, and to break the will of those fighting for everyone.
The tragedy is layered. Faith was unwell. She did not flee. But the State insisted on incarceration. She has had to lie in a police cell in the bitter July cold while the system decides whether it will respect its own Constitution.
Let us be clear: this is not just about Faith Zaba. It is about every newsroom that still dares to publish stories that do not flatter power. It is about a society being asked to accept that criticism — even humorous criticism — must be criminalised.
Faith is the kind of an editor who walks into a newsroom and listens. She edits your story not with a red pen, but with conviction. She challenges you to dig deeper and stay grounded in facts.
Today, I write this memo because she cannot.
Today, I hold the pen for her. But locking up editors does not silence journalism. It galvanises it. It exposes the very fears you wish to bury.
To criminalise satire is to admit that the truth is now unbearable. The newsroom is not the same without Faith. It is quieter, yes. But the spirit remains — because hers is a spirit that does not cower in the face of repression.
We await her return, urgently and without apology. To Faith: we are holding the line. But we are counting the hours.
The front page awaits your touch. And when you return, we will remind the nation that you were arrested not for breaking the law, but for upholding its most sacred freedom.