It’s been almost a month since my Daddy passed suddenly. He was so young and healthy, so full of life, but Covid took him just like that. For that I’m so sad, so very sad. My life will never be the same again.
But they say life must go on, and sadly it must. So today I decided to testify. In mourning still God is so good to me.
My father knew who he was. He was a Chief, a royal son of Dzimbadzemabwe. Some people called him crazy for claiming his royal identity, but knowing who he was took him places.
He was a very wealthy man especially by Zimbabwe and African standards. He built himself a villa, a stunning mansion that my daughter Nakai branded a “Castle”. When I took my children to Zimbabwe 10 years ago, they had never seen a house so grand and big, because houses in England are generally very small. To my daughter, only 6 at that time, her grandfather lived in a Castle. She saw him as a King she read in books. She came back to England and told everyone who could listen that she had a grandfather who lived in a grand castle.
My Papa was a man of standards. He liked the finer things in life. The reason I even call him Papa is because he refused to be called “Baba” in Shona, and said he was Daddy or rather Papa because he was a posh modern father more on the English side. I was educated at very expensive boarding schools, because he would say my daughter is a talented artist, she must have the best education. At that time, Zimbabwe had the best education system in Africa, and was the bread basket of the continent. For my A’ levels I went to High School with children of diplomats and ambassadors of Tanzania, Ghana, Nigeria etc, because they brought their children to the best schools in Zimbabwe to be educated.
When I was doing my 5th form at Girls High School Harare, when I was about to set off to go to boarding school each term, Papa would put his hand in his pocket and give me a “stash” of money without counting how much it was. It was so ridiculous. My mother would be so angry, so livid and jealous she couldn’t breathe. I would take some of the money and give her. Still I had more than enough left.
I was my Daddy’s Princess. And my Daddy always told me that “His Father’s Blessing” was on me, and me alone.
He would take me to the best hair salons, though they were in the ghetto, and say to these ghetto women who were so familiar with him, “Put the best braids on my girl, I will pay you whatever, just make them long, just the way she likes it.”
The women would look at me in awe and wonder, and say “That’s Gasho’s daughter.” And they would all surround me and start finely braiding my hair. Oh how glorious I would look after, and Daddy would come and pick me up, and apparently my beauty would be so divine. My mother would say I was ugly like my Daddy yet Daddy saw me as beautiful.
Oh Daddy was obsessed with braids. He loved me in braids. I know I even wrote an article that I will never wear braids, I haven’t worn braids in years, because I was on a different spiritual path. But because of Daddy, I may have my hair braided again, just to look like his Princess again. Death has changed me, I’m now a different woman to who I was before Daddy passed.
My mother would chastise him for loving me and say he loved me sexually, and even tell him I wasn’t his biological daughter, and confused him so much, and confused me too, and tell me he wasn’t my biological father, but through all her wickedness and schemes, our love survived. I loved Daddy and he loved me, biologically related or not.
Because he wanted the best for my life, and knew I could never thrive in Zimbabwe, at 17 he sent me to my promised land , my home United Kingdom. I entered the UK in royal style as a daughter of an African Chief. My Daddy commanded the immigration not to detain me, he told them he was a Chief with over 200 servants.
“Why are you detaining my daughter?” He asked them. “I want to speak to the chief immigration officer. Do you know who she is ?” He demanded. My Daddy was so daring, fearless as a lion.
The immigration respected him, maybe they were more fascinated by him rather. I bet he gave them something to talk about as they drank their tea.
They took me from the detention room, when I thought I was about to be deported, “What type of a house do you have? What does your father do? How many servants do you have?”
I was surprised by the sudden strange questions. But my gut told me to just be honest.”
“I don’t know, over a hundred servants I think.” I replied the immigration officer. He almost smiled, and before I knew it, I was released into my Jerusalem, and taken to my father’s friend’s house in London, a Zimbabwean diplomat to the UK.
Little did I know I was to suffer so much poverty in the UK, from marrying a Zimbabwean man Shingai Musuka who would dress my children in clothes he picked from the rubbish tip, to sleeping without electricity because my ex-husband was giving all his money to Walter Masocha, a self styled Zimbabwean UK based false prophet. My ex-husband was to then make me homeless with my young children, after he actually went out of his way to make our home repossessed.
I suffered so much homelessness from that time, I was homelessness in the UK three times, I even gave birth to my 6th children whilst literally homeless. I was so scared after I gave birth, because I had no home address to give the midwives, I was scared that if they found out I was homeless, they would take my new born and my children from me.
My mother whom I brought to the UK rejoiced at my homelessness. She cursed me and said my children would be taken from me and put in care or given to my wicked ex-husband. Her curses had power because after the council chucked me into the streets whilst pregnant, social services told me that if I didn’t produce a miracle of housing myself they would have no option but to remove the children from my care and house them.
At this time, my husband so broke, jobless , not allowed to work and trying to apply for his permanent stay in the UK, looked me in the eye and promised me that as soon as he got his papers he will own houses in the UK. It sounded ridiculous to say the least, but I believed him. He spoke with so much pain and conviction as I wept outside an air bnb holding a new born baby.
Sometimes I asked Daddy for money, even though he was in Africa he would send me money anytime I asked. One time he put £2000 in my account. But my husband being a man of pride, hated me asking Daddy for money. So most times I never, even when I needed the money.
That brings me to why I am writing this testimony ,my amazing husband. They say a woman should marry a man just like her father. I married that man, his name is Kofi Agyemang Offeh. He is only 32 years old, but his maturity and resilience in life makes him about 60 years in wisdom.
Each time I argued with my husband, I always accused him of being exactly like Daddy. “Gosh you are just like my Father!” I would shout at him.
I thought I was insulting him, because there are certain things I hated about my Father, and those things were so strangely striking in my Lord Husband. Like he was my own Father’s son.
It has taken my Father’s death for me to realise that those qualities of him that I hated, is what made him unique and made him the success he was, especially when it came to wealth.
My father was obsessed with building wealth, he had these crazy principles when it came to money. He sang so many songs about wealth, well he was a royal son of Zimbabwe, a land of the finest gold in the world where even King Solomon obtained all his gold. Papa taught me so much about the sacredness of Zimbabwe gold.
Papa was a hustler, and money followed him. He had the hand of money, he would have a suitcase full of money in his boot in the car.
When my husband got his UK papers, he started doing things I never understood. And sadly I saw my father in him.
My husband would always ask me for money, sometimes he would ask me for £10 because he had nothing. Each time I got my children benefit money he would say “Baby please give me just £200 so I buy watches, I will make profit and pay you back.”
I would be so frustrated, then I would tell him he was like my Daddy. I would tell him that Daddy wasn’t realistic he liked building castles in the air. My Daddy used to do things like that. He would have a dream, sounding so ridiculous. But he always believed in his own crazy little dreams. That’s how he built himself a spectacular mansion and taught himself to play a guitar and became the best Jazz musician Zimbabwe ever had.
I would say to my husband, “Baby you can’t do anything tangible with selling watches from China. You need constant income.”
“I will be a millionaire soon, just watch me.” My darling husband would say. Funny enough his watches used to sell, and through his hustle he would make over 100% profit and we would eat and be satisfied.
When we were on our 3rd bout of homelessness as we call it, my ex-husband had missed some payments on maintenance, he always tried to dodge paying maintenance. Then one day, when we were staying at an air bnb with no penny to our names, behold there was £1000 in my account. It was maintenance money from child maintenance taken from my ex-husband.
My husband had met this polygamist Ghanaian property investor who had introduced him to the world of buying properties. Well with the £1000 from my ex-husband, my Lord husband took the money and bought a house from the auction.
That was the first property my husband bought 2 years ago, whilst homeless. He used my ex-husband’s money to sow his first seed into the property world.
Life is funny indeed, my ex-husband made me homeless, yet God used him to bless my husband with money to buy his first house.
Today my husband within a year has acquired 10 properties to his name. He now runs an empire, and in assets, he is now a millionaire in his own right.
Wealth is not about driving Range Rovers or wearing Gucci, wealth is about building an inheritance for your children. My darling husband, just like my Daddy has done it.
I’m so proud of the Tiger that he is. He goes for the kill, so focused on his goals.
Today as I mourn my father still, I’m so comforted that I married a man just like my Daddy. A man who hustles until his dream comes to fruition. A man who believes that silver and gold belongs to God.
But most importantly, like my Daddy my Lord Husband is a man who knows of his royal lineage, that royal blood runs in his veins so gold and silver follows him effortlessly…because he claimed his identity. He is the King of the North, even all his workers call him King. Today he is a millionaire King and I can’t help but give thanks.
The Genesis of The Revelation by
Mary-Tamar was Jean
PS: This essay was written on my phone, may have auto correct errors as I have no time to revise it.