A day at Madzibaba Ishmael’s shrine

By Jairos Saunyama

The sun had already moved away from the Azimuth, with its rays hidden within its glazing light. It was a cool winter Friday morning and like any other journalist, I wanted it to wear quickly so I could have my own share of the wise waters after hours at a popular waterhole somewhere in Ruwa.

This was going to be yet another working day for an adventurous scribe like me. Little did I know what was going to transpire in the next few hours as I arrived at The Zimbabwe Mail newsroom to start work.

After a brief editorial meeting with my superiors, together with photographer Watson Ofumeli, we armed ourselves with the usual tools of the trade, expecting to cover an assignment in Budiriro 2.

We wanted it to be quick as we had other assignments to accomplish later that day.

I had little knowledge of what the Apostolic Christian Council of Zimbabwe (ACCZ) leader Johannes Ndanga intended to do, but I knew he was going to address an apostolic sect that was being accused of human rights abuses.

I became suspicious when we were all summoned to Budiriro 2 Police Station before the meeting. Ndanga was in discussion with the member-in-charge while we waited outside.  A few minutes later, a greenish police defender (car) with around 15 noise-making anti-riot police arrived.

“These guys are going to escort us to the shrine, we are covered,” an ACCZ official said.

Police escorting us to a church? What for? These questions popped into my mind and I could not find answers. Little did I know all my suspicions were going to be confirmed later as the events unfolded.

At the station, baton sticks and steel helmets were taken out of the storeroom as the law enforcers armed themselves.

A convoy that included vehicles from ACCZ, police, journalists and other stakeholders wound its way along a bumpy dusty road that connected to the shrine, a place behind a small hill in Budiriro 2.

“The day has come, we are going to ban this church. We do not tolerate this kind of worshiping, women and children are getting abused everyday,” said Ndanga as we arrived at the shrine.

Madzibaba Ishmael Mufani was alone on a hilly place, a few metres from the congregants. What he was up to? No one knows.

Upon seeing the ‘visitors’, the man of cloth who seemed to be frightened by the heavy presence of police, stood up and started for the main shrine.

Ndanga and others called after Madzibaba Ishmael, but the prophet resisted and never uttered a word, in fact, he just smiled.

Madzibaba Ishmael was visibly in a trance or he was not willing to cooperate. He ignored the visitors and joined the rest of the congregants, but no one bothered to restrain him.

Ndanga, who undoubtedly had all the powers, led the procession into the middle of the shrine and stood between the men and women who, by this time, were singing loudly in defiance and at the same time showing absolute ignorance of Ndanga and his crews presence.

By this time, the baton stick-wielding anti-riot police had surrounded the shrine, but their presence never seemed to bother the male congregants who were seated at the eastern side of the shrine. They continued singing their hymns, as did their traditional gestures popularly known in vernacular as Beria followed by genuflection.

They were ignorant, but were not perturbed.

As an observant journalist, I noticed that despite it being a Friday morning, scores of children occupied the front line and were not  at school. A captured picture of the girl-children from the congregants later reminded me of the Boko-Haram-abducted girls in northern Nigeria.

The congregants continued singing despite Ndanga and the police-presence, but one of Ndanga’s troops intervened and told the congregants that his superior wanted to address them.

At this time, people from the surrounding communities who had noticed the convoy approaching the shrine had come nearer to watch the proceedings.

As Ndanga began to speak, a stout male congregant stood up and ordered Ndanga and us to remove our shoes as is the custom in the their religion, but his call was thwarted by police details who ordered him to sit down.

Ndanga addressed them as they listened calmly.

“With the powers invested in me as the executive president of ACCZ, this church has been banned…”

A pin-drop silence ensued for the next few seconds,  followed by murmurings and eventually protests from the male congregants.

The above conclusion by Ndanga, had ignited anger among the male congregants who all took their shepherd staffs and started singing their war-like song, Hondo yepfumo neropa, while at the same time  charging towards Ndanga who by now, was being escorted by security details out of the shrine.

“Ndanga must die, let us deal with Ndanga!” they shouted.

Sensing danger and with some angry members a few metres from attacking him, the archbishop, like a bullet, shot off from danger movie-style and dived into his already moving Range Rover that roared out of the shrine leaving a trail of dust in the air.

I was a few metres behind Ndanga, the angry church members were hot on my heels. I tried to run as fast as I could, but I realised the vapostori were much faster than me.

To escape their wrath I had to find a way. Someone shouted at me that he wanted to cut off my dreadlocks while at the same time a staff missed my head by milimetres.

Fortunately, I took refuge under a stationary lorry, parked some metres from the shrine. I lay quietly under the vehicle without being noticed  and it was from this ‘safe’ distance that I watched the proceedings as they unfolded. The situation was just too eventful to comprehend.

Police officers were scampering for cover, running for their dear lives. Those who were faster escaped unhurt, but the slower ones became victims of the rowdy madzibaba.

Female police officers found it hard to run away and they too, found themselves at the mercy of shepherd staffs.

The whole area was now a canning field. Police officers were being assaulted with their own baton sticks and rocks and stones were being hurled like missiles.

The journalists, at the same time, were at the receiving end. I watched helplessly as a ZBC cameraman was overpowered, thrown to the ground and heavily assaulted.

As he pleaded for mercy, his calls seemed to fall on deaf ears.  As he lay helplessly on the ground, they pounded on him even harder.

On the other side, a ZBC vehicle had its windscreen smashed with one male congregant standing atop it, baying for Ndanga’s blood and shouting, “Mugabe is the only President, who is Ndanga?”

I could not help my fellow journalists, I could not restrain the attack, the madzibaba had become too many and violent. In fact, I had to escape, but how?

Ofumeli had taken the other route. He told me later he hid in the long grass at the edge of the shrine. But it was his height that exposed him as the short dry brown grass made him visible to the alert and violent congregants.

Before they spotted him, Ofumeli had taken a couple of shots. Whether he was enjoying it, no one knows, but I suspect he knew his pictures could land him into the  journalistic awards competition.

He told me that after being spotted taking pictures, a rogue church member chased him, only to find himself taking refuge in a Toyota Spacio that took him to Budiriro 2 Police Station where we re-united. We embraced each other and told each other how lucky we were. But his face was pale with fear, maybe because he witnessed the violence through the lens of his camera as compared to us (mere mortals) who saw it all through the naked eye.

Still under the lorry, I saw a man sitting in a silver Peugeot. I had never met him. I made my way into the car. I begged him to take me to the nearest police station and he agreed. I was safe. But my heart was bleeding for my fellow colleague, Ofumeli, the photographer. I knew of the impending danger and it was a difficult exercise to escape.

When the storm had calmed down I was relieved to know they were all still alive, but some were seriously injured. Police officers, one by one, came to the station soaked in blood, others with bruises, and yet others with broken bones — all because of religion.

Journalists were left for dead, ACCZ members were humiliated physically, and what could have become of me? I sat down to think.

Religion is dangerous and doctrines will always be imprinted on people’s minds despite being abusive. As the former Russian leader Vladimir Lenin put it: Religion is the opium of the people and it seems people were either drugged or drunk by it on this day.

That was it, a gloomy Friday for me. There were no wise waters for me later that night, for I was traumatised, a  war reminiscent of a battleground in Afghanistan had broken out in Zimbabwe, or maybe should I say in the  Boko Haram-style. These memories will forever linger in my mind.

I will always be grateful, despite my tepidness, to the parked lorry and the silver Peugeot driver who came to my rescue.

Now, almost a week later (now 3 weeks), I sit down and ponder about the perils of this thankless profession, death can come anytime and anywhere. The Zimbabwe Mail