TWO months ago, I embarked on an investigation to assess whether government institutions were adhering to the Freedom of Information Act. The results were far from encouraging. Over the course of my inquiry, I visited 26 government entities, including ministries, parastatals, and commissions.
My hope was that by presenting my questions in person, I might bypass bureaucratic delays and receive prompt, transparent responses. Unfortunately, what I encountered was a wall of evasion and indifference.
As I made my rounds, it became evident that none of the institutions were in compliance with the Act. Some officials pleaded ignorance of the law, while others seemed deliberately evasive, clearly uncomfortable with my questions.
At the Kaguvi Government Complex, the pattern was particularly striking. Receptionists who initially greeted me with warmth and courtesy quickly became guarded and suspicious the moment I identified myself as a journalist. The shift in their demeanour was unmistakable, as if my profession signalled a threat that needed to be managed.
“What is this about? Who are you investigating? Why do you need this information?” one receptionist asked, in a hostile tone of voice.
My initial plan was to approach the spokespersons of these institutions, believing they would be well-equipped to provide the information I needed.
Instead, I found myself being shuffled from office to office, with each department passing the responsibility to another. This game of bureaucratic hot potato was both frustrating and telling — government spokespersons, it seemed, lacked the autonomy to address inquiries directly.
When pressed for information, they would vaguely promise to "get back to me" or defer to their superiors, further illustrating their inability to speak with authority.
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Even in instances where I managed to secure a face-to-face meeting, the response was often the same. Some officials insisted I submit my questions in writing, only to ignore the follow-up emails I sent.
At the Ministry of Transport, for example, I was told the spokesperson was unavailable, but when I asked for her contact information to arrange an interview later, my request was flatly denied.
It was not until I escalated my inquiry to the office of the permanent secretary, Amos Marawa, that I was grudgingly given the contact details for spokesperson Judith Nhau.
The run-around continued at the Zimbabwe Media Commission.
After being referred from one office to another, I was finally directed to a public information compliance manager, Brian Tomo, who in turn passed me on to another official.
Each referral felt like a deliberate attempt to stonewall my investigation, reinforcing the sense that transparency was the last thing on these officials' minds.
During my visits, I could not help but notice the casual atmosphere in many of the offices. Officials were often engrossed in personal phone calls, seemingly oblivious to their professional duties. In one office, a cleaner loudly interrupted my conversation with a receptionist, who barely acknowledged the disruption.
In another, a secretary continued a lengthy personal call as I waited, discussing everything from her travel experience to Zambia to her children's education.
The phones, it appeared, were being used more for personal business than for facilitating government work.
The contrast between the working environment of junior and senior officials was another glaring issue. In several offices, I had to stand because there were chairs.
At the National Prosecuting Authority, I was warned to be careful as I saw on a broken chair, which could have collapsed under my weight.
In one particularly embarrassing instance, an official, mortified by the lack of seating, offered me her own chair and stood for the duration of our meeting.
Yet, just a few doors down, the offices of senior officials told a different story. These rooms were well-equipped, with plush carpets, polished furniture, and air conditioning — luxuries that seemed to underscore the vast disparities in resource allocation within the government.
The senior officials appeared entirely insulated from the struggles of their junior counterparts, who were left to cope with substandard conditions that undoubtedly hindered their ability to perform their duties.
The physical state of many government buildings further reflected this neglect. Dimly lit corridors with broken tiles posed a constant hazard, forcing me to navigate carefully to avoid accidents.
The lack of basic maintenance suggested a broader institutional decay, where even the most fundamental needs were being ignored.
As I concluded my investigation, I was struck by the pervasive sense of secrecy and inefficiency that characterised these institutions. The government, meant to serve the public with transparency and accountability, instead appeared to be mired in a culture of evasion and decay.
The Freedom of Information Act was designed to empower citizens by ensuring access to information, but my experience revealed a government more interested in maintaining the shadows of secrecy than in embracing openness and service.
