Online Reporter
Miriam Tose Majome, Correspondent
Every so often, a story makes the rounds in whispers, not headlines.
A schoolgirl disappears from class for a week. A married woman turns up at a clinic with her sister, eyes down, voice low. A nurse wants to help, but keeps asking for paperwork that the patient does not have.
In Zimbabwe, that tension between private crisis and public law is exactly where the abortion conversation lives. This is not a subject people enjoy discussing at a braai. It sits at the intersection of religion, culture, fear, medicine and the criminal justice system.
But the law does exist, and it is precise. It also has loopholes and bottlenecks that can make lawful care hard to access in real life.
Our Constitution sets the tone. It protects the right to life, including protection of unborn life, and then makes it clear that pregnancy may only be terminated in terms of a law passed by Parliament.
So, Zimbabwe’s position is not “never”, but “only on the terms the law allows”.
That law is the Termination of Pregnancy Act. It is restrictive by design, and it is worth explaining it plainly because many people still believe abortion is illegal in all circumstances.
It is not.
The Act permits termination on three main grounds. First, in a situation where continuing the pregnancy endangers the woman’s life or poses a serious risk of permanent injury to her physical health.
Second, where there is a serious risk the child to be born will suffer such a severe physical or mental condition that he/she would be permanently and seriously handicapped.
Third, where there is a reasonable possibility the pregnancy resulted from unlawful intercourse, a category that the current law frames narrowly.
On paper, these grounds seem straightforward. In real life, the conditions attached to them are where many women and girls get stuck.
Even where a lawful ground exists, a termination must be done by a medical practitioner, at a designated institution, with written permission from the superintendent.
If the reason is danger to life or severe foetal abnormality, the process usually requires certification by two medical practitioners. If the reason is unlawful intercourse, there is an extra gatekeeper: a magistrate’s certificate backed by sworn statements and confirmation that a complaint has been lodged.
The law also caters for emergencies, where a doctor can act to save life or prevent serious harm when the normal process cannot be followed, but with reporting afterwards. Add to this the reality that some health workers will refuse to participate on conscience grounds, and you start to see why lawful does not always mean accessible.
Outside these lanes, termination becomes a criminal matter.
The criminal code criminalises unlawful termination of pregnancy, with penalties that can include imprisonment, a fine, or both. There are defences where the termination was lawful under the Termination of Pregnancy Act or occurred as part of recognised medical procedures.
But the message to the ordinary person is simple: if you cannot meet the strict requirements, you risk being treated as a criminal. That fear drives secrecy. Secrecy drives delay. Delay drives danger.
Consider two Zimbabwean scenarios that are not theoretical.
A teenager falls pregnant after sexual abuse by someone known to the family. She may have a lawful basis, but she must report, make statements, and navigate a magistrate’s certificate while carrying the burden of shame and the fear of being disbelieved.
Or consider a married woman who is sexually violated by her husband. For years, the narrow framing of “unlawful intercourse” created a painful gap between what society knows happens and what the statute was willing to recognise for purposes of lawful termination.
The law did not stop the pregnancy. It simply made lawful help harder to reach, and made unsafe choices more likely.
This is why recent court developments, which have challenged exclusions affecting girls under 18 and women raped within marriage, have resonated. Whatever one’s personal beliefs, the legal principle is not complicated: if an act is criminal, the law should not treat it as less serious because of who committed it or the relationship between the parties.
The courts have, in effect, forced the country to confront what many families and clinics already know. The law must speak to life as it is lived, not as we wish it to be.
Now the issue has moved from courtrooms into Parliament. The Medical Services Amendment Bill has carried proposals that would directly amend the Termination of Pregnancy Act.
The proposed changes are significant. They broaden the concept of unlawful intercourse to include sexual intercourse that constitutes a criminal offence, which is clearly aimed at covering categories such as sex with minors and marital rape.
They also introduce clearer time frames. A pregnant child would be able to request termination within the first 12 weeks. For pregnant women more generally, the proposal would allow termination up to and including 20 weeks in defined circumstances linked to risk to life, serious injury to physical or mental health, severe foetal abnormality or pregnancy resulting from unlawful intercourse as newly defined.
After 20 weeks, the proposal tightens with additional medical safeguards.
Consent is likely to be the most contested point. Under the proposal, no consent other than that of the pregnant woman would be required, even if she is a child. The medical practitioner must advise the child to consult a parent or guardian, but the child cannot be denied the service simply because she chooses not to consult.
Supporters will argue that this reflects reality: many girls are impregnated in unsafe environments, sometimes by the very people who would control the decision. Critics will argue it sidelines family, culture and the protection owed to unborn life.
Both sides should be honest about what they are really arguing. The debate is not only about morality. It is also about control, access, safety and whether the law should respond to harm with healthcare or with punishment.
Whichever direction Parliament takes, Zimbabweans should demand clarity and practicality. If the law remains strict, then the State must show that lawful services are actually reachable, not just written in a statute.
If the law becomes broader, then implementation cannot be left to chance: which hospitals will provide services, how rural communities will access them, how confidentiality will be protected, how conscientious objection will be managed, and how the system will prevent reform on paper from becoming an urban privilege in practice.
Abortion is not a topic that gets easier by refusing to name it. The law already names it. The question is whether we will shape it in a way that reduces harm, protects rights and treats real people as more than a case number.
Miriam Tose Majome is a lawyer and can be contacted on [email protected]
