As British historian John Dalberg-Acton famously observed in the nineteenth century, power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. This warning feels apt in relation to contemporary Zimbabwe, where President Emmerson Mnangagwa – who declared on assuming power after a coup in November 2017 that “the voice of the people is the voice of God” – appears intent on tweaking the Constitution to extend his second and final term from five to seven years without the proposal being subjected to a referendum.

At the time, many were convinced that the veteran politician, who had been dismissed as Vice President only weeks earlier, would at last steer Zimbabwe away from the Big Man politics that had prevailed under Robert Mugabe, who ruled for 37 years.

But the trappings of office seem to have gone to his head. Those around him – obviously acting as his mouthpieces – argue that he has performed so well that he needs an extra two years to conclude his ongoing programmes for the benefit of Zimbabweans. It would be baffling if they genuinely believed that he alone, out of more than 16-million citizens, is able to take Zimbabwe forward.

They have been saying in public statements that there is no need to call a referendum, despite vehement disagreement from opposition politicians and civil society activists. That argument is as revealing as it is troubling. Extending term limits without direct public consent undermines constitutionalism itself, turning what should be a social contract into an elite pact.

If the people are indeed the ultimate source of authority, as Mnangagwa once proclaimed, bypassing them on such a fundamental issue is not only contradictory but also corrosive.

The Zimbabwe Human Rights Commission, too, has been unimpressed by the proposed reform, with its chairperson saying exactly that at a no-holds-barred media conference earlier this month. Retribution was swift. After a couple of days – literally – Mnangagwa removed her from her position, reassigning her to the Public Service Commission as an ordinary member of that body.

Zimbabwean constitutional lawyers and activists have said the President over-reached his authority in taking this step, but it remains to be seen whether the legal challenge they have vowed to mount will result in a reversal.

Mnangagwa is now 84. If the extension he desires materialises, he will be 88 when he leaves office. Heaven forbid that when 2030 rolls around he will argue that the amended Constitution marks a new beginning, and he therefore qualifies for two more terms of seven years each. We have seen such a manoeuvre before in Côte d’Ivoire, where a constitutional reset has been used to extend incumbency rather than renew democracy.

If Mnangagwa’s camp prevails, Zimbabwe will join the likes of Benin, Cameroon – which is governed by the world’s oldest President, Paul Biya, who is aged 93 – the Central African Republic and Gabon. Far from stabilising governance, as Mnangagwa would want us to believe, longer terms lock in old leaders, thereby discouraging succession planning and heightening the stakes for each eventual transition.

Most African Presidents serve constitutionally permissible five-year terms, which are typically limited to two, a model that, while imperfect, at least preserves a rhythm of accountability. By contrast, stretching a single term to seven years risks concentrating power for too long in one pair of hands while weakening the urgency of performance. Leaders with such extended horizons can afford to delay reforms, postpone difficult decisions or govern while paying less attention to citizens than to their own political survival.

Longer terms also have subtler institutional effects. They encourage political ecosystems to reorganise around permanence, with bureaucracies, security structures and ruling party networks increasingly calibrating themselves to long incumbency horizons. Over time, this can erode the distinction between State and party, making it harder for institutions to act independently of the executive.

What begins as a constitutional amendment may reshape a country’s political culture in ways that are difficult to reverse.

Ultimately, the debate is not merely about an additional two years for Mnangagwa. It is about whether Zimbabwe deepens democratic accountability or weakens it, and about whether it builds institutions that outlast individuals or reshapes them to suit those in power.

On that score, history – both in Zimbabwe and across the continent – offers a clear and cautionary answer.