The announcement that Zimbabwe’s social workers will soon be required to sit for a licensing examination has been met with loud protests. On social media, the mood has been indignant.

Graduates ask why they should face another exam after years of university study. Others suspect the Council of Social Workers is overreaching. Yet much of this outrage feels misplaced when seen in the wider context of professional life.

Across the country, exams are the norm for serious work. Law graduates cannot appear in court without first passing the bar. A medical degree does not by itself qualify one to practice; doctors face board assessments and supervised training before full registration. Nurses and pharmacists are tested and licensed beyond their academic qualifications. Accountants grind through professional papers before their signatures mean anything. Engineers register before their drawings carry legal weight.

And beyond the professions of the gown and the tie, artisans face their own gatekeepers. Electricians, plumbers, motor mechanics, welders, bricklayers face rigorous evaluations. After college or apprenticeship, they sit for trade tests. Their competence is measured with tools, wiring, joints, torque, and tolerances. That certificate isn’t ceremonial; it tells the public this person can do the job safely.

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These processes don’t insult universities or polytechnics. Rather, they serve to complement them. Universities and colleges train. Councils and trade-testing boards certify. One develops knowledge and skill; the other confirms readiness to carry responsibility in the real world.

Social work is no less demanding. Practitioners handle cases involving abused children, vulnerable families, trauma survivors, and the mentally ill. Their judgments ripple through courts, schools, hospitals, and communities. A decision can keep a child safe or leave them exposed. Such responsibility requires more than a transcript. If lawyers sit bar exams and artisans face trade tests under an assessor’s eye, why should social work be the exception?

The claim that universities have already provided quality assurance misunderstands the difference between learning and licensing. A degree signals knowledge. A license signals the ability to apply that knowledge within the ethical and regulatory framework of a profession. Graduates vary across institutions; a common standard protects the public. That isn’t a vote of no confidence in universities. It is an affirmation that professional life needs uniform assurance across diverse pathways.

This is also normal globally. In many jurisdictions, social workers write licensing exams or meet council standards before practice. Zimbabwe’s move is an alignment with that reality. The anger, then, likely springs less from principle than from fatigue. Graduates are tired. Jobs are scarce, pay is thin, and costs are heavy. Another hurdle feels unfair. The frustration is real, but it belongs with the economy, not with the idea of professional regulation. Standards are not a punishment; they are how a field protects the public and its own reputation.

What weakens the profession is the refusal to see this. When doctors face boards, no one claims medical schools have failed. When a welder proves a pressure line under a trade test, no one says the polytechnic or Vocational Training Center is being humiliated. To suggest that social workers alone should be spared scrutiny makes the field look fragile when it should be projecting confidence. This perception is unjust and corrosive. It suggests that social work is somehow less rigorous than other disciplines. However, social work stands at the very edge of human vulnerability.

This does not absolve the Council from responsibility. It must consult, publish clear syllabi, design fair and accessible exams, and price them reasonably. Candidates deserve transparency and dignity. But rejecting the idea of licensing altogether is shortsighted. When done properly, exams strengthen a field and give the public a reason to trust it.

Social workers often say they are undervalued compared to doctors, lawyers, engineers. Even compared to skilled artisans whose trade cards open doors. That complaint is justified. Ironically, licensing can help shift that perception. Professions and trades that insist on standards earn respect. A bar card, a practice number, a trade test certificate, these are signals that society can rely on the person behind the paper. Social work should want the same for its graduates.

The outrage, then, misfires. It resists the very thing that could elevate the profession. Instead of defensive protests, social workers could see this as an opportunity. They can stand shoulder to shoulder with every field in Zimbabwe that proves its competence. Whether the proof is a courtroom pass, a ward round sign-off, an engineering stamp, or a clean bead on a pressurized weld. Exams do not make social work small. They make it credible. And credibility is what the profession needs most, for the sake of the people it serves and for its own standing in national life.

P.S. Independent writing survives on readers like you. If you can, please contribute here.

Kumbirai Thierry Nhamo is an independent social justice activist and writer. He can be contacted on WhatsApp/Phone (+263780022343) or email kumbiraithierryn@gmail.com. You can read more of his articles on https://zealousthierry.art.blog/

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