Young Tatenda was lost in deep thought. All he could think about was the father he loved, who had passed away just a month ago. It was time for a memorial, and Tatenda had saved USD 150—a feat few could manage amid Zimbabwe’s economic hardships. For safekeeping, he tucked the money into the pouch of his phone. He was only a few kilometers from the family homestead, a journey that required crossing a small stream near his home, as he had done countless times before. But today was different.
A crocodile had discovered the stream was a perfect ambush point. Humans had grown complacent, crossing it with ease. The previous season’s drought had dried up streams, making people forget these were once prime hunting grounds for carnivores. The crocodile lay in wait, patient and certain of its reward.
Tatenda cast a casual glance at his path. He saw what he thought were well-placed rocks, a simple stepping-stone crossing. He was wrong. As the crocodile had anticipated, humans—especially those distracted by grief—often miss the obvious. In a lightning flash, its sharp teeth sank into Tatenda’s right leg, tripping him. The crocodile might have thought victory was assured as it flipped its prey, aiming for his torso in a final assault. That moment saved Tatenda. Desperate, he hurled his phone—and the savings—into the crocodile’s mouth. This was no time to mourn lost earnings.
The crocodile hesitated, confused. That was all Tatenda needed. Ignoring the searing pain, he scrambled to the bank where his wife and friend stood, frozen in shock. They carried him to a nearby home for help. Time was critical—Tatenda was bleeding profusely, risking death from blood loss. Worse still, the crocodile, now tasting blood, crawled from the stream, its appetite whetted, determined to reclaim its meal.
The local clinic was useless—no drugs, no bandages. It took twelve grueling hours to transport Tatenda to a hospital with basic supplies: bandages, ointments, and painkillers, but little else. The remote area lacked power, decent roads, and essentials most take for granted. Clinics were understaffed. Many young girls dropped out after Form One, seeing no future beyond early marriage. During their menstrual cycles, their absence from school was a village announcement—they simply couldn’t attend.
Tatenda considers himself fortunate. He’s among the hundreds employed by Padenga, a company with an unusual devotion to both humans and animals. Ironically, Padenga profits from farming crocodiles—not wild ones like Tatenda’s attacker, but those raised in controlled environments. At their farms, crocodiles are pampered with optimal conditions money can buy, some even serenaded with Beethoven’s classical music. The workers who tend them are treated like stars: provided with daily-cleaned uniforms, buses to and from work, and, at one remote farm, free accommodation and food rations. The logic is simple: unhappy workers can’t care well for animals, let alone crocodiles.
Padenga’s community impact is vast yet understated. They’ve built schools and clinics, supplied library books, graded roads, supported chiefs, and improved water infrastructure. Recently, they’ve provided sanitary pads to over 600 girls, transforming lives. One girl achieved a record-breaking 15 points at Advanced Level and now studies law at a local university on a Padenga scholarship.
The general manager at one farm has turned his car into a local taxi. Hearing of Tatenda’s plight, he drove 100 kilometers on a treacherous road to fetch him—not out of obligation, but company culture: do all you can to help. His goal was to get Tatenda to a proper hospital in Kariba.
Despite his pain, Tatenda’s gratitude shone through. “I am in pain but happy to work for a company that cares,” he said.
The community’s praise for Padenga is unanimous. Schoolchildren cheer as company cars pass. Teachers, local authorities, and chiefs struggle to find words for their appreciation. One paramount chief prayed, “May God grant them longevity. We know they can’t solve all our problems alone. Their souls are welded to ours.”
But how long can one company bear a community’s burdens? Padenga is a listed business, accountable to shareholders demanding better returns. Critics argue it’s underperformed, with market analysts pushing for a shift from agribusiness to the booming mining sector. Without robust profits, investors may divert funds elsewhere. Post-COVID, crocodile farming has grown tougher, with stringent international standards on animal rights, environmental impact, governance, and safety. Non-compliance risks boycotts from vocal animal rights groups, especially given Zimbabwe’s fraught reputation in Western markets.
Crocodile buyers demand flawless skins for the world’s top 1% luxury market. Skins sell for under a thousand USD, but crafted into bags—some adorned with diamonds and gold—they fetch up to half a million USD, heirlooms for generations. These buyers have the wealth and discernment to demand perfection.
Padenga’s only path is to meet these expectations. Many local crocodile farmers have shuttered, unable to cope. Padenga, a global leader, has invested too much to walk away. Their teams are world-class, and their emotional stake is palpable, even if sentiment rarely sways business decisions.
Yet the signs are undeniable—tough choices loom. To stay profitable, Padenga must adapt. American tanneries with deep pockets are integrating farms, controlling the value chain. Independent farms risk being sidelined unless they’re the best. Padenga must become leaner, meaner, and more agile.
Local conditions compound the challenge. The Zimbabwean currency lags behind parallel market rates. Foreign currency retention dropped from 75% to 70% per the latest Reserve Bank policy—an effective tax on a business with thin margins. Substandard local inputs force costly imports. Their model farm, a production star, lacks power, relying on expensive generators in a remote location where logistics are a nightmare. Tight liquidity offers only high-interest, short-term loans, costs they can’t pass on in a competitive market.
The Padenga team doesn’t voice it loudly, but their faces betray the strain. They wish regulators saw their community contributions—jobs, schools, lives changed—and offered relief: fewer charges, higher forex retention. Tough choices are inevitable, likely slashing costs that support the very people who rely on them. Without Padenga, wild crocodiles could reclaim streams, endangering more Tatendas, and girls might abandon school again—a grim prospect for dependent communities.
Market analysts must adjust their lens. Calling Padenga’s agribusiness a sunset industry is unfair. It’s a global leader, not a gold mine—judge it against peers, not unrelated sectors. Acknowledge its efforts to sustain success. Padenga may be battered, but it’s far from beaten. In Zimbabwe’s outskirts lies a crocodile farm fighting to deliver value across the chain.
Yes, crocodiles bite. They also bring cheer. Success is pain and love entwined. As Tatenda recovers, Padenga too battles for survival.
