SOWE rekuDOMBOSHAVA had been the pastor’s choice.
He had said that there was power in those mountains; power to unlock God’s favour.
His sermon on God’s favour had been inspiring.
He had said: “God’s favour will give you the job you don’t qualify to have. God’s favour will give you the spouse everyone thinks you don’t deserve. God’s favour will open doors for you. God’s favour will get you the visa to the UK and the US nyore nyore with no questions asked.”
And, in the euphoria of praise and worship, amplified by the hi-tech make-over of city glitter, it had seemed a piece-of-cake miracle.
He had been surrounded and encouraged by clean white smiles, defined by high gloss lipstick on faces where the lines of worry had been powdered into smooth pictures of fairy confidence.
He had watched many of the women bleaching themselves to artificial yellow-borns in the African theatre of make-belief.
His life had become one long ride on God’s favour, buoyed by gifts of money, valuables and attractives given in appreciation of what was, in essence, only a gift in glib.
The congregants were attracted by his prayers in English, his yellow-born wife, her mannerisms and their white associates.
He enjoyed how the congregants wanted to be like them.
But here, on the slopes of Domboshava, the reality was frightening in its unpredictability.
Domboshava was a theatre of war; the spiritual warfare he had so often preached about but never imagined in this ultimate historical sense.
He was here, being confronted nemweya yemadzinza not in the stereotypical scriptural sense of just invoking verses and seeing possessed believers falling and shouting kuti: “I receive!”
What was confronting him was the irrefutable reality of acknowledgeable current history.
He was being confronted by stakeholders in the very same issues he had led these people here to exploit under the guise of ‘God’s favour.’
He thought that the ‘demons’ were fishing in his pond and were apparently winning hearts and minds of even those beyond border cases.
He thought to himself that he could not just give up. This was a life line. Not just for himself but for many downstream relationships feeding from his praise and worship.
He spiritedly avoided calling it a commercial enterprise. He preferred calling it ‘a calling’ or simply ‘God’s favour.’
He had mustered all the spiritual resources he had left inside him and defiantly walked away from the ‘demons?’…
He defiantly followed his flock up towards the summit, all the while feeling the ‘demons’ deliberately taking aim but holding the slack of their triggers for the opportune moment.
The detachment watched the wounded man limp away as if hoping to be led to the main quarry.
The shaking girl had raised herself on her elbows and was watching the pastor’s retreating figure with a strange interest. Painfully, she repeated apo neapo: “Ndizvo here here baba? Ndizvo here macomrades?”
She twisted her head to face the college girl’s age mate and said: “Comrade, Ndakadyiwa nemakavaka ini? And I am expected to accept kuti zvakatopera so?”
And then she asked: “Ndizvo here Cde Sarudzai?”
It was a question apparently addressed to no-one in particular, but one definitely eliciting a response from a not anonymous target … More like a searching shot fired into a suspicious undergrowth to flush a ‘known’ quarry out of concealment.
The elderly woman who had prayed without insulting mweya yemadzinza convulsed as if touched by a ghost.
She noted that the college girl’s age mate had been watching her like a hawk. He smiled and said: “Cde musatiregerere. Please don’t let us down. It is not fair.”
The elderly woman who had prayed without insolence responded: “Zvaonekwa Cde. I have been seeing this coming since last week.
I felt your presence right from the base of this mountain. I saw the place where you were shot. It is you who made these children run off together, all the while letting them follow the trail left by your blood right up to this place where you made your last stand.
Believe me, I saw every drop of your blood. I felt all the pain it painted on this rock.”
Cde Sarudzai added: “Am I not the one who told you kuti pane nyaya apa? So, tell me how I am letting you down.”
The old guide looked at the elderly woman now known as Cde Sarudzai in utter disbelief. He would never have guessed that she was a war veteran. Not in a 1 000 years!
To be continued…
