EVERYDAY, as I scroll through social media, I am met with a curated parade of “roora squads,” glamorous brides and celebratory lobola ceremonies.
The comments sections are a sea of “congratulations” and “goals,” yet beneath the digital shimmer lies a heavy, often unspoken pressure.
For the single woman, the refrain of “Kwasara iwe” (you’re next) at every family gathering serves as a persistent reminder of a societal ticking clock.
In our culture, it often feels as though a woman’s value comes with an expiry date — a narrative for another day, perhaps, but one that frames the entire conversation around marriage in Zimbabwe.
As families increasingly view rusambo and mafukidza dumbu as the ultimate sign of “raising a child well,” many young women find themselves rushing towards the altar.
The fear of being left behind leads some to marry for public praise or, worse, to settle for the wrong partner simply because the calendar is turning and the pressure from parents seeking these traditional payments becomes unbearable.
To understand the current weight of this tradition, I reached out to various WhatsApp groups to gather perspectives.
The responses were a microcosm of our shifting cultural landscape. One respondent argued that roora is far more than a transaction; it is a sacred formality that unites two families and resists the total “Westernisation” of our identity.
He spoke of the ndiro (wooden plates) used to announce the union to the ancestors, seeking their blessing and protection.
Others viewed it as a gesture of profound appreciation — a way for a groom to honour the family that raised his wife.
“Lady C,” a contributor married to an Englishman, shared that her husband paid lobola specifically to honour her heritage, proving that the tradition can transcend borders and still hold deep emotional value.
However, the conversation quickly turned towards the “unpaid care work” that defines the lives of many married women.
One contributor argued that since women are often expected to be “keepers” who work around the clock for their new families, lobola is the bare minimum a groom can offer to acknowledge that labour.
But another contributor, “Mhofela,” raised a chilling point: the problem isn’t the tradition itself, but its capitalisation.
When families treat lobola as a windfall or a “return on investment,” it ceases to be a union of families and begins to resemble human trafficking.
This sentiment was echoed during a workshop I attended with the Women’s Coalition of Zimbabwe, where we dissected how lobola can inadvertently fuel patriarchy.
We concluded that much of the entitlement men feel in marriage, the “I bought you” mentality, stems directly from the price tag attached to the ceremony.
Let’s look at the “mathematics of roora.”
A parent spends approximately US$20 000 on primary and high school, and another US$12 000 on university (using modest averages for standard schools).
After an investment of US$32 000 in her growth and education, a groom pays a lobola of perhaps US$4 000.
The woman then changes her name, bears children, changes her physical appearance, directs her entire labour and intellect towards her new family, and is often told, “I own you because I paid for you.”
The irony is most biting at the end of life. If she passes away, her remains are frequently returned to her biological family for burial, while the husband retains the fruits of her hard work, their shared achievements and moves on to a new union.
Beyond the social and economic implications, the legal framework surrounding roora often leaves women in a precarious “legal no-man’s land”.
While the Marriages Act [Chapter 5:17] has sought to modernise these laws, significant disadvantages remain that keep women vulnerable.
For instance, the “bigamy loophole” remains a devastating reality. A man who has been traditionally married for decades can theoretically enter into a civil marriage with another woman.
Because the first union was not registered as a civil marriage, he often escapes the legal consequences of bigamy, leaving the first wife with no legal standing to contest the new union despite years of building a life together.
Furthermore, property rights and inheritance are often compromised by the presence of lobola. In many unregistered customary unions, women struggle to claim ownership of matrimonial property.
If the husband dies or the relationship ends, the woman may be evicted by in-laws who claim the property belongs to the “lineage” because lobola was paid, essentially using the bride price as a shield to deny a woman’s individual right to the assets she helped to build.
We also see the toxic “refund culture,” where, in extreme and archaic cases, families demand a “refund” of lobola if the woman is deemed “unproductive” due to infertility or if she chooses to leave an abusive marriage.
This treats the woman as a defective commodity rather than a human being with agency.
Even the guardianship of children is affected. While laws are evolving, the payment of lobola is still frequently cited in local courts to argue that the father has “purchased” the rights to the children, complicating custody battles and making it harder for mothers to assert their parental rights in the face of traditional patriarchs.
Lobola is not merely a transaction; it is a living tradition that carries the weight of history, culture and identity.
To dismiss it as obsolete is to ignore its profound significance for millions of Zimbabweans. Yet, to practise it uncritically, without acknowledging its potential for harm and legal erasure, is equally problematic.
The question of whether lobola is “necessary” might be the wrong starting point.
A better question is: how can we practise roora in a way that honours its original purpose of family bonding while respecting modern values of equality, dignity and economic reality?
Tradition should be a foundation for belonging, not a cage for the soul. If the “price” of a woman’s belonging is her silence, her labour or her legal invisibility, then the price is far too high for any society to pay.