I have never understood nor supported the obsession that Africans — by that I mean black Africans –have with Christianity, a religion that came about through coercion.
It is well known that the missionary incursion into Africa was the well-intentioned sister of colonialism. It lulled Africans into slumber, it resulted in us changing our names, the shape of our homes, our clothing and made most of us contemptuous of our own spiritual beliefs.
Today, the fanaticism of this foreign practice is stronger than ever. I have no problem with my Christian family members. They are good people who uphold the good teachings that the Christian religion advocates. But I struggle to forgive the dismissive attitude some have towards their African beliefs because of their Christian beliefs.
I drove to the Eastern Cape last weekend to visit my family and to do a traditional Xhosa thanksgiving ceremony that involves slaughtering a sheep and brewing traditional beer as a means of communicating with my traditionalist ancestors, some of whom were also Bible-reading Christians.
My family has managed to straddle both belief systems in spite of Christianity’s negation of any other beliefs besides its own.
I arrived in East London on Thursday and saw clusters of women dressed in red-and-white or black-and-white uniforms walking to taxi ranks to catch lifts home after their Thursday ummanyano — the weekly women’s church service.
I’ve never questioned why black men and women wear church uniforms and white people don’t. My uncle, who was driving, explained to me that the uniforms were introduced by missionaries to distinguish which blacks were heathens and which were believers and between which blacks could access the education and status that came with civilisation and which couldn’t. Although there is no longer a stigma associated with heathenism, our abandonment of and lack of knowledge about our heritage is depressing, if not confusing.
Before the traditional proceedings, which involved me kneeling in front of tin pails, one with umqombothi and the other with ubulawu, a traditional plant brew that is smeared on the face and body after it has been used to ask for blessings, there was a prayer session at which the name Jesus Christ was incanted numerous times along with the words “one true god”. I found myself biting my tongue instead of asking the elders why they acknowledge a foreign god before our own.
When I did pry, after a few too many sips of umqombothi, I was met with acrimony. One believer said our traditional beliefs were only “a stepping stone to the truth”. Upon inquiry, I discovered that she had learned that from her Greek pastor.
Perhaps it is time for a discussion about culture that acknowledges other truths in an era of Âglobalisation.