Is the university graduation gown the only thing we will have to show for our years of learning?

Source: Is the university graduation gown the only thing we will have to show for our years of learning?

This debate never grows old.
As thousands of excited families gathered at Midlands State University to witness over seven thousand students walk across the stage, the air was filled with joyous ululations, camera flashes, and the unmistakable sense of triumph.
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Social media is currently flooded with striking portraits of young men and women proudly donning their academic regalia, holding their prized certificates, and soaking in the fleeting glory of academic achievement.

It is a scene repeated across Zimbabwean tertiary institutions every graduation season—a vibrant spectacle of hope, sacrifice, and pride.
Yet, as the excitement subsides and the rented gowns are returned to the vendors, a haunting question lingers in the air.
Is the university graduation gown the only thing we will ever have to show for our years of learning?
I am particularly invested in this conversation because my inbox tells the real story every single day.
As a social justice advocate, I am constantly inundated with messages from graduates across every field—including lawyers—begging for any job available, even entry-level clerical work.
For a vast majority of these bright-eyed graduates, that rented gown and a framed piece of paper represent the peak of their professional journey, rather than its beginning.
In an economy that has effectively collapsed into informal survival, the unspoken promise of higher education—a stable career, a predictable livelihood, and a dignified entry into the middle class—remains largely unfulfilled.
We see millions of Zimbabweans proudly displaying their graduation pictures on their walls, but we almost never see them years later celebrating what those degrees actually brought into their lives.
The silence in the years following graduation is deafening, as the reality of an economy that cannot absorb them sets in with relentless force.
Instead of stepping into corporate boardrooms, engineering firms, or research laboratories, thousands of degree holders are forced straight into the informal sector.
The streets of our cities and towns are filled with qualified accountants, engineers, teachers, and sociologists who spend their days running market stalls, trading airtime, driving informal taxis, or navigating the precarious hustle of daily survival.
There is an undeniable tragedy in watching a young person spend four years mastering complex theoretical frameworks, only to spend the next decade applying that intellect to basic survival tactics.
A degree quickly loses its ceremonial luster when it sits gathering dust in a wardrobe while its holder struggles to secure basic living expenses.
This reality breeds a profound underemployment shock.
Those fortunate enough to land formal work often find themselves trapped in endless streams of unpaid internships, low-paying short-term contracts, or roles completely detached from their chosen fields.
Others see emigration as their only remaining lifeline, transforming their hard-won academic qualifications into mere application criteria for overseas visas or entry-level healthcare work abroad.
In both cases, the degree ceases to be a badge of professional achievement at home; it becomes either a reminder of stagnant potential or an exit ticket out of a country that offered no room to grow.
Why, then, does our collective obsession with degrees remain so fiercely intact?
Why do families continue to bankrupt themselves, sell livestock, and pool scarce resources to pay exorbitant tuition fees for qualifications that yield such uncertain returns?
The answer lies deep within our cultural psychology.
In Zimbabwe, education has historically been revered as the ultimate equalizer, the single most reliable vehicle out of generational poverty.
For parents who laboured in low-paying positions, a child’s graduation is not merely an individual milestone; it is a collective family victory.
That graduation day represents years of immense sacrifice, and the celebration is as much for the parents’ endurance as it is for the student’s diligence.
A degree also remains the absolute bare minimum requirement to even stand a chance when rare opportunities arise.
Yet, when that qualification fails to open closed doors, many see no choice but to double down and pursue a Master’s or Doctorate.
It becomes a vicious, desperate cycle of academic escalation—collecting higher degrees not out of passion, but in the frantic hope that one more title will finally break through the wall.
Furthermore, in a society where economic stability has been stripped from the majority, academic titles become an alternative currency of dignity and respect.
Being addressed as a graduate still carries immense social validation, serving as a shield against the loss of self-worth that rampant unemployment inflicts.
Education retains its sacred status because it represents the last bastion of hope—a structured, predictable path in an environment defined by uncertainty.
Graduation day is the absolute summit of that hope.
It is the final moment of unadulterated optimism before the harsh winds of economic reality blow in.
We celebrate the gown so intensely because, in many ways, it is the one thing we are guaranteed to receive.
But until our national economy is structured to turn academic potential into real productivity, that beautiful gown will remain what it currently is for far too many.
A fleeting moment of glory, and the only tangible reward for years of dedicated learning.
***Tendai Ruben Mbofana is a social justice advocate and writer. Please feel free to contact him on +263715667700 or ***mbofana.tendairuben73@gmail.com

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