Online Reporter
Rodgers Irimayi
Cultural Perspectives
IN a packed kombi rattling through Mutare’s Central Business District (CBD), a teenage boy leans toward his friends and fires off a string of expletives.
Nobody flinches. A few seats away, a schoolgirl in uniform giggles as she repeats the same words into her phone.
For many Zimbabwean youths, vulgar language is no longer shocking. It is punctuation. It is armour. It is everyday speech.
But beneath the shrugs and laughs, parents, teachers, pastors, and psychologists are asking: what is this language doing to a generation?
From taboo to trend
Zimbabwe’s elders grew up when insults like chihure or dhongi were whispered, not shouted. Swearing was reserved for moments of extreme anger, and even then, it risked a beating or public shaming. Today, walk past any high school at lunch or scroll through TikTok comments, and the shift is loud.
“Ten years ago a learner would be suspended for saying those words in class. Now I hear it every day. Some kids don’t even know they’re swearing. It is just how they talk,” said Mrs Tendai Moyo, a Grade Seven teacher in Marange.
The drivers are familiar: satellite TV, dancehall and Zim-dancehall lyrics, social media clout, and the stress of growing up in an economy where young people feel unheard. Vulgarity becomes a shortcut to sounding tough, funny, or grown.
The social cost
Language shapes how we see each other, and how others see us. Guidance counsellor at a Bulawayo high school, Mr Tafadzwa Zindoga said he has watched vulgar speech corrode relationships.
“Once ‘disrespect’ becomes normal talk, it spills into behaviour. Boys insult girls casually, then don’t understand why it is called harassment. Girls clap back with the same words, and suddenly nobody knows where the line is,” explained Mr Zindoga.
Employers notice too.
Mr Tendai Makumbe runs a small IT start-up in Mutare, and has stopped hiring interns who can’t code-switch.
“I had a brilliant 19‑year‑old who could build apps. But in meetings he would drop F‑bombs to make a point. Clients were uncomfortable. I had to let him go. The talent was there, but the language cost him the job,” he said.
Inside the mind
Psychologists warn that constant exposure to vulgarity can blunt empathy.
Dr Rutendo Sibindi, a clinical psychologist in Avondale, said swear words trigger the brain’s emotional centres. When used sparingly, they release stress. When used as filler, they lose meaning and can increase aggression.
“Teens tell me, ‘It is just words’. But words are the software we run our thoughts on. If your daily vocabulary is hostile, your default mood follows,” she said.
She has seen a rise in learners who struggle to express frustration without insults. Arguments escalate faster, apologies feel weaker, and self‑worth takes a hit when the words they hear and use are demeaning.
Culture and identity
Not everyone sees vulgarity as decay. For some youths, it is rebellion and identity.
Zim-dancehall artiste, Bla Kid, 22, argues that raw language reflects raw realities.
“We talk about what we see: poverty, police, heartbreak. Our elders had Chimurenga songs. We have riddims. The words are harsh because life is harsh,” he said.
Scholars at the University of Zimbabwe note that Shona and Ndebele have always had taboo words, but they were context‑bound—used in rituals, war, or as social correctives.
What has changed is the context collapse: private words are now public, and sacred insults are now memes.
The Digital Megaphone
WhatsApp groups, Instagram Lives, and TikTok duets have put vulgarity on repeat. A 2024 study by the Media Institute of Southern Africa found that 68 percent of Zimbabwean teens aged 13‑19 had encountered explicit language online daily. The algorithm does not judge tone; it rewards engagement. Shock gets clicks.
Pastor Abel Chikwashira, who runs a youth programme in Sakubva, tried banning phones during sessions. It backfired.
“They just waited until after. So now we teach media literacy. We ask: who profits when you’re angry? Who taught you that word, and why?”
Breaking the Cycle
Solutions are not as simple as soap in the mouth. Experts say outright bans can make swearing cooler. Instead, schools like
St Peter’s in Hatfield are piloting “language dignity” clubs. Learners write poetry, debate, and do spoken word without relying on expletives. The goal is not censorship, it is range. At home, Mai Tavengwa in Chikanga, Zimta Park has a different tactic.
She fines her three teens a dollar for every swear word, money that goes into a family outing jar.
“At first they paid every week. Now the jar is dusty. They have learnt to be creative with insults. My son now calls his brother a ‘malfunctioning calculator.’ I will take it.”
The Bigger Picture
Language is a mirror. The rise of vulgar speech among youths reflects pressure: unemployment, political noise, and a digital world that rewards outrage. But mirrors can also be cleaned.
Dr Sibindi urges parents not to panic, but to engage.
“Ask your child what that word means to them. You will learn more about their world than any lecture could teach.”
For 17‑year‑old Tanaka from Dangamvura, the change started when he noticed his little sister copying him.
“I heard her tell a doll to ‘shut up, you idiot. That was me. I had to check myself,” he said. He still listens to Zim-dancehall. He still jokes with friends. But he is learning there is power in choosing words, not just using them.
Youths are not doomed by their vocabulary.
They are adapting, code‑switching, and in many cases, self‑correcting.
Vulgar language is a symptom, not the whole story. The real story is whether adults will listen past the swear words to the frustrations underneath, and whether young people will decide what kind of voice they want the nation to hear from them next.
Because words build worlds. And this generation is still deciding what they want theirs to sound like.
