Belief: At the height of the pandemic, Father Kennedy Mugute (right) held a Palm Sunday mass in Harare’s Cathedral of the Sacred Heart that was livestreamed to parishioners. Photo: Jekesai Nji8kizana/Getty Images
It had been a frustrating wait, sitting on the long-distance bus as my fellow passengers straggled in and porters loaded scores of bags in various shapes and sizes into the luggage carriage section beneath the seats.
Finally the driver revved up the engine, signalling we were ready to drive out of Johannesburg Park Station and begin our nearly 900km journey to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe
Then things got weird. The co-driver, who would take the wheel halfway through the trip to relieve his colleague, came and stood in the middle of the bus aisle — very close to me, in fact — and asked if someone would please pray for a safe journey.
“Hang on, is this a Christian-based bus company then?” I asked my neighbour in the adjacent seat in bewilderment. This was my first bus trip home. Previously, I had either flown, or travelled by car between Zimbabwe and South Africa.
“No, all the long-distance buses do it,” she whispered back. “There is always prayer before the start of the journey, for a safe and accident-free trip.”
And so began another ritual that I’ve found myself “participating” in without really participating, as a non-religious person living in a deeply religious part of the world.
I gazed around furtively as the woman seated next to me, and most of the other passengers, murmured quietly alongside the volunteer who had offered to pray. Many had their eyes tightly shut, hands raised above them, nodding as the praying man beseeched God to clear the road ahead of any danger, and ensure a smooth passage for us through the Beitbridge border post.
And as usual, I felt a deep sense of envy and isolation as the people around me murmured affirmations, seemingly in no doubt whatsoever that God was present in the bus, and could hear their supplications.
In Southern Africa, you cannot escape religion, whether you are a believer or not.
Born and raised in heavily Christian Zimbabwe, before moving to similarly religious South Africa, I found you cannot extricate yourself from religious rituals, whether you believe in them or not. And so, you “join in”, so to speak. At weddings, funerals, family gatherings.
It is not really surprising when, as shown by a 2017 survey by the Zimbabwe National Statistics Agency, just over 84.1% of the population is Christian. Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism and Judaism all sit below 1% each while just 4% of the country still follows traditional practices that abounded before missionaries came to Zimbabwe.
Then there’s the 8% who either don’t have any religious or spiritual beliefs or, like me — are not quite sure what they believe. I have struggled to find a label that most accurately describes me, but agnostic is perhaps the closest.
It can make for uncomfortable moments. Like each time I visit my maternal aunt whenever I am home, usually with a bag of groceries in tow (that is the done thing in Zimbabwe — you don’t visit your elders empty-handed). There are the usual hugs and tears, effusive thanks, and then my aunt will ask that we all kneel down so that she can pray for blessings on my behalf.
I have never been able to bring myself to demur. Partly because I know it would hurt her feelings, and also out of habit. After a while, it becomes exhausting to remind people that no, you are not religious and therefore you don’t pray. So you go along to get along, so to speak.
All my siblings are also deeply religious, although they have always accepted that I’m not, with no judgment. But even with them, I can never escape the rituals. Being a close-knit family, even now as adults with our own families, we have tried to stay in regular touch. With most of us living in Johannesburg, there have been numerous braais and long lunches over the years, which we take turns to host.
Which means I’ve sat at many dinner tables, holding hands for a prayer of gratitude for the meal to be consumed and for the opportunity we have to get together. Not many Zimbabwean families are that lucky, with political and economic strife having forced many people to leave the country for better opportunities in all corners of the world. Again, rather than getting up and leaving during the prayer, it just seems less dramatic to go with the flow.
My lack of religion is not for lack of trying. I was raised Christian, went to Sunday School as a child and learnt my Bible verses, was baptised and later confirmed and started receiving communion.
The first time I admitted to myself that I had serious doubts about it all, I was shaken. Rudderless. Guilt-ridden, as if I was carrying a dirty secret I could not share with anyone. I still remember my mother shedding tears when I told her I was not really a believer and had stopped going to church.
Years later, she still holds on to the hope that I will somehow “find my way back to God”. But how do I find my way back to something, or someone, that I’m not sure I ever believed in to start with? So I smile, nod along, and let her hope.
And I go along with all the Christian rituals that are woven into my daily existence as a black Southern African woman, because some spiritual battles are just not worth fighting.