Ah, Chief Dwasaho! Cilliers Brink has gone over the brink just like that. The capital city (Pretoria) is without a mayor, thanks to NoActionsSA. The Public Investment Corporation, once a site of State capture, is back on its feet, posting good results. Petrol is down again; no loadshedding for six months. Pardon me, my leader, for I called you names when you appointed a Minister of Electricity. In other news, Eskom’s turnaround is now validated by amaBhungane, those tireless hunters of corrupt men and women. Our fortunes, my leader, are a mixed bag. But it’s not all doom and gloom—yesterday was extraordinary.

The Faith Action to End Gender-Based Violence (GBV) Collective, in collaboration with We Will Speak Out South Africa, launched a groundbreaking Interfaith GBV Prevention and Mitigation Strategy 2024–2030 in Johannesburg. The strategy, first-of-its-kind, seeks to unite the faith sector to address its perennial crisis: complicity in the perpetuation of spiritual violence, that twin evil of gender-based violence. It calls for a reimagining of the faith community’s over-reliance on one aspect of restorative justice over accountability and a last-ditch attempt to rescue sacred biblical texts from the clutches of charlatans who use them to subjugate women and children, fuelling the scourge of GBV.

When I read the Interfaith strategy, my leader, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Something long buried in the recesses of my mind resurfaced. My late mother, Ntombikayise Rosta MamMlambo Mncube, my first love and a devout prayer warrior, was once a victim of spiritual abuse. As her son, I prefer to say she suffered emotionally and spiritually; her gift as a faith healer was exploited to enrich a sangoma—a spiritual trickster I cannot bring myself to venture into the murky waters of whether sexual abuse occurred—it is too ghastly to contemplate.

Mr President, I am sharing this sordid tale of my mother to jolt you into action. Most scholars and activists generally agree on the validity of the National Strategic Plan on Gender-Based Violence and Femicide (GBVF). We welcome your commitment to the cause, including the amendments to the law that you have made to strengthen the hands of judicial officers presiding over GBV cases. This year, you also launched the National Council on Gender-Based Violence and Femicide. Fair enough.

We must galvanise everyone into action for these words and strategies (green shoots) to blossom into a bountiful harvest. Survivors need support and safe places to recover, while perpetrators must face the full might of the law. This requires the whole-of-society and whole-of-government approach. Actions, not words, my leader.

As I mentioned, my mother was a faith healer who used divination, candles, and impepho (incense used in traditional African rituals) to communicate with ancestors on behalf of the sick. She sought to unravel the mysteries of her patients' physical or spiritual ailments. A devoted member of the Salema Christian Church in Zion she inherited her healing gift from her mother, MaMbatha, though, ironically, MaMbatha never practised. It was my maternal grandfather who was an inyanga (healer).

My leader, this is how the spiritual abuse story unfolded. My mother woke early, bathed, packed a bag of clothes, and vanished without a word. It was later revealed that she had received a “calling” requiring her to initiate as a sangoma (traditional healer). The sangoma responsible was known to us; he had visited our home previously, performing rituals that included the slaughter of 40 chickens—that was when I stopped counting. At that point, I warned my mother we were dealing with a charlatan. In all my years observing traditional healers, I had never witnessed such an excessive, almost genocidal, ritual. My concerns, however, were dismissed.

When we learned of my mother's whereabouts, a delegation was formed consisting of my father, middle brother, and me. We visited the sangoma’s indumba (altar for sangomas). Our arrival was met with indifference, and we were treated poorly as if our concerns were inconsequential. The sangoma made exorbitant demands, including a year-long initiation. We explained that my mother had made it clear years before that her ancestors had insisted she was never to become a sangoma or use muthi (traditional medicine) for healing others. However, the sangoma dismissed our concerns, insisting we knew nothing of the spiritual realm. He was firm: my father had to continue making monthly remittances until my mother completed her sangoma initiation. Upon her graduation, he informed us that a lump sum, a bull, a goat, and chickens were required, though I can no longer recall the exact amount. At home, more animals—a cow, a goat, and chickens—had to be sacrificed to welcome her back.

We left the indumba feeling utterly defeated. Despite my objections, my father complied with the sangoma’s demands. Although I advised him to report it as a case of spiritual abduction and extortion, he refused. I knew from the start that this was a case of spiritual abuse, using supernatural gimmicks and ancestral rituals to justify control, abuse, or financial exploitation.

Fifteen months passed, and my father exhausted his savings on these unnecessary rituals. The promised homecoming ceremony was aborted three times. Each time, my father bore the costs—transporting community members to the indumba and the animals slaughtered in anticipation of her return. I don't recall the exact turning point, but eventually, my father had enough, and my mother returned home without the graduation. Until her death, we never spoke about what happened at the sangoma’s house.

Till next week, my man. Send me to lend a hand to the survivors.

Written by Bhekisisa Mncube an author and columnist who won the national 2024 Standard Bank Sikuvile Journalism Award for columns/editorials, as well as the same category at the regional 2020 Vodacom Journalist of the Year Awards. 

For further information on the Interfaith GBV Strategy 2030 or to join the movement through the Faith Action Collective, please contact coordinator@wwsosa.org.za or communication@wwsosa.org.za, call 0724537502 or WhatsApp 0845810622