The Shembe gospel‚ an experience that won't be forgotten by Nathi Olifant

Few things really humble me‚ but my visit — with presidential hopeful Cyril Ramaphosa — on Tuesday at Nazareth Baptist Church eGibisile Shembe Home‚ in eSikhawini outside eMpangeni‚ brought me back to mother earth.

Not that I went there on my high horse‚ but ignorance had its fair share of roles.

We had been assigned to cover deputy president Ramaphosa’s visit to the Shembe church‚ on a Tuesday morning nogal‚ an occasion orchestrated to prop up his campaign‚ but disguised as a prayer.

My photographer colleague Jackie Clausen and I parked our work jalopy‚ prepared the equipment we would need to cover Ramaphosa’s maiden visit to the church and settled in. We were about to get an experience of a lifetime. I‚ for one‚ had no idea what the whole assignment entailed.

As we were getting ready leave the vehicle in the dedicated parking space‚ a grey-bearded man — there are thousands of these grey beards otherwise known here as “izinhlalisuthi” — gives me a firm pat on the shoulder saying I must take off my shoes and leave them behind. His gesture is one that you cannot start arguing with.

I begrudgingly complied‚ took them off with socks and as I felt the warm earth kissing the soles of my feet I knew I was in for a ride … well‚ a walk. I rolled up my skinny chinos ready to gird up my loins.

Jackie stubbornly kept her shoes on‚ and boy she was in for it.

As we ascend the coarse gravel promenade teeming with gum trees and stalls on either side‚ retailing anything from meat to fruit to church paraphernalia‚ I could feel the discomfort as I choose where to put my foot. The walk (and the path) to the main house is one of the most sacred and this is proven by the discipline and the decorum of members all clutching their grass mats under their armpits.

To my agitation an old man whom I swear has arthritis in his feet passes me with ease and sarcastically says‚ “That’s nothing‚ you should climb Nhlangakazi”.

To the uninitiated‚ Nhlangakazi is a Shembe pilgrimage hill outside Durban.

I’m missing my shoes dearly. By this time my feet are screaming as I stepped flaccidly on this (un)holy gravel while warding off a man trying to sell me umqhele (leopard skin head gear) for a “little” R200.

By the time we arrive‚ huffing breathlessly‚ at a midway boom gate manned by the rudest of men on earth‚ Jackie is told to take off her shoes. This time there’s no argument.

But still the pace quickens minute-by-minute‚ especially as Presidential Protection Unit vehicles start wailing their sirens down the promenade. Streaks of sweat can be felt on my back flowing like river Nile down to no-man’s land. The PPU vehicles pass us‚ flanked by perspiring armed men in dark suits and glasses‚ hoofing and elbowing us off the path.

Finally‚ still out of breath‚ we reached a group of reporters all barefoot grinning as if recently struck by lightning. Well‚ sort of.

After much coaxing with PPU personnel‚ one Ronnie Mamoepa and the church’s marshals we are let inside the home of Unyazilwezulu – which translates to “thunder of the heavens” – where we spend much of our working time kneeling and reciting the signatory “Aaameeeen” as he shakes hands with the Buffalo and former KZN premier Senzo Mchunu‚ who is also barefoot next to a menacing white Dodge RAM super bakkie.

Some of Ramaphosa’s bodyguards are also ridiculously walking barefoot.

More woes were still in the pipeline for poor Jackie as she and the SABC’s Ayanda Mhlongo are candidly told these premises are not a place for women and are ushered outside. However‚ the worst was still to come.

As Ramaphosa et al are led inside the massive temple before a pulpit we are told by the man called Shozi we are not using the same entrance. We are to go via another gate reserved for the commoners to access a good vantage point for the proceedings.

Begrudgingly‚ we do this‚ strutted sheepishly and we are made to walk in the midst of not so nice men. We stomped and trudged on their grass mats and neat white towels.

Words like: “Obani laba abasigxobayo?” (who are these people stepping on us?)‚ “yeyi wena khandakhulu wahamba engathi indlu kanyoko lena” (hey you big head why walk as if this is your mother’s house?) and “sukani zintatheli nisisitha uMongameli” (get out of our sight you journalist you blocking us from seeing the president) flew around from the temperamental grey beards clad in imiqhele.

We say hundreds of sorrys in unison as we hop around amid a serious odour of authority that shouts “RESPECT ME”. The run-ins between the church and the media are well documented.

Now we are settled down – and thankfully under the shade of an expansive umthombo tree overlooking the serene banks of the tranquil Qhubu Lake — and a kind man in a white gown (umnazaretha) who introduced himself as baba uXaba rolled a few grass mats for us to kneel and sit. We thankfully welcome his kindness.

I would later learn that he is a SAPS captain. He is even kind enough to tell me the grass mat here is not called icansi‚ but ukhukho.

By now a white sea of congregants are kneeling in dead silence anticipating the grand entrance of Prophet Shembe.

As the congregants start reciting “Isiqalo Somthandazo Wokuvuka”‚ Xaba guides us when to sit and when to kneel as we follow‚ in amusia‚ “isilandelo sebandla” in the borrowed IZIHLABELELO zaMANAZARETHA hym book emblazoned with the Prophet’s face on the cover. The kneeling and sitting every now and then is one excruciating exercise for someone with a charismatic church background.

If you have read Herman Charles Bosman’s short story “A Bekkersdal Marathon” you will understand this.

Shozi from our earlier encounter kept on side-eying us over his specs as if to say: “One more deviating nizoyisutha induku” (you will be dealt with).

It is this strict decorum and protocol that induces the fear of God to the newbies.

By the time we are on verse 32 of the “Bekkersdal marathon” my knees and bums are killing me and my feet are pounding as if diesel‚ other than blood‚ is pumping in my veins. The three hour service is dominated by this sitting up and kneeling down and a glimpse of a drowsy Ramaphosa under a gazebo before the pulpit.

I’m perturbed that I can no longer place Jackie in the sea of female congregants. I’m also disconcerted by the presence of Independent Newspapers’ photographer Bongani Mbatha.

Kaveel Singh‚ a journalist with News24‚ zips his way among the moody izinhlalisuthi‚ taking photos with his phone and causing consternation among these temperamental men‚ with one shouting: “Yeyi kwenzani manje lokhu‚ hlala phansi!” (hey what’s this thing doing now‚ sit down!) and another muttering some unprintable words as they shushed him.

For the first time I let out a giggle and this was all the panacea I needed for my burning feet‚ knees and bums.

Sadly‚ another half a kilometre back to the car was pending.

However‚ the discipline‚ decorum‚ strict protocol and yes the authoritative odour of these men of KwaShembe will humble you. It humbled Senzo Mchunu as we walked back together to the distant parking lot — still barefoot — dapper and stapper.