Zvishavane was buzzing this week after a man welcomed his wife from the maternity ward with three brand-new cars wrapped in giant bows. 

The moment—complete with a saxophonist serenade—went viral, equal parts fairy tale and flex. 

On Facebook, it sparked everything from admiration to side-eye. One commenter quipped, “My husband said I shouldn’t stress; they are hiring these cars at his workplace then return them 24 hours after the celebrations. I believe him, because he never lies.”

 Another joked, “To us who got bananas as push presents 🥴,” turning envy into humor.

Welcome to the world of push presents: gifts given to mothers after childbirth. Traditionally, many cultures have marked childbirth with tokens. In India’s Godh Bharai, women receive jewellery and sweets; in Zimbabwe, a new mother might be pampered with clothes or perhaps a goat from relatives. 

The 2000s brought a Western spin—the “push present” label, amplified by celebrity stories. Think diamond rings for Hollywood moms or a Lamborghini in Lagos.

In Zimbabwe, the trend is catching on fast. Besides Zvishavane’s three-car spectacle, Bulawayo recently saw a man hand over a BMW to his wife as her “thank you” gift. Instagram feeds across Africa glimmer with luxury cars, Birkin bags, and Rolex watches branded as push presents. 

And who can blame Maa KaKay Nleya for asking, “Are we in the wrong country??? nhaimi…” as the rest wonder if they’re missing out on this new status symbol.

But here comes the uncomfortable side: in a country where many mothers still crowd public hospital wards, struggle with maternity fees, or even carry their own gloves and cotton wool to the delivery bed, the optics of three cars can sting. Social media has a way of turning joy into pressure. 

A mum who gets nothing more than a hot meal and help with laundry might suddenly feel “less loved.” As one commenter dryly put it: “Mental health yedu munomboikoshesa here? Anyways, tipei pressure tife” (“Do you care about our mental health? Anyway, let the pressure kill us”). 

The gap between hospital realities and viral celebrations couldn’t be more glaring, as another admitted, “To us who gave birth at the same hospital and walked out only with our babies.”

Fathers, too, get pulled into a spiral of comparison. Is love now measured in German sedans? A sharp Facebook retort captured the sentiment: “Mota 1 it’s OK, but pa3 apo makuda kutisiya tisin Option manje” (“One car is fine, but three? Now you’re leaving us with no option!”).

And the mental health toll is real. Some women say they feel disappointed or ashamed when push presents don’t match the Instagram gloss. Others say the pressure is so intense they’d rather skip the whole “push present” thing and just call it what it should be: appreciation, in whatever form love can afford. 

As one wise soul noted, “Congratulations dear, labour inorwadza, you deserve it,” yet the very next question was, “Is this fake or real cars?”—highlighting both skepticism and longing.

At its best, a push present is a sweet symbol of gratitude. At its worst, it risks widening inequality and breeding quiet resentment. Whether it’s a Mercedes, a chicken, or just someone taking over night feeds, the truth is simple: the gift isn’t the point—the support is.