Children without clans: The baby mama culture and broken lineage crisis in Zimbabwe

In today’s Zimbabwe, we are facing a quiet but devastating crisis. It is not only about poverty, unemployment, or politics — though those are loud enough. It is about the invisible unravelling of our very sense of self. More and more children are being born without connection to a clan, without recognition of their mitupo (totems), without names that tie them to their ancestors. Instead, they are growing up in what people casually call “baby mama” or “baby daddy” situations, where identity is fractured and lineage is forgotten.

At first glance, this seems harmless. After all, children are still being loved, fed, sent to school. They are clothed, they laugh, they play. But beneath the surface, something vital is missing. These children are growing up as strangers to themselves. They do not know whose praise poetry sings their name. They cannot stand up in the presence of elders and say, “Ndiri mwana wa…” with pride and clarity. They cannot trace their roots back to a dare, a homestead, or a line of ancestors waiting to receive them in the spiritual realm.

For generations, the Shona and Ndebele people (like most African societies) placed immense importance on lineage. A child was not just an individual; they were a continuation of an unbroken chain that stretched from the living, through the dead, to the unborn. To know your clan, your mutupo, and your elders was to know who you are. It was a spiritual compass, a moral anchor, and a source of belonging.

Today, however, that chain is being broken. Children born into fragmented families are sometimes denied their surnames, hidden from their fathers, or raised without any connection to their sekuru (maternal uncles) or mbuya (grandmothers). Others are given European names with no ancestral weight, names that sound modern but carry no memory. And slowly, our children become drifters in their own land, Africans in skin but orphans in spirit.

This problem cannot be dismissed as “modern lifestyle.” It is deeper than that. When a child grows up without a clan, without a totem, without a story of belonging, they enter adulthood carrying a wound they cannot see. It is a wound that shows itself in identity crises, in feelings of emptiness, in struggles with relationships and commitment. It is why so many young people today, despite being educated and connected to the world, still say, “I feel hollow inside. I don’t know who I am.”

The rise of “baby mama” culture is not just a social trend; it is a cultural and spiritual emergency. It points to how far we have drifted from the systems that once protected children. In the past, families were not just nuclear. They were networks of kinship, with checks and balances. A man could not simply father a child and vanish, nor could a woman raise a child in secrecy. The dare — the council of men — and the community of women ensured that the child was placed firmly within a lineage.

Now, those structures are crumbling. Urbanisation, migration, economic struggles, and the influence of Western media have redefined what we see as normal. Young people admire celebrity culture where children are raised outside of marriage, where lineage is irrelevant, where names are simply aesthetic choices. Yet behind the glamour, even in the West, the cost is visible: rising depression, fatherlessness, broken identities.

In Zimbabwe, the consequences may be even more severe. We are not just losing family bonds; we are losing cultural memory. The stories that should root a child are no longer being told. The names that should carry the weight of generations are not being passed down. The rituals that should connect children to their ancestors are being ignored.

This is not about moralising or shaming. It is not about forcing everyone into outdated traditions. It is about asking ourselves hard questions: What happens to a nation when its children grow up without roots? What happens to a culture when its lineages are broken? And what happens to the spirit of a people when their children cannot call upon the names of their ancestors?

The crisis of children without clans is not only a family matter. It is a national matter. And unless we face it head-on, the future of Zimbabwe may be filled with adults who have no idea who they are, and therefore no idea what they must protect.

Broken lineages and lost totems: Why names and clans matter

In Shona and Ndebele tradition, names are never just names, and clans are never just family groupings. They are maps of belonging, passwords into the spiritual world, and the threads that weave individuals into a collective story. When these threads snap, identity unravels.

A child without a totem (mutupo) is like a tree without roots. They may grow, yes, but their growth is unstable. In times of storm — a crisis, a loss, a challenge — there is nothing anchoring them to deeper soil. They bend too easily to every wind. They look for belonging in fragile things: peer approval, toxic relationships, even self-destructive behaviour. What they needed all along was already written into the wisdom of our ancestors: a totem, a surname, a place of origin, a dare where they belong.

In the Shona world, mitupo are not decorations. They are spiritual signposts. If you are of the Shava, you carry the stories, taboos, and blessings tied to that lineage. If you are of the Mhofu, you do not just have an animal emblem — you have responsibilities, prohibitions, and ancestral protections. When a man introduces himself, he does not just say his name; he calls his clan and mutupo, and with that, he places himself in history. A woman who marries him does not marry only him, but his ancestors, his lineage, and the shared responsibilities that flow with it.

Now imagine a child who grows up without this anchor. They carry a surname that has no link to their biological roots, or worse, they are known by a nickname that is never formally registered. They cannot say where their people come from. They cannot walk into a village and be received as kin. They cannot call upon the protection of their ancestors in ritual, because the ancestors themselves do not know this child. Such a child may succeed academically, may even rise in wealth or politics, but deep inside, they remain a wandering soul — restless, unclaimed, undefined.

Western models of family often treat lineage as optional. A child can carry either parent’s surname, or even a completely new one. The cultural weight is light. In Zimbabwean tradition, however, the surname and totem are non-negotiable. They are the cord that ties the living to the dead, and the dead to the unborn. A child without this cord floats in limbo.

This is why disputes over paternity and naming ceremonies are not petty dramas; they are matters of destiny. When families fight over which surname a child should carry, they are not just bickering. They are deciding which ancestors will claim that child, which lineage will guide their footsteps, which family will be responsible for their future. To dismiss this as “backward” is to misunderstand the depth of African cosmology.

In our modern reality, however, mitupo and names are being discarded casually. Children are given fashionable English names without cultural anchors. Some mothers, out of pain or conflict, deny children their father’s surname. Some fathers, out of neglect, never introduce their children to their clans. And so, entire generations are growing up without the very tools that once gave Africans resilience against colonial erasure.

Consider how colonisers understood this power. When missionaries baptised Africans, they stripped them of their ancestral names, replacing them with Peter, John, Mary. This was not innocent. It was strategic. By erasing names, they erased belonging. By breaking lineage ties, they broke spiritual confidence. Today, we are continuing this erasure ourselves — not by force, but by negligence.

The child pays the price. A boy growing up without knowing his mutupo may later be drawn to self-destructive masculinity, trying to prove a strength that should have been affirmed by his clan. A girl without ancestral grounding may chase affirmation in unhealthy relationships, because she never learnt that she comes from a people who valued her long before she was born.

When we talk about “broken lineages” and “lost totems,” we are not talking about nostalgia. We are talking about mental health, spiritual security, and cultural survival. Zimbabwe’s children are not just losing their surnames; they are losing their place in the cosmos. And if they do not know who they are, how can they know what they must protect, what they must build, what they must pass on?

The crisis is here, but so is the opportunity. By reclaiming names, reviving totemic teaching, and placing children firmly back into their clans, we can rebuild more than family. We can rebuild identity itself.

The spiritual and psychological cost of forgotten roots

A child who grows up without knowledge of their clan, without a totem, without a clear lineage, carries an invisible burden. It is a weight not seen by the eye but felt in the soul. In Zimbabwean cosmology, humans are not isolated beings. We exist within a web that stretches from our ancestors through the living to the unborn. When that connection is broken, a child is left spiritually adrift.

Psychologically, the consequences are profound. Children who lack ancestral grounding often struggle with identity crises, even when other aspects of life appear normal. They may excel at school, form friendships, or adapt to urban life, yet a sense of emptiness lingers. This void manifests as insecurity, low self-esteem, and a subconscious need to find belonging in unstable places — peer groups, fleeting relationships, or material possessions. The child who does not know where they come from does not know where to anchor themselves, and their growth becomes fragmented.

The spiritual dimension is equally critical. Ancestors in Shona and Ndebele thought are active participants in the lives of the living. They guide, protect, and bless, but only when recognised and acknowledged. A child who is not properly introduced to the ancestral line may find themselves unprotected in rituals, neglected in prayers, and excluded from the spiritual safety net that has protected generations. This is not superstition; it is a worldview in which belonging, respect, and recognition create the conditions for spiritual and emotional stability.

Modern psychology has begun to mirror these insights. Attachment theory tells us that children without secure connections to caregivers — a biological and social equivalent of lineage — exhibit higher rates of anxiety, depression, and difficulty forming healthy relationships. Trauma, once passed from one generation to the next, compounds when children lack the anchors that lineage provides. Broken lineages thus perpetuate cycles of emotional and spiritual disconnection, leaving young Zimbabweans vulnerable to modern pressures.

Colonialism and urbanisation have compounded the problem. When families were forcibly separated by land dispossession or labour migration, children grew up distant from fathers, grandparents, and extended kin. Missionaries imposed European naming systems and cultural norms, stripping away ancestral identifiers. Urban life, meanwhile, isolates children from communal structures that once reinforced belonging. Technology, media, and celebrity culture now present a model of life in which lineage is irrelevant and individuality is paramount, further displacing the child from the web of identity that traditionally safeguarded them.

Consider the psychological ramifications of a child growing up never having met their sekuru or mbuya. They carry an unspoken emptiness, a question of “who am I?” that is never answered. This absence can shape behaviours in adulthood: fear of abandonment, chronic people-pleasing, or an insatiable search for validation. They may pursue success externally but remain spiritually hollow, searching for a connection their own ancestors could have provided.

And yet, the cost is not only individual. A nation whose children lack identity and grounding risks losing collective memory, social cohesion, and resilience. Lineage is not nostalgia; it is social infrastructure. When mitupo, clan histories, and ancestral teachings vanish, the scaffolding that supports the culture of responsibility, respect, and belonging disappears as well.

Ultimately, the spiritual and psychological cost of forgotten roots is a crisis that intertwines the personal and the communal. Children deprived of ancestral identity are vulnerable not only to emotional instability but to cultural amnesia. Reconnecting them to their clans, totems, and ancestral stories is therefore not a luxury; it is a necessity.

By acknowledging this cost, we begin to understand why the baby mama/baby daddy culture is more than a social trend — it is a disruption of spiritual and psychological continuity, a fracture that, if left unhealed, will ripple across generations. Only by restoring the ties that bind children to their past can we hope to cultivate resilient, grounded, and spiritually connected Zimbabweans.

Baby mama culture: How did we get here?

To understand why so many children in Zimbabwe today grow up without clear lineage, we must trace the threads of history, society, and economy that have reshaped family life. This is not about pointing fingers at parents; it is about recognising patterns, pressures, and systemic forces that disrupt traditional structures of belonging.

At the root of the crisis is colonial disruption. When the colonial state appropriated land, relocated communities, and forced men to migrate for work, the traditional systems of raising children began to fracture. Fathers were absent for months, even years, leaving mothers to bear sole responsibility for the household. The extended family structures — sekuru, mbuya, aunts, uncles — which once ensured continuity and guidance, became impossible to maintain consistently. Children born in these circumstances often lacked direct contact with fathers or paternal elders, creating the first fissures in lineage.

Urbanisation added another layer. As young people moved to cities like Harare, Bulawayo, or even abroad, they encountered modern pressures that conflicted with ancestral norms. Rent, jobs, and the cost of living often made traditional practices impractical. Women in urban areas, sometimes empowered and independent, were left to navigate child-rearing without the communal support that rural life once provided. Fathers, meanwhile, faced new responsibilities, new temptations, and the anonymity of city life. The result was a growing number of children raised in fragmented households.

Economic pressures cannot be ignored. Zimbabwe’s recurrent crises — hyperinflation, unemployment, land disputes — forced families to prioritise survival over ritual, naming ceremonies, or clan introductions. When survival becomes the immediate focus, the slow, deliberate process of connecting a child to their lineage can be seen as optional or expendable. Yet, it is precisely during hardship that lineage and ancestry would have provided emotional and spiritual stability.

Modern culture has also contributed. Western media, celebrity influence, and social platforms normalise relationships outside traditional marriage structures. Young people now admire high-profile figures whose children are born out of wedlock, often with little acknowledgement of paternal lineage. This creates a perception that the family structures of the past were unnecessary or outdated. The “love is enough” myth — that emotional attachment alone suffices — undermines the social and spiritual systems that have historically anchored children.

Add to this the erosion of taboos and societal accountability. In precolonial Zimbabwe, the dare (council of elders) and communal oversight ensured that fathers acknowledged children and that naming ceremonies were conducted correctly. Today, many of these mechanisms have weakened. Legal systems, schools, and even religious institutions rarely enforce or encourage lineage continuity. When parents separate, disputes over custody or names often leave children in limbo, with no one to guide them into their ancestral framework.

The personal consequences are compounded by generational repetition. Children who grow up without fathers, without knowledge of their clans, or without ancestral recognition often struggle to create stable families of their own. Patterns of fragmentation repeat themselves, creating a cycle that is difficult to break. What was once an exceptional occurrence becomes normalised over decades.

In short, the rise of “baby mama” and “baby daddy” culture is not simply a moral issue; it is a consequence of historical dislocation, urbanisation, economic pressure, cultural erosion, and societal neglect. Understanding these forces is essential if we are to restore the continuity of Zimbabwean lineages. It reminds us that the problem is not individual weakness, but the collapse of the structures that once upheld children’s right to identity, belonging, and spiritual guidance.

Recognising the causes also points to solutions. By restoring communal responsibility, reviving naming ceremonies, acknowledging paternal lines, and educating parents on the importance of lineage, we can begin to repair the fractures. The question is no longer just “how did we get here?” but “what can we do to reclaim our children’s heritage before it is too late?”

The ancestors’ silence: When lineage is cut

In Shona and Ndebele thought, the living and the dead exist in a continuous circle. Our ancestors are not distant figures of history; they are active participants in daily life, guiding, protecting, and blessing those who honour them. When a child grows up disconnected from their clan, denied their mitupo, or denied recognition from paternal or maternal elders, they are effectively cut off from this circle. The silence of the ancestors is deafening.

A child who cannot call upon their sekuru, mbuya, or great-grandparents in prayer or ritual experiences a subtle but persistent spiritual void. In traditional practice, naming ceremonies, clan introductions, and rites of passage were not just formalities — they were protective and grounding acts. The ancestors, once properly acknowledged, would intercede on the child’s behalf, offering guidance, strength, and protection. Without these acts, a child grows up spiritually exposed, vulnerable to unseen forces, and uncertain of their place in the universe.

This spiritual absence has psychological manifestations as well. Children who grow up disconnected from their ancestry may struggle with self-worth, as they cannot draw confidence from a lineage that has long stood the test of time. They may experience feelings of invisibility or unimportance, even when loved by parents or caregivers. Their dreams, ambitions, and moral compass lack the reinforcement of generational wisdom. In essence, they navigate life without a map, compelled to invent their own rules in a world that was once structured by ancestral guidance.

Modernity has compounded this silence. As urbanisation, Western culture, and individualism have eroded communal family practices, children increasingly grow up without ritual recognition. Parents may be unaware of the spiritual importance of totems and clan names, or they may prioritise convenience over tradition. Even well-intentioned parents may fail to introduce their children to ancestors if they themselves are disconnected from their roots. The result is a chain reaction: one generation forgets, the next grows unanchored, and the wisdom of the past drifts further into obscurity.

The social consequences are profound. Children without ancestral grounding often struggle with relationships, discipline, and identity. They are more susceptible to external pressures because the internal compass once provided by lineage is missing. In adulthood, they may experience anxiety, emptiness, or chronic indecision, not understanding that these are symptoms of spiritual dislocation rather than mere personality traits. The cycle perpetuates itself when these adults, unmoored from their heritage, fail to provide their children with a clear sense of belonging.

Yet, the silence of ancestors is not permanent. The circle can be restored. Rituals, introductions to extended family, and reclamation of names and totems can re-establish ancestral recognition, even after years of neglect. Elders can serve as mediators, guiding both parents and children back into the spiritual web from which they have been cut. While the gap created by broken lineage cannot be entirely erased, its consequences can be mitigated through conscious acts of restoration.

Understanding this spiritual dimension is crucial. Lineage is not simply a matter of legal surname or family pride; it is a source of guidance, protection, and resilience. When the circle of ancestors is acknowledged and engaged, children gain more than a name or a clan — they gain a moral compass, a sense of continuity, and a secure foundation for life. Conversely, ignoring lineage invites psychological fragility, spiritual uncertainty, and social instability.

In reclaiming lineage, Zimbabweans are not merely reviving tradition; they are reconnecting with the invisible forces that have safeguarded generations. They are ensuring that children born today, despite the fractures of modern life, can still inherit the strength, wisdom, and protection of those who came before them.

Paths to reclaiming generational identity

The crisis of broken lineages is not hopeless. While history, urbanisation, and social change have created challenges, Zimbabweans have within their culture, traditions, and community structures the tools to reclaim what has been lost. Reconnecting children to their clans, totems, and ancestral guidance is not only possible; it is essential for the spiritual, psychological, and social health of future generations.

1. Reintroducing children to their totems and clans

The first step is ensuring that children know their mitupo and the history behind them. Naming ceremonies are not mere rituals; they are declarations of belonging. Even if a child has grown years without this knowledge, elders can guide parents through ceremonies that introduce the child to their ancestral line. Through stories, praise poetry, and clan teachings, children internalise the wisdom, values, and responsibilities of their lineage. This is not symbolic alone — it instills a sense of pride, identity, and purpose that carries them through life.

2. Reconciling estranged families

Too often, disputes over paternity, custody, or surnames prevent children from being anchored in their lineage. Where possible, mediation between estranged parents, supported by elders or community leaders, can allow children to reclaim their rightful place in both paternal and maternal families. This is not about creating perfection but about ensuring that children are recognised and supported by their broader family networks.

3. Reviving the role of dare and elders

Traditional councils, or dare, once ensured that children were properly introduced to their families and that responsibilities were clear. Reviving these structures in communities can restore accountability. Elders can educate young parents, supervise naming ceremonies, and provide guidance on child-rearing that honours lineage. Even in urban environments, community elders or respected family members can fulfil this role, acting as bridges between tradition and modern life.

4. Using Modern Tools to Preserve Heritage

While tradition provides the framework, technology offers the means. Digital family trees, recorded oral histories, and community archives can ensure that children, even in fragmented families, know their ancestry. Schools and community programmes can integrate lineage education, teaching children the significance of clans, totems, and family histories. This combination of traditional wisdom and modern tools ensures continuity despite urbanisation and migration.

5. Balancing modern realities with cultural obligations

Reclaiming lineage does not mean rejecting modern life. Parents can work, study, and live in cities while still grounding children in ancestral knowledge. Weekend visits to rural homes, participation in family gatherings, and storytelling sessions are practical ways to transmit identity. It is a conscious choice: modernity is not the enemy, but neglect of cultural continuity is.

6. Healing intergenerational trauma

Broken lineages are not only spiritual and social issues but also psychological ones. Children and parents alike may carry wounds from abandonment, disconnection, or loss. Therapy, counselling, and traditional healing practices can help families navigate these wounds, allowing children to embrace their ancestry without resentment or confusion. This dual approach — modern psychology plus ancestral recognition — is powerful in creating resilient, grounded individuals.

The path to reclaiming generational identity is therefore multifaceted. It requires the dedication of parents, the guidance of elders, the engagement of community, and the strategic use of modern tools. Above all, it requires a shift in perspective: children are not possessions, they are continuations of ancestry. Protecting their lineage, honouring their totems, and connecting them to their ancestors is both a moral duty and a spiritual investment.

Zimbabweans have survived centuries of disruption, dislocation, and cultural assault. Rebuilding broken lineages is part of the ongoing work of resilience. It is a statement that despite urbanisation, economic struggle, and modern temptations, our children will not grow up rootless. They will carry their clans, their totems, and the voices of their ancestors with them — anchored in identity, purpose, and belonging.

Conclusion: Rebuilding the future by repairing the lineage

The crisis of children without clans is more than a social issue; it is a national and spiritual concern. Zimbabwe’s future depends on whether we can restore the threads that tie our children to their ancestors, their clans, and their sense of belonging. Without these threads, the next generation risks growing up hollow, unanchored, and uncertain of their purpose in life.

Rebuilding lineage is not nostalgia. It is an act of survival, resilience, and empowerment. It requires parents, families, and communities to act consciously, to remember that each child carries the legacy of countless ancestors. When a child is introduced to their totem, learns their clan, and is embraced by both maternal and paternal elders, they gain more than identity; they gain guidance, protection, and the moral compass needed to navigate life’s challenges.

We must also confront the modern forces that have contributed to this crisis. Urbanisation, economic hardship, Western cultural influences, and the erosion of communal accountability have all played a role. But these forces are not insurmountable. By blending traditional wisdom with contemporary practices — from family councils to digital family trees, from naming ceremonies to counselling — Zimbabweans can reclaim what has been lost and secure a grounded, spiritually connected future for their children.

It is equally essential to teach young parents about the importance of lineage, mitupo, and clan recognition. Awareness is the first step towards action. Once parents understand the consequences of broken lineages, they can make intentional choices: recognising both parents, holding ceremonies, involving elders, and educating children about their ancestry. Each small act restores a link in the chain and helps prevent the cycle of disconnection from continuing into the next generation.

Beyond the individual family, repairing lineage is a collective responsibility. Communities, schools, and local leaders have a role to play in supporting families, facilitating rituals, and ensuring that children are recognised and celebrated as part of a living cultural heritage. This is where Ubuntu comes alive: the child belongs to the village, the clan, and the ancestors, not just to the nuclear family.

Ultimately, the restoration of lineages is an act of hope. It declares that despite the fractures of modern life, Zimbabweans refuse to let their children drift rootless. It asserts that culture, ancestry, and identity are not optional; they are essential. By repairing these connections today, we ensure that the leaders, thinkers, and guardians of tomorrow will carry the wisdom of generations past.

A child born into a properly recognised lineage is not just a child — they are a continuation of a story, a living thread in the fabric of Zimbabwe’s identity. And when we reclaim these threads, we reclaim ourselves, our heritage, and the promise of a future anchored in belonging, purpose, and ancestral guidance.