“I’ve seen the soldiers and the trucks of the soldiers — they’re holding guns.” It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “People have been beaten by the soldiers. Some of our guys have been killed.” This was supposed to be the moment that proved that Zimbabwe was moving on from its oppressive past. Instead, city streets look like this, with soldiers opening fire on protesters and leaving at least three people dead only days after an election. “It’s not safe, it’s not safe — the soldiers, they are coming, that side.” Reporter: “O.K. Oh, we should go? Let’s go.” So what happened? Here’s what we saw. This is Harare, the capital, two days earlier. Polls are about to open, but the lines are already long. Voters are peaceful and excited. “I woke up early in the morning. I didn’t have time to bathe today because I was really eager to come and vote.” This is the first election in decades without the name of Zimbabwe’s longtime leader, Robert Mugabe, on the ballot. A military coup in November forced Mugabe out, raising hopes that the system he put in place would also go away. For a while, violence subsided, and people talked more openly, allowing someone like Vincent to show his support for the opposition. “People were not free to express our feelings, like we are doing right now. So now voting is something that we are doing willingly. Today I’ve exercised my right. I’m very happy.” We drive east, away from the city. We see fewer signs of support for the opposition. Rural areas are traditional strongholds for the ruling party, mostly because of years of intimidation and vote rigging. We saw people walk miles to reach their polling centers. Unlike in previous elections, this time the ruling party promised transparency. And to convince the world, Emmerson Mnangagwa, the ruling party candidate who replaced Mugabe after the coup, invited international observers. But in these rural villages, we didn’t see any of those observers. Instead, we saw this: This man is camped outside a polling station, writing down the names of everyone coming to vote. It’s an old strategy that could mean food and fertilizer for those on his list or retribution for those who are not. His name is Norman. When confronted, he shows us his list and quickly starts to explain that he’s part of a larger group, mobilized by the ruling party, spread across multiple villages. Police and election officials watch. “So this is the complaint.” They don’t try to stop him, but they ask us to stop shooting. “Off the camera, yes we can talk — off the camera.” Reporter: “We’ll turn it off.” It’s the next day and markets reopen, while people wait for official results. But they don’t come. Optimism turns to unease, with growing concerns that the vote count will not be fair. In a preemptive move, Nelson Chamisa, the leading opposition candidate takes to social media and claims victory. Hours later, he deletes this tweet. But it’s too late. Hundreds of his supporters take to the streets to celebrate in front of the party headquarters. Wednesday morning, still no winner. In the meantime, officials announce a sweeping parliamentary victory for the ruling party and international observers release statements criticizing the election. Protests form, peaceful at first. But quickly escalate. Soldiers and army tanks deploy, hunting down opposition supporters. In just over 48 hours, we watched as a hopeful city was overtaken by fear and now is bracing for the announcement of who the next president will be.