By Admore Mbonda, in Kariba
In Kariba, the night has a new menu—and it’s leaving residents both hungry for answers and fearful for their safety.
Just metres from the lapping waters of Lake Kariba, something gruesome is unfolding. Poachers have set their sights on crocodiles—not for their prized skins, but for their meat. And they’re selling it as braai packs, right under the cover of darkness, outside the Nyamhunga Beer Hall.
It sounds like a tall tale. But the evidence is chilling.
Today, at the Nyamhunga sewer ponds, a Gemantion News crew stumbled upon a scene that turned stomachs: five crocodile heads, their long snouts and scaly hides still recognizable, scattered among other remains. Bones.
Internal organs. Meat. All signs pointing to a systematic butchering operation—one that residents say has been going on for months.
“It’s cruelty to animals,” said Mashala Mushore, chairperson of the Kariba Residents Trust, his voice heavy with disgust. “This is not how we treat wildlife. This is not who we are.”
A Trade That Thrives in the Shadows
The poachers are bold. They target crocodiles around the Nyamhunga sewer ponds and along the Showline, areas that should be off-limits. Then, under the glow of streetlights and the cover of night, they package the meat and sell it in small portions—braai packs, they call them—to unsuspecting or willing buyers.
No permits. No oversight. Just profit.
Residents say the trade picked up steam after Padenga crocodile farm stopped selling meat last year, and another local crocodile company closed its doors at the start of 2026. Suddenly, a gap in supply became an opportunity for the desperate—and the dangerous.
But at what cost?
More Than Just Meat
For the people of Kariba, this isn’t just about illegal meat. It’s about safety. It’s about respect. It’s about the unspoken understanding that crocodiles, ancient and powerful, are not livestock. They are protected. They are part of a delicate ecosystem that keeps the lake—and the community—alive.
“There’s a reason we have wildlife laws,” one resident said, asking not to be named. “If we let this go, what’s next? Hippos? Elephants? Where do we draw the line?”
The community is now calling for action—tighter monitoring of the sewer ponds, stronger patrols along the Showline, and a full investigation into the supply chain. Who is buying this meat? Where is it going? And how many crocodiles have been lost already?
A Call for Answers
The Gemantion News crew plans to dig deeper, tracing buyers and following leads on distribution points. But for now, the question haunting Kariba is simple:
How did a protected predator become a late-night special?
In a town built on the beauty of its lake and the majesty of its wildlife, the answer may say more about desperation than it does about crime. But residents insist: poverty is no excuse for cruelty.
“We cannot treat crocodiles like cattle,” Mushore said. “This has to stop—before it’s too late.”
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