As Zimbabwean schools reopen, a troubling and all-too-familiar pattern has resurfaced: students being sent home for unpaid tuition fees. School administrators argue that these payments are essential for operations, citing rising costs and shrinking budgets. On the other hand, parents, many grappling with severe economic hardship, are pleading for leniency and understanding. The resulting standoff is not merely administrative; it is deeply human and profoundly unjust, placing learners in the crossfire of economic struggle and institutional rigidity.
Zimbabwe’s Constitution guarantees every child the right to basic education. This right is not rhetorical, it is codified and reaffirmed in law. The 2020 amendment to the Education Act, through Section 68C, explicitly states that “no pupil shall be excluded from school for non-payment of school fees.” Yet, despite this clear legal provision, exclusion continues in both overt and subtle forms across the country. Children are turned away from classrooms, embarrassed in front of peers, or quietly pushed out through bureaucratic delay. These actions do not merely violate the law; they erode the very spirit of justice and equality on which the education system is supposed to rest.
The impact on students goes beyond temporary interruption. Being sent home induces shame and anxiety. It disrupts continuity, making it harder for children to catch up or reintegrate when they return. Many begin to associate school with punishment rather than opportunity. The psychological scars of public exclusion can persist far longer than the financial debt owed. For learners in already vulnerable communities, such interruptions often mark the beginning of a slow slide toward permanent dropout.
Critics have rightly described this practice as a form of extortion, using children as leverage in a financial dispute they did not create. The contract is between the school and the parent, not the child. Punishing children for non-payment is not only unethical, it is also ineffective. Schools have alternative avenues available, including legal recourse or structured payment plans. More importantly, there must be a distinction made between parents who are willfully negligent and those who are genuinely struggling but still committed to their child’s education. Blanket enforcement that ignores context is both cruel and counterproductive.
The government, through initiatives like the Basic Education Assistance Module (BEAM), has tried to cushion vulnerable families. But BEAM remains underfunded and inconsistently administered. Meanwhile, regional examples like Kenya’s free primary education or Ghana’s capitation grants show that political will, coupled with efficient donor coordination, can yield real results. Unfortunately, Zimbabwe’s economic sanctions have limited its access to such global support. Yet even within these constraints, more can be done to prioritize inclusivity and equity in our national education strategy.
Beyond tuition, a second layer of exploitation festers quietly but persistently: the enforcement of exclusive, overpriced school supplies. Official policy, as reiterated in the Ministry of Primary and Secondary Education’s Term Two reopening circular, prohibits schools from forcing parents to purchase uniforms or stationery from specific suppliers. Payments in Zimbabwe Gold (ZIG) are legal. No child should be denied education for wearing a uniform bought elsewhere or for not bringing “approved” exercise books. And yet, in practice, these policies are routinely flouted.
Walk into many school offices and present a uniform stitched by an independent tailor, and resistance quickly arises. Suddenly, “rules” appear about colour shades or logo placements, often forcing parents to buy from the school at inflated prices. These uniforms are rarely superior in quality. They are hastily stitched, often substandard, and sold at exploitative rates. The same pattern applies to stationery, meal fees, and even classroom contributions disguised as compulsory “development funds.”
When parents are forced to choose between paying rent and buying a $90 uniform set their child doesn’t need, it stops being about education. It becomes economic bullying. Even more concerning is the continued demand for exclusive payment in US dollars in some schools—openly undermining government policy that promotes multi-currency use. Parents who refuse to comply are punished through passive-aggressive delays or thinly veiled refusals to enrol their children. These actions not only defy national financial policy, but also erode public confidence in the country’s monetary reforms.
The Ministry has repeatedly expressed commitment to fairness, inclusion, and policy enforcement. But commitment without action is hollow. Guidelines alone cannot protect learners unless they are followed by real accountability. Where are the audits? Where are the sanctions? Where is the courage to take action against headmasters and administrators who openly defy national directives and exploit struggling families?
If education is to be the bedrock of Zimbabwe’s Vision 2030, it cannot be built on foundations of exclusion and abuse. Until the Ministry of Primary and Secondary Education translates its well-crafted circulars into tangible, enforceable reforms, these documents will remain little more than dusty declarations of good intentions. Zimbabwe’s children deserve better. They deserve schools that uphold the law, respect the poor, and honour the sacred promise that no child should be left behind.
It’s time for action, not another announcement.
