Online Reporter
Miriam Tose Majome
IN Zimbabwe’s spiritual marketplace, business is booming. The hottest commodity isn’t holy water or anointed handkerchiefs, but something far more valuable —cultural compromise. An interesting breed of prophets, pastors, and traditional spiritual healers, all rolled into one, are selling a curious spiritual and superstitious remix that would make the missionaries who introduced Christianity to Africa roll in their graves.
Bible verses are layered over ancestral invocations, communion wafers are served alongside traditional beer, and spiritual prophecies are dispensed like prescriptions at a pharmacy. This is vastly different from the original Christianity introduced with colonialism as the 19th century came to an end, nor is it quite traditional African spirituality. It is something in between.
It is a fascinating spiritual salad blending ingredients from various faith traditions, served with a side of showmanship, and Zimbabweans are greedily lapping it up. Just recently, one spiritual leader advertised a special prayer session for passports, of all things. No prizes for guessing that many swarmed the sessions with their passports and hopes of a breakthrough in hand.
Why ‘turn the other cheek’ Christianity is no longer selling
For the longest time, conventional Christianity in Zimbabwe ran two competing franchises with strict no-mixing policies. Traditional colonial Christianity held that ancestors were demonic. Drum beating and mbira playing were once banned as pagan worship. Salvation came only through European-type Christian imperialism. Traditional spirituality was discouraged and marginalised, hence it became a thing of shame. Even today, many Africans are ashamed to be openly associated with it. Only the bravest and self-actualised Africans will openly admit to consulting traditional healers, even though the majority do so under the cover of darkness. The same people proudly talk about attending all-night prayers and church camps.
Gradually, neither establishment seemed to fully satisfy the spiritual hunger of a population reeling from economic collapse and the worst of the Aids pandemic in the late 1990s. These crises invoked a national existential uncertainty and fear of death. You had to be around in the 90s to see it to believe how Aids devastated the country.
The stage was ripe for the entrance of the spiritual fusion churches, which combine traditional African spirituality and Christian-based prophetic consultations. These consultations are functionally identical to sessions with n’angas (traditional healers), but interspersed with Bible verses and “Jesus jargon” to soften and flavour the water and make it more palatable. Throw in “miracle money” teachings and giving money to the church, called “seeding”, in exchange for financial rewards. You then have a sumptuous spiritual buffet where everyone dishes up whatever they want to consume.
The spiritual salad
Evangelical preachers have become experts at theological and spiritual gymnastics. They perform impressive doctrinal backflips to reconcile biblically questionable practices with Pentecostal zeal. So-called apostles conduct ancestral cleansing ceremonies and exorcisms, while quoting the book of Ephesians about principalities and powers. They use catchy terms, like marine spirits, monitoring spirits, demonic manifestations, and spiritual hegemonies to reel in believers.
The ancestors get their due, the Bible gets cited, and the cash offerings flow freely. Everybody wins. Prophets, preachers, and traditional healers are rolled into one and the lines become deliciously blurred. Traditional healers and modern prophets interchangeably use spiritual symbols, like muteyo (some potent witch trapping concoction), herbs, and cooking oil labelled as “anointed oil”.
Spirits are consulted, visions are received, and services are paid for. There is nothing for free, not even God’s divine blessings. The offertory plate is passed around, tithes and “seed money” are demanded under threat of eternal damnation. There is no difference. Prophets and preachers drive nice cars, although it is not so clear about traditional healers, but they will probably catch up soon. Who doesn’t want a nice car if there are believers who can be made to pay for it?
The spirituality is results-based. Something tangible is always promised in exchange for the money offerings and tithes. In Zimbabwe’s spiritual economy, efficacy trumps orthodoxy. When asked why they combine traditions, most adherents shrug and say that it works. They brook no criticism against their chosen spiritual leaders. They defend them to the death. If holy water, anointed oil, spiritual handkerchiefs, plus a dose of good old muti tucked under the tongue and a quick Hail Mary, gets Junior through his exams, who cares about theological consistency?
Why the spiritual salad became so popular
Reasons possibly include the resurgence of African identity and awareness. After centuries of being told their spiritual heritage was demonic, many Zimbabweans are embracing a faith that doesn’t require cultural amnesia. There is also the convenience of a one-stop spiritual shopping concept. Why choose between church and traditional healers when you can get both rolled into one come Sunday service?
These hybrid movements are the spiritual equivalent of a mall where all of one’s supernatural and superstitious instincts and fantasies are satisfied under one roof.
There is also what has been termed as the Instagramification of faith. If we are being honest, a staid traditional Catholic mass cannot compete with a television evangelist preacher prophet, who performs spiritual X-rays and dispenses “glow-in-the-dark holy oil”. In the attention economy, the most theatrical faith antics win.
The dark side of it all
Before we get too celebratory about this cultural renaissance, we cannot ignore the elephant in the prayer room. When a “prophet” charges US$500 for ancestral debt clearance, is this cultural revival, or just old-fashioned exploitation under the guise of Christianity? An identity crisis is at the heart of it. There is something ironic and disquieting about prophets condemning witchcraft while selling spiritual talismans.
It also presents a regulatory nightmare. It is only that the Government has not yet decided on a regulatory framework for churches. There is a need to curb the immorality of spiritual entrepreneurship to protect the vulnerable from faith-based extortion and exploitation.
The future of the faith remix
As this hybrid spirituality movement grows, it raises important questions. Is this decolonisation of faith finally creating an African religion that doesn’t require European packaging? Or is it just spiritual capitalism where the most marketable elements of different traditions get repackaged for profit? Most important of all is whether or not the traditional churches will evolve and adapt or continue losing market share to more agile competitors in the faith market?
Whatever happens, one thing is certain. Zimbabwe’s spiritual landscape will never be the same. Whether this represents the future of African faith, or just another chapter in the eternal spiritual hustle remains to be seen. For now, the faith business is good, the prophets are prospering, and the ancestors — well, they are probably just glad to be back in the conversation.
λ Miriam Tose Majome is a lawyer and a Commissioner with the Zimbabwe Media Commission. She writes in her personal capacity and can be contacted on [email protected]
