Online Reporter
Fidelis Munyoro
Chief Court Reporter
THE battle for the remains of a prophet, Johanne Masowe Shoniwa, buried in Gandanzara, Rusape, has spilled into the courts with his family and church at loggerheads.
But rest, it seems, is not the fate of the prophet’s bones. Instead, they have become the epicentre of a battle that pits blood against belief, memory against myth, and the law against the sacred.
The case began like a whisper from a distant past, a plea carried across decades of silence. Two sons, Magaga and Reuben Masedza, stepped forward, their desire clear, but heavy with grief.
They wished to exhume their father’s remains and rebury him in a family grave, a place they could visit freely, without the barriers of faith or the gates of a shrine.
“Our father,” they argued, “did not wish to be idolised. He was not a god. He was a man of God.”
But the church, the Gospel of God Church International, which now holds the land where the prophet lies, saw their plea as nothing less than sacrilege.
“He chose this place,” they declared. “He instructed us to build this tombstone. This is sacred land, where the faithful come to pray. To disturb his dust is to desecrate the shrine.”
And so, the battle began.
In life, Johanne Masowe was a man who crossed borders, sowed seeds of faith, and inspired a global religious movement. In death, his body was carried across borders once more, from Zambia to Zimbabwe, where it was laid to rest in Gandanzara.
But for Magaga and Reuben, then holders of British passports and barred from Rhodesia, the grave became a place they could not reach. Decades passed, governments fell, and borders opened, but the gates to the shrine remained locked, a symbol of homecoming denied.
Their first attempt to visit the grave, in 2001, ended in heartbreak. The High Court ruled against them, declaring the site a sacred shrine, not a graveyard, and barring their access.
“The door slammed shut,” they would later recall, “but we did not forget.”
Two decades later, the brothers returned to the courts, not seeking access this time, but permission to move their father’s remains entirely.
Their argument was simple yet profound: their father’s legacy was being misinterpreted. To them, his grave had become a fortress of worship, a symbol of idolatry that he would never have wanted.
The court, however, was not swayed by emotion alone. Justice Susan Mavangira, presiding over the case in the Supreme Court, offered a judgment that was as much a balancing act as it was a legal decision.
“The right to seek the dead is not the same as the right to disturb them,” she wrote, her words a reminder of the delicate line between justice and reverence.
The court affirmed the brothers’ right to apply for an exhumation, but through the proper legal channels, specifically the then Minister of Local Government, Public Works, and National Housing, as dictated by the Cemeteries Act. It would now be the Minister of Local Government and Public Works following the split of the ministry.
“The applicants have a right to seek exhumation,” Justice Mavangira stated, “but must follow due process.”
She emphasised the role of the minister, reminding all parties that “courts do not interfere with executive functions save on review.”
It was a verdict that neither granted nor denied. Instead, it opened a door, one that led to the bureaucratic corridors of Government, where the brothers now stand, waiting to see if the law will allow them to move forward.
But the church was not ready to relent. They appealed the decision, arguing that the matter was “res judicata”, already settled, and that the site was not a cemetery but sacred ground. They claimed that the brothers’ delay had extinguished their right to act.
The superior court, however, was unmoved. Justice Mavangira dismissed the appeal, stating that the court had not granted an exhumation order, only the right to apply for one.
“The appellant seems to be appealing against an idea, not an order,” she remarked, her words cutting through the layers of argument like a blade.
And so, the case left the sanctified halls of the court and entered the uncertain realm of Government. The brothers, persistent as ever, published a notice in the Government Gazette, seeking permission to exhume.
The response was overwhelming with over 50 formal objections filed, a public reckoning decades in the making.
What lies beneath the soil of Gandanzara is not just a body but the question: Who owns the dead? Whose voice carries more weight, that of blood or belief?
To the church, the prophet’s tomb is sacred, a place where the faithful gather to touch the dust of a man who once walked among them.
To his sons, it is a prison for their father’s memory, a barrier that keeps them from mourning him as a family.
As the case lingers in the hands of the Minister, the weight of history, grief, and conviction now rests on a single desk.
The Supreme Court has done its part, offering clarity, but no commands, leaving the ultimate decision to the realm of governance.
In the end, this battle is not just about the prophet’s bones. It is about legacy, the intersection of law and faith, and the echoes of history that refuse to be silenced.
Justice Mavangira’s words linger, a reminder of the delicate balance that courts must maintain: “The applicants have established their case.
“But the journey begins, not ends, with the court.”
For now, the prophet’s bones remain undisturbed. But the silence around them has been broken.
Peter Tanyanyiwa