Zimbabwe’s latest fiscal idea arrives with a simple promise: from January 2026, banks and mobile money operators will withhold fifteen percent on payments made to offshore digital platforms. It is meant to close a gap. The argument is that subscription fees and platform commissions stream out of the country without passing through the tax net, and the Treasury sees an opportunity to capture what has long slipped by.
The idea makes sense in the abstract. It grows heavy once it enters the life of anyone who uses the internet for work, entertainment, communication, or study. A tax on paper is clean. A tax in a household budget is rarely that polite.

Governments around the world have tried to tax digital companies in the past decade, each with varying degrees of caution. The European Union flirted with a three-percent levy. Kenya settled at 1.5 percent. India introduced a two-percent equalisation charge. Economists have been arguing ever since about how to attach jurisdiction to digital value in a world where companies can sell everywhere without being anywhere. In most places, the experiments have been modest, even hesitant. A fifteen-percent withholding tax does not belong in that family. It is a blunt instrument designed for quick revenue. It is also a surcharge on daily life.
What makes the levy feel harsher is that Zimbabweans already pay a premium for digital services because the prices are set offshore. Netflix, Spotify, Google, Apple, Starlink: all of them charge in dollars. They have no interest in calibrating subscriptions to local incomes. A person in Harare pays the same headline price as a person in Paris even though their wages differ by an ocean. Economists preserve themselves with jargon like “purchasing power parity,” which smooths comparisons across countries by adjusting for local price levels. PPP does not adjust a credit-card bill. It does not soften the moment when a student sees a new fifteen-percent line item on a cloud storage receipt. When the state announces a levy of this size, it is placing the weight on a number that is already too heavy for many.
The government presents the measure as a question of fairness. The logic is familiar: foreign platforms benefit from Zimbabwean consumers and infrastructure yet pay no VAT or turnover tax. It is true that untaxed foreign transactions leave the state at a disadvantage. The fairness argument becomes harder, though, when the remedy is routed through the consumer instead of the company. A withholding tax collected by financial intermediaries catches the money before it leaves the country. That is efficient from a revenue perspective and punitive from a household perspective. Consumers will not see Netflix, or Spotify, or Starlink absorb this cost. The fee will arrive in the bank’s notification message, as if delivered by the taxman himself.
There are deeper stakes here. Digital participation is not a luxury anymore. It is a basic condition of work, culture, and even citizenship. When a teenager in Highfield watches a tutorial on YouTube, the act is not frivolous. It is education. When a woman in Chitungwiza uses a rideshare app at night, it is safety. When a freelancer in Bulawayo uploads files to a foreign client, it is survival. Each of these acts travels through a platform headquartered somewhere safe and wealthy. Each is priced in a currency that reflects none of our economic constraints. Adding a fifteen-percent cut to these transactions feels like a tax on modern life.
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Other countries signal a way forward, though none are perfect. Kenya’s low rate captures revenue without destroying digital affordability. The European debates, for all their bureaucratic sprawl, show that tax authorities can target the largest tech companies directly rather than intercept every small consumer transaction. Some jurisdictions set thresholds so that tiny payments do not get caught in the net. These ideas are far from revolutionary; they are simple design decisions that soften the impact on ordinary people. Zimbabwe’s current proposal does not attempt such nuance.
A different conversation is needed, one that asks whether this tax will raise money at the expense of long-term digital development. There is little value in a policy that brings in revenue for two years while pushing people offline for ten. A country that dreams of tech hubs and digital entrepreneurship cannot afford to make basic access feel like a privilege. It cannot tax the ladder and still expect people to climb.
The Treasury wants to broaden the tax base. The goal is valid. The method feels rushed. A measured levy, indexed thresholds, exemptions for education and health, and a requirement that larger platforms register and remit directly would keep the system honest without punishing anyone trying to stay connected. These tools exist. They demand patience and a willingness to confront the platforms rather than the people who use them.
The problem we face is not digital companies escaping tax. It is the mismatch between global pricing and local power. A fifteen-percent withholding tax widens that gap instead of narrowing it. It becomes another quiet cost of living in a country where every month brings a new invoice, a new surcharge, a new reminder that modernity can be expensive. At some point, the question stops being technical. It becomes moral: how much should a country charge its citizens for the simple act of joining the world?
Zimbabwe’s digital future depends on how we answer that question.
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