A few detectives in the town of Mutorashanga have become the poster child for efficient criminal investigations in Zimbabwe, after arresting the most notorious criminals in the region. Mutorashanga is a small mining town in the north of the country. Well known for its rich deposits of gold and chrome, the town attracts scores of makorokoza, or artisanal miners. Most operate illegally on abandoned claims without proper paperwork. This results in frequent disputes over mining claims, thefts and gang violence. Dealers move around with large sums of cash and are targets for criminals. The local authorities have always had to be vigilant.
But a dark cloud had recently fallen over the town. Even the most hardened makorokoza slept with one eye open at night. Robbers from Harare were running riot in the streets. It was rumored that Zato was the criminal mastermind behind the robberies. He’d spent weeks researching the town and the key players in it, from gold buyers to businesses that closed up late. He knew how long it took the local police to respond to a call. He used all this information to his advantage when he commenced operations. The robberies had a devastating effect on the community.
It all started when they cleaned up Murimi’s tuckshop—the heart of Mutorashanga as far as groceries are concerned. They robbed the shop of almost everything: foodstuffs, supplies, cash from the register, you name it. The shop attendant, Mukoma Ronnie, was found tied up by the entrance, his bruised lips purple and swollen. He just shook his head when the police tried to question him about the robbery.
Their next victim wasn’t as reluctant to speak. Denny, a gold dealer, was a prominent man in the town. He had tried to retaliate. “I shot one of them in the foot as they were fleeing,” he told the police, “but they had cleaned me up already. I found my guards tied up just as Ronnie was. I only saw about three of them. One of them burst into maniacal laughter as he left the scene.”
A spate of robberies followed. The criminals stole without leaving a trace, before anyone could cry for help. They moved smoothly and precisely. They had swept into town with a calm discipline unmatched by any other criminals there. Convinced they were untouchable, the gang soon began to act arrogantly, as if they ran the town and the law didn’t apply to them.
People in Mutorashanga stopped talking to one another. Or they murmured in the corners. Makorokoza kept their eyes down. The criminals seemed to have collaborators among the local population. Every day there was another heist, another hijacking, another shout in the night, another victim. The community was bleeding, with the criminals probably celebrating in the shadows. It wasn’t clear to the locals if it was one gang causing all this havoc or several. But the surge of criminal activity was too organized for it to be random.
When the regular police, the ZRP, failed to handle this wave of crime, the local authorities turned to CID. The detectives from CID didn’t roll in with a big Mahindra truck or polished boots. They moved stealthily, much to the surprise of the thugs. They wore faded jackets and shoes worn down at the soles. They soon established the robbers weren’t local. They were outsiders, probably from Harare. They seemed to have thought Mutorashanga was too small, too weak to push back. And that was a miscalculation.
Unlike the ZRP, who had investigated each and every robbery in isolation, CID treated the crimes as pieces of a single puzzle. They interviewed victims repeatedly, compared witness statements, traced the routes used after each robbery, and spoke to gold buyers, shopkeepers, and even makorokoza. A breakthrough came when detectives realised that one of the witnesses had described one robber limping slightly—consistent with Denny’s claim that he had shot one of the gang in the foot. As a consequence, they narrowed down their search. An informant pointed them to a cluster of rented houses on the edge of town, where they had seen unusual men come and go, only after dark. The detectives surveilled the houses for days before making their move.
They were nondescript townhouses, each with four or five bedrooms, on approximately 500 square meters of land. The houses were encircled by a high Durawall, with razor wire along the top. One evening, they saw some robbers go inside, switch off the lights, and retire for the night. In the morning, the detectives acted. No theatrics, just resolve. They split into pairs and began knocking. One of the criminals opened the door, expecting a comrade. Instead he found two men calmly standing there, hands clasped behind their backs. One of them spoke, his voice low but full of authority: “It’s the police… CID Mutorashanga.” The man froze. His legs betrayed him and he didn’t attempt to flee.
Panic spread through the gang, but it was too late. The detectives had figured out their routines. They swept from hideout to hideout, pulling out the men who had wreaked havoc across the town. Some tried to escape via the windows, some hid under the beds. One even claimed, “I just got here!” It was all futile. The CID team was methodical and merciless.
By midday, the operation had become a total purge. Stolen goods were found in sacks stashed in shallow pits behind fowl runs. The community watched in astonishment, as the once-feared Harare gang were led outside, hands bound, heads lowered, caught by cops who looked like extras from an 80s crime drama. When CID loaded the last suspect into the ZRP’s Mahindra, their legend was sealed. Not because they were men with resources, but because they were men with courage.
But the real shock for the criminals came later, in the holding cells. The criminals had no idea who had been caught and who hadn’t. CID had moved so quickly and quietly that they were confused. They had been taken in separately, in groups or individually, from different parts of the town. And all of them assumed that they were the only ones caught.
“Ko Zato ari pano?” one prisoner asked, wondering if their leader had been arrested.
“Ehe ndiri pano,” a voice answered from the dark, confirming he was in the cell. “But you, Marabha—when did they get you?”
“Mal, these Mutorashanga guys. How did they take us like this? We didn’t even hear each other being grabbed.”
Zato scanned the cell, counting faces. He shook his head. Each face was a failure, all twenty-three of them. The criminals’ disbelief was evident. This was clean police work, the kind they thought was extinct. Not a single bribe taken, not one favour granted. CID Mutorashanga had restored peace in a wounded town.
