Back in the village, in the land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve, if you like, prophets are like village girls, each time they come up with new cosmetics to outbid each other, all to win the heart of the suitor. With time, the cosmetic beauty disappears and reality dawns on the suitor, exposing the girl actually has a scullery of dotted pimples and when that happens, one by one, the suitors abandon the chase.
In latter day Zimbabwe, a multifarious array of self-styled prophets have mushroomed and prophecy has become the order of the day, a sort of cosmetic for the face of religion and religiosity, the art and belief.
The gospreneurs, whom others call prophets, are leaving no stone unturned to cash in on the desperate and gullible flock, pretending to have the suffering people at heart, yet their heart is with the dollar somewhere in the poor person’s pocket.
At times it is the last dollar in that poor person’s pocket. Cruel, cruel, cruel!
This villager writes the article knowing fully well that he will be “committed to the devil” by the affected fake prophets and gospreneurs.
But this villager will defend this position to the last stain of his blood. This villager comes from a background that believes in calling a spade a spade and in never hugging a hyena to make peace. Never! Is God not for us all?
But on second thoughts, this villager respects these latter-day businessmen or gospreneurs, for coming up with a business model that abuses the white man’s Bible to swindle the poor and the suffering, something that spirit mediums Karitundundu, Svembere, Dumburechuma, Nyamapfeni, Nyamasoka, Chitehwe and Chidyamawuyu, among others, have failed to do.
While the gospreneurs have lined their pockets, and bought flashy cars, fancy clothes, out-of-this world- homes and dated beautiful women, the spirit mediums have remained modest and vanguards of poverty and African humanism. The spirit mediums walk barefoot, live in mud-and-pole homes and consult for free.
Zimbabweans in their broad totality woke up recently to a prophecy on dangling bits, by Prophet Emmanuel Makandiwa where a Namibian man, not so endowed with his adult manhood, decided to go for an enlargement, which the man of cloth granted over three months. “One month grow . . . next month grow . . . third month grow . . . fourth month Mmmmm, stop!” the man of God pronounced.
If God created that man with that size of manhood, so who is a prophet to change God’s grandeur?
And yet, do village elders not say, every man brags about his manhood, no matter how tiny? Which African village did this man come from?
This villager, known for saying what he thinks without giving a hoot, was also later shocked to read about the same prophet, claiming he would soon raise the dead. He needed someone who has been in the morgue for two weeks. Yes, the dead!
Yet, if this villager’s memory serves and saves him right, the same prophet had a miracle baby born by one Harare woman, whom the man of cloth eventually failed to save from death. In the innards of the silent cemetery the child still lies lifeless.
By the way, the child was buried under the curtain of secrecy. And so who is fooling who here? This is a loud and far-fetched antic but in village intelligence, even the loudest of all farts does not tear apart the pant.
When the time is up, no one can stop death, even the loudest of all pleas. Was it not the legendary script writer William Shakespeare, who said “death, a must, must come, when it must?”
Our people have become gullible to these antics and like sheep without a clue to survive, they sheepishly flock there.
This villager challenges the man of God to die, stay in the mortuary for two weeks, then rise. Then this villager will join his congregation for life. Jesus died and rose!
The city of kings and indeed queens, Bulawayo has its fair share of this religious mediocrity, where one flamboyant prophet, the not-so-blessed Blessing Chiza took his gospreneurship to the football arena, mis-predicting a win for our gallant Warriors. The poor soul did nothing but mess up his credentials by trying luck the wrong way. He shot himself on the hip.
The name of Chiza’s church, Faith in God, Eagle Life Assembly, alone tells a story. Whatever it means to the self-styled prophet to be the religious matrix of eagles, life, faith and assembly – all put together – sounds more ridiculous.
“It’s very painful, but I still give glory to God for taking the Warriors that far. I admit that I didn’t see well but I have always said my prophecies are not 100 percent accurate because I am not God,’’ lamented Chiza after being left with egg splashed on his face after failing to predict the Warriors results.
The point is there are too many people making money from religion. They have largely been able to hoodwink many people into believing in even silliest of all things.
The introduction of the multi-currency system opened the winch gates of gospreneurship, a very serious money spinning venture that has seen many liars, masquerading as prophets, making money overnight.
Meanwhile, the poor remain poor and are even getting poorer in soul and finance. There is now need for Government regulation to avert rising cultism in the country. At this rate, many taboos are being committed.
When all is said and done, this villager scolded, rebuked and cursed, the truth shall prevail. Reality, like a silent fart, soon announces itself in smell. I retire to the village for more wisdom from the autochthones.