In all honesty, I have been very reluctant to write this essay, even though deep down I feel I owe my readers an explanation of where I came from, before I became British. Well, they keep asking me to tell them who I was before my favourite book was Alice in Wonderland, before I became obsessed with Downton Abbey, before I saw myself as the black Anne with an E, before my favourite singer was Enya, before I loved Coldplay, before my favourite meal was a good old fish and chips in the pub, before my favourite royal was Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge, before Beethoven and Shakespeare taught me that it was okay to be me, what world did I belong to?
Well I want to tell it all, I want all the secrets out, and dance like I have never danced before with my story.
But my dear readers, I fear I can not let you into my past world whilst you still wear the lenses of the western world. For you to understand my Zimbabwean heritage, which I left, you have to remove your western glasses, and put on the glasses which simply says “human”.
Before I tell you about my Zimbabwean heritage, let me show you a white woman, whose life story inspires me. I know black people pride themselves with saying things like, “black power, black excellence,” well this beautiful white woman is every inch the epitome of white power and white excellence.
She’s a gifted story teller, her name is Stephanie Fuchs. She was born and bred in Germany, but she left all the comforts of the western world, and went to Kenya, were she married a Maasai warrior and lives in a humble hut without electricity or running water, yet when you look at her, she’s thriving in Tanzania in a way she never did in modern Germany. As a white woman, she did not go to the Maasai people to undermine them, or teach them how to be “civilised”, but rather she went to them to be taught by them. Her love, respect and honour for her husband and his people is absolutely mesmerising. She uses her white excellence to do little things like making sanitary towels for the women of Maasai, without changing who they are as a people.
I want my Western readers to heed the words of beautiful Stephanie, your fellow sister, before you can understand my journey of life in the Kingdom of Zimbabwe and why I had to denounce my people. Stephanie says, “Most things just ARE. They just are as they are. They flow with the wind. Free of direction, free of thought, free of good and evil. And that’s how we need to train ourselves to think. Don’t ever judge what you do not know. And more importantly, always question your way of thinking and ask yourself why. Because what is right in the West does not necessarily have to be right here in Africa. What is wrong in the West does not have to be wrong in Africa.
Don’t be afraid to follow your calling. Take risks. Because if you do, magic will come. It will be hard, it will take you to your knees, but you will get back up, and will find your destiny. When I say I don’t miss anything from my previous life in the western world, it is the truth. There is only so long you can miss running water, when you know you will never have it again.”
I love this young woman Stephanie because whilst she left the West and found her Destiny with the Maasai tribe in Africa, I left Zimbabwe and found my destiny in England. The difference with my story and Stephanie’s is that she left her people on good terms, she wasn’t brutally abused by them. As for me, I didn’t leave Zimbabwe on good terms, I fled so to speak, they wanted my blood, literally lol.
My readers, now that you have removed your western lenses, and you will can now read this story, not as a black person or as a white person, but as a human, let me take you into my world before I became Mary-Tamar.
I come from a very small Kingdom called Zimbabwe. It is a landlocked country in the heart of Southern Africa. Zimbabwe is not like any other Southern African country. Zimbabwe is special, with compelling breathtaking history, yet it is hidden.
My father calls it, “Kanyika kepakati kakavandika” meaning “the tiny Kingdom hidden in Africa.” Zimbabwe is the biblical land of Ophir where King Solomon obtain the gold to build the Temple. The gold in the Kingdom of Zimbabwe is the best gold in the world. My father calls the gold, “zerere rendarama” meaning the finest gold of earth.
Now, let me say, I was one of the first writers to publicly declare Zimbabwe as the biblical land of Ophir, after my father and God showed me that it was. When I first started writing about Zimbabwe being the biblical land of Ophir, I was ridiculed by Zimbabweans, and called a “mental nutcase” but ironically soon after my revelations, Zimbabwe as a country started claiming her as Ophir and the information was then added to Wikipedia.
The people of the Kingdom of Zimbabwe do not know who they are, neither do they know their history. All they know is they love to worship animals and nature, (totems).
Zimbabwe is a SPIRITUAL land. It is a land like no other, the elders of the land call it, “nyika inoyera” meaning the sacred country. They do not know that the reason the land is sacred is because it was “cursed” at the fall of men, it is the home of the serpent, the old dragon and no one is supposed to live there. The serpent, the old dragon lives in the Zambezi River, the most sacred river in Africa. The name of the serpent is called the Nyami nyami. This Dragon is the national emblem of Zimbabwe, disguised as the Zimbabwe bird.
Cecil John Rhodes knew this, so he treasured the dragon of Zimbabwe, he knew that he needed its blessing to conquer Southern Africa, so he put one of the stone carved images in his house, and it became his animal totem, and he never made any decision without consulting his totem. He discovered that the stone carvings of the Zimbabwe bird/dragon had some supernatural power. And he declared that when he died he would be buried on the most sacred mountain of Zimbabwe.
Now, where do I fit into all this?
My father, Chief Mutota, is a great great great grandson of the founders of the royal Kingdom of the Mutapa Empire, known today as the ruins of Great Zimbabwe, Mwene Mutapa. Though it is one of Africa’s greatest civilisations, after the Egyptian pyramids, today, Great Zimbabwe stands as a fallen Empire marred with mystery and superstition.
Now, hold Great Zimbabwe for a minute, and let me take you to Zimbabwe today, the Zimbabwe I grew up in, which is not known as Ophir. Unlike England, where I live today, people of Zimbabwe do a lot of blood sacrifices, it’s something that is not openly spoken about, but some children are conceived and born only for the sole purpose of being a sacrifice. The people of the land will even deny this, but daily children are sacrificed to the Zambezi River, especially in November, the sacred month of Zimbabwe were the gods are honoured. The children are either killed, or they are taken to sacred rivers and they disappear, and they say the mermaids took them.
One of the main cultures, or religion of Zimbabwe is communicating with the dead. My father, a spirit medium, just a “SPIRIT” as he calls himself, carries the spirit of Chief Mutota, his ancestor, and tells me that there is nothing wrong with speaking with dead spirits, He says what happens in Zimbabwe culture and tradition is the exact thing King Saul did when he went to consult a spirit medium to awaken the spirit of Samuel the prophet. My father uses this as reference to justify the religion of Zimbabwe.
When I was born, I was born to be a spiritual sacrifice for my mother. This is where I do not know whether she birthed me or she stole me. Before she conceived me, my mother was bewitched by her family, and became possessed by the spirit of her own mother, where she became sick unto death, speaking in the voice of her own mother, her own confession, her own husband’s confession and her own brother’s confession, (three witnesses). In Zimbabwean culture, your mother is actually your enemy spiritually, that’s why she has the power to curse you in a process called “Kutanda Botso” of which Zimbabweans strongly believe that is what I am going through today, that I am under such a mother’s curse.
Well, my own mother went through that process herself, where her dead mother wanted to kill her as a sacrifice (kuchekeresa) or ritual for her own family, because their family business was collapsing. She then travelled to many sangomas and spiritual healers, fortune tellers, seers, and was told that her own mother has possessed her, that her relatives wanted her as a sacrifice, unless she could produce a child who would act as a substitute for her. So my mother conceived me, and behold she received her healing. However, when when she conceived me, she did not live with my father. She lived in Mutare, one of the most sacred towns of Zimbabwe. She lived with some spiritual leaders/ relatives who were helping her to recover. When I was born, my father was working in Harare, the capital city.
At my birth, my mother rejoiced so much, and called me Jean, saying I was her GIFT from God. My father was very disappointed at my birth, for he wanted a son not a daughter. Because my mother didn’t exactly live with my father when I was born, he only came at weekends, so I wasn’t used to him, and refused for him to even touch me, which grieved my father very much, and caused him to doubt if I was his biological daughter. He suspected my mother had been impregnated by one of the “sangomas” who were living with her.
During this time, because I was born as a spiritual sacrifice for my mother, she took me places to do all sorts of rituals on me. I suffer from terrible flashbacks of what was done to me as a child, every-time I smell certain foods, or look at certain pictures, or hears certain songs, my memory is jogged and I see it all. I see my mother taking me to bira (traditional ritual) forcing me to eat sacrificed meats, (kudyiswa) which I could never swallow and vomited them. I see her standing behind me, and using a peacock feather to cast spells on me. She would take me to the sacred rivers, where sexual rituals were to be performed on me, that I would become a seductress when I grew up and a spiritual wife of a merman. I see her showering me with so much love, taking me everywhere, dressing me in the most beautiful clothes, and doing my hair, then she would lure me, and give me the meat, and I would say no. And she would say, “You can do this for Mummy,” and I would still say no.
Then when I turned 5, she couldn’t do the rituals on me anymore, for I was too old, I would then remember. That was the last time I ever received a mother’s love from her. She was never to say a kind word to me. Sometimes when it was the two of us, I would say to her, “Mummy, I remember…you took me there, the peacocks” And she would slap me so hard, and tell me that I was a LIAR, that it was impossible for a child to remember anything that happened to her when she was under 3 years old.
When I started to write, my father saw that I had the GIFTS, and he started to love me, and he would praise me, and he favoured me over my older brother and his other children, and he put away the doubts that I was not his daughter. And he said, I was the only child who was like him.
This angered my mother so very much. My father would buy me expensive toys, and told her that because I was his chosen child, and actually I wasn’t her chosen child anymore, he said he wanted to send me to private schools so I would receive the best education. My father wanted me to be spoilt, and treated like his HEIR, so this angered my mother even more, and her wrath I was not to escape because she felt like she had lost me to my father.
This was the beginning of the traumatic abuse I suffered in her hands. If she saw me doing anything I enjoyed, she would put an end to it. If I made a friend at school, she told me to stop playing with them. I don’t know why, but my father became absent, and did not protect me from her. He still worked away from home a lot, I only saw him at weekends, but my mother did not allow me to even TALK to him.
She told me that my Father was a demon possessed man, and Satan lived inside of him. So at this point, I felt like I had no mother or father, I was completely alone in the world, my only comfort was stealing English story books from school, and reading them in secret.
I used to be sexually abused by another older girl child, about 14, when I was about 6 years old, and once I saw my mother watch as my innocence was taken away. Then told me that I was naughty to do that. At some point, because of what she was doing to me, I started struggling to speak, I would stammer.
She would beat me so hard, saying I was making myself stammerer, her beatings would be at the amusement and entertainment of my siblings who would be laughing so hard as I was chastised for stammering. So I couldn’t speak anymore, I was terrified of talking, in case I stammered. She said she did not give birth to what I had become, she birthed a “normal child” not a sickler “chirema” like me. She would slap me, and if I dared cry, she would slap me again for crying.
So I learnt not to cry. I learnt not to talk.
When I was slapped for stammering, I went away and alone with my finger I wrote on the soil I how I felt. I wrote things like, “Why does no one love me?” “Help me to be good, I want to be better, so mummy can love me.” And what I felt from that was some kind of comfort. When I put my feelings on paper, or rather on soil it felt good. I took a lot of comfort in drawing shapes on the ground, I was always drawing circles and triangles, and I would smile.
I became a loner, and I was happiest when by myself, because only the pen/finger understood me. I looked for ant hills, and I would sit watching ants for hours, such fascinating creatures who taught me so many life principles. I charmed chameleons and tricked them into coming to me, and they would slowly climb on my finger. I felt like animals understood me, because like me, they needed other ways of expressing themselves other than talking. I felt like I was a lost Princess of another Kingdom, the feeling was so strong in me, I felt like in another life I was loved so much, and my people missed me and I wasn’t this pathetic person that could not be loved by its own mother.
I tried so hard to be good, but my good was never enough. One time my father sent groceries with a taxi, he used to do it a home, he would buy bags of food, then send a taxi home to deliver it. So I was so excited, as the food was being loaded onto the veranda, and I wanted to help. The other children were watching, food is a big deal, because of how much others live in poverty. So I rushingly carried this big bottle of squash, 5 litres. I then dropped the squash and it smashed. I tried to say I was sorry, but my mother couldn’t hear me. She then took a “shamu” a fresh stick/rod which was very big from a tree, and did not spare me the rod, in front of all the children watching the groceries being unloaded from the car. I was beaten till the rod broke into pieces on my flesh, but even though my skin was bruised and the pain was excruciating, all I could do was grit my teeth, I refused to cry. When she was finished I just sat there as the other children laughed, I didn’t know whether to stand up, or hide in humiliation, or just sit there until the pain was gone.
My mother started working me like a donkey, I became the housemaid before I was 8 years old, she never needed a housemaid anymore. My siblings would be sitting, enjoying life and I, only I did all the chores. They would go in the kitchen and use all the dishes, then I had to come after them and wash everything. As I worked and did my chores, they sat in the living room and laughed. I would work so hard, I used to rest when I went to bed. My father came in once and asked why everyone was sitting down whilst I was alone in the kitchen working.
I am naturally squeamish if thats the right word to use, I can not even look at an open wound, let alone blood without feeling sick. Even my children know me well, that Mummy can’t look at wounds, when they hurt they go to Nino. But as a child, I was made to slaughter chickens, my heart would beat so fast as I slit the throat of the chicken, the fear was paralysing. My hand would be shaking. I couldn’t do it. But because she saw the fear and panic in my eyes, it gave her great pleasure to force me to slaughter chickens.
“I bet you wish you were born a boy, so you wouldn’t have to slaughter chickens. Well, tough, a girl child has to slaughter the chickens.” She once said to me smiling, as I sat on the veranda, my eyes bloodshot paralysed with fear, plucking the chicken I had just killed.
As I grew older, she accused me of having an affair with my father and trying to steal him from her, and told all the relatives this, that I seduced my own father as a child, and they believed her. My siblings tell me I should say sorry to my mother for stealing her husband, because he put her away, and took another wife. They say I am the one who wronged her, by trying to steal her husband from her, my own father. When I tried to tell all the relatives, that this was not true, rather she abused me, they called me an “abomination” because in Zimbabwean culture to speak against a mother is a taboo, and you are threatened with “curses” and you are made an outcast of the community. When I tried to write my story Zimbabweans on social media mocked me mercilessly, and laughed that killing chickens is the norm in Zimbabwe, it’s not classed as abuse. One of the people who gathered an army on social media to mock me relentlessly whilst I was pregnant was Zimbabwe’s biggest social media influencer Bren Mupa.
But for me it was only when I came to the UK, that I learnt that what I used to suffer from was called panic attacks, and I used to be beaten and scolded for having a panic attack. But I have a husband who so loves me very much, and can never leave me alone at night, lest I have a flashback. He explains to his other wives, that I will always be first, because I don’t have what they have, a mother’s love. So my husband is my therapist, he heals me always with his sacrificial love for me.
In England I discovered that I could actually speak boldly, in front of people as well, and when I do spoken word, I do not stammer. In this poem above, I was fighting the stammer, so sometimes there was a long silence, but thats where my passion comes from.
Oh I am sorry my readers, for this has been such a terribly long essay, but I might as well put it all in one piece for you. This is not something I like writing about everyday. So let me now quickly take you back to the Kingdom of Ophir, the Great Zimbabwe.
Well, as my father’s spiritual heir, I was born to be a successor of the Kingdom. Royalty in Zimbabwe is very different from royalty in the west. These are two worlds apart. If you are a child of a Chief in Zimbabwe, you are looked down upon by the ” Morden Christians” because they consider the native culture of Zimbabwe spiritism demonic. Ancient But before colonialism, ancient Royalty of Zimbabwe was all about the spirituality of the Land and preserving it. To be of royal status of Zimbabwe was extremely prestigious, because back then Zimbabwe was a great Empire of wealth and power. So in olden days, if your father was a chief or spirit medium, that was as “aristocratic” and “noble” as it could get. Those chosen, the ones of the bloodline of the founding ancestors, have to posses certain spiritual gifts to preserve the Kingdom. My father’s dream has always been to bring back the Kingdom of Dzimba Dzemabwe to it’s former glory.
The main gift is the gifts of dreams, and the second gift is being able to hear the voice of the departed. Being able to connect with them and listen to what they want and do what they want. This is what my father does, he speaks like a prophet of Zimbabwe, because it was his ancestors who built the Great Zimbabwe. He speaks about when the spirit started calling him.
My mother and father are from two separate spiritual kingdoms of Zimbabwe, and my great suffering in Zimbabwe was because I was a spiritual child caught up between these two Kingdoms. My mother is of the marine Kingdom where mermans reign, and many girl children are initiated into lesbianism and spiritually married off to mermans as my father explains in the video above, most social media Zimbabwe female influencers belong to that Kingdom. My father belongs to the other Kingdom, like the grand-masons and royalty of Zimbabwe, and was a personal spiritual advisor to the late Robert Mugabe.
So I will end this essay by telling you Why Great Zimbabwe was built, and by whom.
The royal Empire of Great Zimbabwe was built for the purpose of rituals, sacrifices and worship. It was basically a sanctuary to speak to the departed and to guard the sacred gold of the land. It is a place of worship for the Gods of Zimbabwe, hence it was surrounded by 8 stone carvings of the gods. Just like Solomon built the Temple for the spirit of God to dwell in, the Great Zimbabwe was a sanctuary for the spirits.
Even though the Empire was destroyed, the descendants lived on and on, scattered in the land, changed their identity and totems to disguise themselves, until my father, and the spirit of Gadziguru arose, and started speaking through him, giving clear instructions on how to rebuild the Kingdom. At that same time, I also received the call to go back to Zimbabwe and restore the glory of Ophir with my father. He urged me to heed the call, and go back.
I have the spiritual ability to tap into the other side, but my spirit has always said no, it’s been a painful war inside of me, to forget my people, and my father’s house.
“Listen O royal daughter, and consider, forget your people and your Father’s house.”…Psalm 45.
So torn was I, between Crown and Destiny, because deep down I love my father so very much, so I will carry this scar forever. When I think about it, I just shut my eyes and pick my destiny. I can not listen to spiritual mbira music, I can not wear braids, I can not wear certain Zimbabwean jewellery with chevron patterns, because the spirits starts calling me back to take my position, but as much as I love my father, I can never go back, because my heart and soul belongs to my home, England, my destiny…my father always told me that royalty is a bloodline, when the spirit calls you, you listen, but to me, that has always meant the other way round, I was called by United Kingdom.
My father has always told me that these sacred things about the Kingdom of Zimbabwe cannot be written down, they are only supposed to be spoken in the courts in oracles (dare) of the chosen, so I have broken Zimbabwean royal protocol (chivanhu). I asked my husband “should I write this blog, will I not be harmed by the gods?” I asked because I know the gods, I have seen them. Even in the video above, as my father explains, that those who harm or betray the gods die mysteriously or disappear. So in much fear, before I wrote this blog I asked my Lord husband if it was safe to write this. I always seek my husband’s blessing in all I do. He answered me and said, “Baby, no one can harm you now, you are far gone from them. Didn’t the Queen break royal protocol to welcome Meghan into the royal family? Sometimes royal protocol has to be broken for change and the good of humanity, pen away my beloved, tell the story, for Zimbabwe can not remain a hidden secret forever.”
Just as one can not speak about the British Royal family without mentioning Prince William, one can not speak about the Mutapa Kingdom or the rebuilding of the ruins without mentioning Mary-Tamar was Jean.
The Genesis of The Revelation.