The greatest secret of all time may well be the belief that humanity’s origins are divine rather than terrestrial. Sharing this notion with the general populace could lead to exclusion. Yet, the revelation of our celestial beginnings surpasses any truth ever unearthed. Jesus revealed to Peter that such knowledge comes directly from God, not from mortal beings (Matthew 16:16-17). The Church of God was founded upon this profound realization. Those who come to know this truth find their allegiance shifted from this world. They are, in essence, no longer bound by worldly concerns, as if they have transcended physical existence.
The narrative of my life may inspire others to discover their own existential purpose, just as I serendipitously did. Currently, I am mistakenly labelled as being of African descent; however, the reality is that I should not be categorized with any person or entity in this world. Prior to Peter’s accurate recognition of Jesus, Matthew 16:13-15 highlighted the typical human tendency to assign identities to those around them. Jesus had been long regarded as a mere mortal, albeit one likened to the prophets, due to his remarkable deeds. This tendency to assign identities is common to all individuals in the world.
This confirms a confusion that shrouds the entire world, yet it can be unravelled by a select few. Regrettably, this revelation may strip comfort from those who have been masquerading behind the false identities imposed by worldly forces. In Matthew 16:20, Jesus instructed His disciples to keep the revelation to themselves. Nonetheless, God orchestrates time for the benefit of those He wishes to welcome into His ultimate family. The conundrum lies in the fact that one cannot simultaneously belong to Heavenly and Earthly realms. It is undeniable that sharing my spiritual journey could foster animosity from those who may be deeply perturbed by such disclosures.
I was born in 1954, in the Filabusi district, the third offspring in a family considered prosperous by the standards of that time in Africa. Originally named ‘Nduna,’ which translates to “Chief,” the title was considered fitting for the first male child following two daughters, indicating my future role as a leader after my father. Despite this, my father had other children with different women prior to my birth. To avoid confusion with an uncle also named ‘Nduna,’ my maternal grandmother decided on the name ‘Andrew’ for me. This decision simplified interactions, as my uncle was traditionally viewed as her son-in-law. These details merely outline the structure of my immediate family, guided by tradition.
My father was a distinguished communal farmer, consistently awarded for the superior quality of his livestock breeds. He was devoted to raising cattle and sheep, but curiously, he held a strong dislike for goats and donkeys. The local boys often inquired if our sheep were frequently bathed, as they always appeared immaculate. However, it was actually the sheltered breeding pens that maintained the sheep’s spotless appearance. While leading our cattle to the dip tank, I observed other herders resorting to whips to control their animals.
My father, on the other hand, condemned such practices. We employed knobkerries instead, gently tapping the cattle below their bellies to steer them. This method, innovated by my father, was notably unconventional among cattle breeders. Witnessing these practices sparked many questions in me, especially since my father was not one known to converse much.
My father was a strict disciplinarian who always insisted we never leave our homestead with dishevelled hair. He demanded that before stepping out, my shirt should be neatly tucked in, my teeth thoroughly brushed, and my hair combed back neatly. This wasn’t the usual practice among my playmates. Yet, I found solace in conforming rather than standing out. While my father prioritized order, my only wish was to blend in with my peers.
An unusual occurrence was when my father purchased a school uniform and shoes for me, which was contrary to the norm among my classmates. I was one of only two students in my class wearing shoes; the others came barefoot. This situation made me feel uneasy, as I did not blend in with my peers. To avoid standing out, I falsely claimed that the shoes were too tight. I intended to avoid discordance with my classmates, with whom I shared a sense of community at school. Wearing the shoes to Church services, however, did not bother me.
In class, I was an average student, yet I was constantly troubled by the glaring disparities among my schoolmates. Some boys were compelled to attend school, while others were sent away for lacking uniforms or being improperly attired, their hair dishevelled. This situation affected both boys and girls alike. Witnessing these inequalities left me feeling uneasy, and uncertain about what life held in store for me. As a young observer, I naively believed that people shouldn’t differ in appearance, presuming it was feasible for everyone to look alike.
During my third year of school, my father purchased a small bicycle for me to ride to school. However, my interest in that bicycle waned when my father insisted that I should not share it with my friends. This restriction made it feel as though the bicycle wasn’t truly mine. While some might have thought I was fortunate to be part of a seemingly affluent family, I felt an emptiness. My life was burdened with too much interference.
In 1964, our region was designated as a purchased area for white farmers. The black communities were to be moved to what were known as Tribal Trust Lands. The designated tribesmen from our area were to be resettled in Gokwe, under Chief Jahana Khumalo. However, arrangements were made by the white community that my father would not be among those relocated. He was permitted to keep his homestead, even amidst the white-owned farmlands.
Nevertheless, my father was adamant about his preference to move to the Tribal Trust Lands. He might have been under the impression that relocating there was advantageous. He had a lot of self-confidence. In addition to being a professional carpenter, he believed he could also succeed in cattle farming, especially since there were limitations on the number of cattle he could maintain among those white farmlands. This decision, however, eventually proved to be detrimental to our lives. The relocation would introduce us to a new aspect of life that was unfamiliar.
I recall two white farmers from the area visiting my father, attempting to convince him to reconsider relocating. He declined, asserting his ability to manage his own affairs. Additionally, there had been chatter about prevalent witchcraft in the area where we lived, which only strengthened my father’s determination to move. I distinctly remember one farmer mentioning the issue of the Tsetse fly in Gokwe, which my father believed would be addressed.
The relocation occurred in early 1965, yet we were to stay behind to complete our school terms. At that time, I was in Standard Two, being my fourth year of schooling. We stayed with a relative who had remained in one of those farming estates. My father arrived to collect us at the school year’s end. Upon reaching our new home in Gokwe, I was immediately confronted with an unfamiliar reality. The new home in Gokwe seemed to contradict the comfort that had characterized our family’s lifestyle.
Our new home did not match the pristine condition of our previous one. I later learned of my father’s misfortune. Having sold all his cattle in Filabusi and combined the proceeds with his life savings, he packed the total sum into his briefcase. Tragically, he lost this briefcase while asleep on a train. He had twice attempted suicide, unsuccessfully. From that point forward, our lives were set on a different course.
Suddenly, my father became a reckless alcoholic, and the responsibility of our lives shifted to our mother. After completing Standard Three at my new school in Gokwe, I was forced to drop out to assist my mother and ensure our survival. We engaged in “maricho,” labouring in other people’s fields in exchange for food. Survival became our utmost priority, overshadowing concerns about our altered lifestyle.
The prospect of returning to school seemed bleak. Nevertheless, I was determined to pursue education by any means necessary. Eager to expand my knowledge, I subscribed to a monthly publication named “African Times.” My curiosity led me to devour any reading material within reach. Fortuitously, my father was an avid reader, providing a diverse collection of books for me to immerse myself in.
My father possessed a transistor radio as well, which he utilized for news updates. I made it a point to listen to the news too, to stay informed about the events in the country. More crucially, it served as a means to maintain my educational progress. This routine continued until 1969 when my elder sister became pregnant. The birth of that baby was a blessing to us, as we hadn’t had a young child in the family since 1961.
For me, this situation was doubly fortunate, as the dowry from my brother-in-law made it possible for me to return to school. I had, unfortunately, surpassed the age group for the subsequent level of education. My mother managed to adjust my date of birth to 1955, enabling me to re-enroll in school. That year, a change in the educational system meant that what would have been my next year in standard four became Grade six.
Transitioning to a new school was necessary since my previous school did not offer the next level beyond Standard Three. However, after taking some aptitude tests, my teacher believed I could be placed directly into Grade Seven, effectively skipping two years that had been lost. This leap allowed me to bridge the gap in my understanding, enabling me to later pursue further education informally.
Initially, I considered learning to drive as my first course of study. However, I lacked the funds to pay for driving lessons. A businessman with a Bedford truck, who was married to our distant relative, offered what seemed like a potential opportunity. I hoped he would assist me in obtaining a class two driver’s license. Unfortunately, it became apparent that he was more interested in finding help for his business than in providing me with driving lessons.
I endured two years of abuse with no progress. Nearby, in the Sanyati region, there was a white farmer. Seeking employment, I approached his farm. The farmer discussed this with his wife, deeming me too young for farm work. However, his wife offered to teach me house cleaning. I saw this as an opportunity to learn about white cultural behaviour. With my first earnings, I enrolled in the Central African Correspondence College for a Clerk’s Course.
After a year, I realized the lifestyle led by the farm workers lacked the dignity befitting a civilized community, prompting me to move on. I had known of a relative operating bus services in rural Masvingo and the Midlands and assumed he would readily offer me employment. Unfortunately, this assumption proved to be a miscalculation. Seeking favours based on the relationship is not ideal for maintaining dignity. I returned to the Midlands in search of employment and secured a contract position with Visage Construction Company.
After a few weeks of work, I received improved job offers from Gyron Construction in Red Cliff. This enabled me to purchase decent clothing and help with my siblings’ school fees. At the same time, I continued my correspondence course and eventually completed it. My goal remained to secure permanent employment to further my education. However, my limited education made it difficult to find such opportunities. Ultimately, I decided to travel to Bulawayo in hopes of finding better prospects.
I found no immediate job openings, including in housekeeping, where I had some experience. Yet, one day, I negotiated a deal with a resident of an affluent suburban area. Noticing their yard’s untidiness, I offered my services. Despite their initial reluctance, claiming no available work, I persisted, assuring them of my ability to enhance their home’s appeal. Eventually, they agreed to let me work, just for a few hours, with payment to be made that evening. The exact amount escapes me now, but it would be enough to cover my food and transportation back to my relative’s place, where I stayed.
I gave it my all, clearing away the old leaves and making sure the area was spotless. When they returned, they were so impressed that they paid me more than twice the agreed amount. They also gave me some old clothes, which improved my appearance. Moreover, they called a friend or relative to share how I had transformed their home. Subsequently, I was invited back for another day of temporary work. My reputation for diligence led to referrals from one property to the next, each rewarding my efforts. Eventually, one of these employers, a General Manager at Bulawayo Bottlers, part of the Coca-Cola Company, offered me a permanent position.
After a few months at the company, the General Manager selected me for supervisor training from among other employees. This decision was not well-received by some of the long-serving staff members. The work environment grew increasingly hostile, leading me to regret being favoured by the General Manager over the veteran employees. The animosity intensified to the point where I feared for my safety. During a month when the General Manager was on leave in Cape Town, my opponents seized the chance to fabricate allegations, advocating for my dismissal. I did not contest, due to the uncomfortable work environment.
My passion for reading kept me informed about the country’s political events. During that period, reading newspapers had turned into a hobby of mine, which eventually convinced me to take part in the liberation struggle. Crossing the border from Bulawayo presented geographical challenges. Despite the circumstances, a ZAPU supporter, owning a Peugeot 404, assisted by ferrying youths from Bulawayo to a secret crossing point into Botswana. The chance to cross was limited, with many eager young people vying to join the liberation movement.
My opportunity to join the recruits arose on a Friday in 1978 when seven of us were scheduled to depart next. We were briefed during the day and were to be collected at 2:00 am the following morning. Concurrently, my mother had arrived from home, needing help due to an ear infection. I had planned to use my modest savings to provide funds to my sister, who would then assist in getting my mother to a medical check-up during my absence.
During the briefing, the presenter inquired if anyone required assistance. I volunteered, explaining my concern for my mother who had recently come from home. The interviewer requested I remain afterwards for a discussion. Upon hearing my situation, he recommended my temporary removal from the group until my mother’s issue was resolved, noting the risk of losing ancestral spirits’ protection by neglecting her. He assured me, however, that my name would remain prioritized among those seeking to cross.
This came as an unwelcome surprise, as I had expected the crossing to present such a coveted opportunity. However, the following Monday, the headline news reported the arrest of a driver who had been aiding the crossing of seven youths for terrorist training. That was the vehicle I was meant to be in. The secret service had uncovered the crossing point long used for smuggling young people into Botswana. My immediate fear was the possibility of being implicated by those detained during their interrogations.
Uncertain of my next steps, I was among those approached by officers from the Rhodesian Air Force seeking recruits. They assured us that the recruitment was for administrative roles, not military training. I saw this as a chance to utilize my Clerical certificate and gain employment. While some youths were doubtful, suspecting a ruse to enlist them for combat training, I considered it a potential escape from arrest, especially if those detained implicated me as an eager border crosser. This predicament left me indecisive, wavering between two paths. Among the new recruits was Ekim Tshabalala, who would soon become a dear friend.
His father’s extensive experience in the Air Force led him to reassure me that the likelihood of us being involved in combat was minimal, given the Air Force’s emphasis on aerial combat. Comforted by his words, I joined the Gweru Thornhill Rhodesian Air Force in 1978. However, after signing the contract, it was revealed that we would have to complete basic military training in New Sarum, Harare, which was disconcerting. Despite this, we were given firm assurances that upon completion of our training, we would be placed in the jobs we had been promised. I was anticipating an assignment as a clerk in the orderly room.
Following my training, I was notified that I would be assigned to the Dog Section for further training as a Dog Handler. Military discipline left no room for expressions of dissatisfaction. Despite this, I completed my training as a Dog Handler and was subsequently tasked with guard duties in security zones. This role was the furthest from what I had envisioned for myself in the Air Force. Consequently, I penned an extensive letter to the Commander of Thornhill Air Base, lodging a formal complaint. I made it clear that my interest had never been in bearing arms and expressed my desire to resign forthwith.
I was subsequently referred to Air Lt Danger Ncube, the officer overseeing the General Service Unit in the Air Force. He had played a direct role in our recruitment. He cautioned that my actions might be misconstrued as opposition to Smith’s government and lead to me to detention barracks. Nevertheless, I reiterated my initial reluctance to join the military. After a tense discussion, he acquiesced and reassigned me to the Orderly Room, fulfilling the original promise.
As I adjusted to my position as a Clerk in the Orderly Room, I later learned of upcoming changes. Some black members were scheduled to be reassigned from the General Service Unit to “Specialist” roles. It was 1979, following the Internal Settlement between Ian Smith and Bishop Abel Muzorewa. A clear division had always existed between white and black members. The new “Specialist” rankings aimed to integrate black members into predominantly white sectors. Consequently, I was chosen to be a “Specialist,” which meant an increase in my salary to match that of my white counterparts, irrespective of race.
I was subsequently assigned to Inkomo Military Base for a typing course to improve my clerical skills in the Orderly Room. Initially, I disliked the course, perceiving it as being designed exclusively for women. However, it became clear that the typing skills I acquired were beneficial for my future pursuits. My current writing abilities can be attributed to my typing training. Without it, I wouldn’t have considered writing as a possibility.
As one grown-up as a Seventh-day Adventist, I was struck by Ekim Tshabalala’s commitment to not working on Saturdays. Although my interest in religious matters had diminished, Tshabalala’s steadfast observance of the Sabbath reignited my curiosity. During our conversations about faith, he suggested I read the Plain Truth Magazine, which catered to my reading interests and made me a keen follower. The magazine’s content echoed my perspectives on issues that had previously diminished my interest in religion.
Herbert Armstrong was the founder and leader of the Plain Truth Magazine. After his death, scrutiny of his published works revealed errors, which contributed to the disintegration of the church. Although I recognized the obvious mistakes in his writings, I maintained certain fundamental beliefs he taught, which led to my conflicts with the new leadership. This left me without a platform to express my views openly, as the leadership feared those views would lead to division. Regrettably, no one was willing to directly show errors in my teachings. Confident in the correctness of my views, I resorted to writing.
I have sought constructive criticism from the public domain, yet unable to obtain sufficient critiquing for over a decade. Nevertheless, adhering to the teachings of Jesus reaffirmed that seeking recognition from others in this world is misguided. Open to critique, I remain unconcerned by those unable to confront me, failing to expose errors in my publications. I regard myself as one of the few truly free individuals, unbothered by possible negative evaluations of my work. I entrust readers to make their own judgments, should they concur with my writings, which I consider to be solely directed towards Jesus.
As my age advances, the liberty I have embraced has dispelled any dread of death. My conviction is a personal treasure, and I hold firm to the belief that my work will enlighten future generations. The teachings of Jesus resonate with those who sincerely hold faith. Though some may critique my writings, I take solace in having shared only what I deem truthful. With such unwavering belief, I am at peace with the thought of rest, after moving out of my body. True freedom, I’ve found, comes from being indebted to none, including God, having penned my thoughts sincerely from a singular inspiration. I understand that each individual, akin to Jesus, is believed to be created to fulfil God’s direct commandments, without having to worry about other people’s opinions.
Andrew Masuku is the author of Dimensions of a New Civilization, laying down standards for uplifting Zimbabwe from the current state of economic depression into a model for other nations worldwide. A decaying tree provides an opportunity for a blossoming sprout. Written from a Christian perspective, the book is a product of inspiration, bringing relief to those having witnessed the strings of unworkable solutions––leading to the current economic and social decay. Most Zimbabweans should find the book as a long-awaited providential oasis of hope, in a simple conversational tone.
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