By David Smith
During a state banquet
in Pretoria, South
Africa, in April 2015, I had a brief encounter with Grace
Mugabe, the first lady of Zimbabwe.
I was asking her husband, Robert Mugabe, about the question of her succeeding
him as president. “She doesn’t have those ambitions,” began Mugabe, the
spectacles perched on his nose reminiscent of an elderly librarian, a narrow
moustache clinging to his upper lip like a caterpillar.
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| *Grace Mugabe |
Suddenly he interrupted himself with mock
alarm: “Careful, there she comes!” The frail 91-year-old, who increasingly
resembles a hanger for his well-tailored suits, remained seated. I rose and
turned to behold his 49-year-old wife, with her cropped hair and long black
dress, lace hanging daintily at the wrist. Grace, who had been the subject of
persistent gossip about a serious illness, was returning from an interlude on
the dancefloor that delighted dinner guests.
“Hello, David Smith of the Guardian. We were just talking about you.”
“I
just wanted to ask you if it’s true you might like to be president one day,” I
asked.
Her
hard features, which can resemble a mask with striking dark eyes and sculpted
cheekbones, dissolved into a laugh. She did not deny it. “I don’t know, I don’t
know.”
Just then a band struck up and I beat a
retreat, past the glares of South African protocol mandarins, one of whom
ordered me to leave, snarling: “I hope we never see you again.”
Few
women in Africa provoke such fascination, or
such loathing, as Grace Mugabe. Loyalists describe her as “Amai” (Mother), “The
Lady of the Revelation” or, predictably, “Amazing Grace”, while detractors prefer
“DisGrace”, “Gucci Grace” or “First Shopper”. There are reports that the couple
have substantial foreign properties and multiple offshore bank accounts,
Grace’s overseas shopping expeditions are legendary: she was widely reported to
have spent £75,000 on luxury goods in one day in Paris
in 2003, and to have taken 15 trolley-loads of purchases into the first-class
lounge of Singapore
airport. She has been forced to deny rumours that she has been unfaithful to
the president and defends herself against accusations that she is pampered and
lazy.
The
four-decade age difference between her and her husband has invited urgent
questions about what will happen to her after his death. She stands to lose the
presidential credit card and possibly the luxurious mansion in the Zimbabwean
capital, Harare.
She has grown up in a country where proximity to power is no guarantee of
survival, and knows how quickly loyalties can turn. Mugabe’s long years of
cunning divide and conquer have left the ruling Zanu-PFparty and the country
without an obvious successor, creating an atmosphere among the ruling elite
that seethes with mutual suspicion and treachery, and bitter factional
divisions.
Grace
had always appeared acquiescent, an adornment, mother of the president’s
children. No one, until now, considered that she might have political
ambitions. But late last year, the world met a new Grace Mugabe. Suddenly,
without warning, she transformed from smiling president’s wife to political
player in her own right. In early December, she was elevated to a senior role
in Zanu-PF and confirmed as the new head of its women’s league. She then
embarked on a national promotional trip, nicknamed the “Graceland
tour”, flying across the country to attend a series of rallies, where she
delivered tirades against her husband’s perceived enemies. At one of the
rallies, Grace made her agenda clear. She declared: “They say I want to be
president. Why not? Am I not a Zimbabwean?”
The
political establishment was rocked back on its heels. Ibbo Mandaza, a former
civil servant who has known the president and his wife for years, said: “Grace
was always sedate, sitting in the background looking beautiful. Then suddenly
this woman is someone else you can’t recognise. She was uncouth, unbecoming.”
