A tale of two graves… Munhumutapa and Rhodes
These two men defined what is today the State of Zimbabwe. Nyatsimba Mutota (Munhumutapa) building a multifarious array of stone structures from the south to the north from which Zimbabwe derives its name and Cecil John Rhodes colonising the country and attempting a northwards conquest from the South (Cape) to the North (Cairo). The swathe of land he colonised was then named Rhodesia, taken from Rhode’s Asia, given the vast land he had taken. Today, both men lie in their graves buried in different styles and aura.
THE two 4x4 vehicles ground to a rattling halt, their groggy-vocalised diesel engines having rankled, hissed, puffed and resiliently pushed from one depression to sudden ascend and another- again and againuntil the dead end, where we could no longer manoeuvre by car.
The journey that had started from cattle grazing land off the Guruve-Kanyemba Highway past stunted bush shrubbery and savanna grasslands, undulating landscape and veins of rivers and rivulets gave way to dense mountain forest. On the banks of each river and rivulet, banana groves, luxuriant water reeds, water cabbages, lilies and thickets of riverine vegetation accompanied the chatting waters, unfazed by human activity.
The purpose was to find the grave of Nyatsimba Mutota - Munhumutapa - the legendary conqueror whose stone settlements dotted all over the country inspired the naming of this country, Zimbabwe. Munhumutapa is therefore, no small name by any imagination. We were at least hopeful and confident that we were close to finding the grave because we were indeed in the Negomo area, named after his son Nyagomo Mupunzagutu.
After alighting from the cars, we took off towards a mountain foot, and on one of the trees two fish eagles perched, performing a piecing evocative duet. As the last man in the beeline, I looked up the tree and at a glance, saw the eagles’ distinctive, black white and chestnut feather patterns, gleaming boldly in the afternoon hue as they tossed their heads backwards and forth.
“Is this not the Munhumutapa emblem?” I soliloquised.
Suddenly our leader Bhokeri — the villager, whose ancestral lineage was appointed officiants of all Munhumutapa functions — stopped, instructed us to remove our shoes and kneel down in a shaky shriek of a voice. It was nerve-wrecking, hair-raising and spine-chilling, as he clapped his hands systematically and asked for permission to see the grave. We bowed our heads, removed our hats and clapped systematically, along with him.
“You only go there and come back at the benevolence of the spirits, who guard the caves, jealously. Who knows what they think about you?” Bhokeri said. An aura of fear surrounded us. His hands trembled as he took snuff from a worn pouch, sprinkled it on the ground and pleaded with the ancestral spirits - the sacred vanguards of the mountain and its draped chain of inter-connected caves - to understand our cause, protect and guide us.
Of course, no one was sure whether the ancestors had approved of our presence or not but we had to proceed.
Dry leaves cracked under our bare feet, sending feeding termites into a rattling protest. Thorns were an immediate menace to our feet and the slope, was stubbornly defiant. We used our hands to push aside fluffy heads of the tinder dry grass and stunted bush to clear the way. Tree branches swayed with the rhythm of strong windward mountain top winds, while our bodies formed ghostly shadows, in a beeline.
There we were, facing a grave, whose only recognition came through stones closing a cave. That was Mutota’s grave. Nothing more nothing less. No epitaph. Nothing!
“This is the sacred grave. Here lie the remains of the medium of Munhumutapa, who died in 1977,’’ announced Bhokeri.
This particular medium of Mutota was George (Jojo) Kupara Gavanga, a very influential supporter and icon of Zimbabwe’s liberation struggle, who died in protest of the Rhodesian soldiers who had cordoned his home, from freedom fighters, whom they had gathered were helped execute the war by his spirit. (That is a narrative for another day).
So, we needed the grave of the original Mutota (Munhumutapa), and we set off for Tuwuyu Tusere, the Eight Baobabs, documented by the first whites who came into the country as the final resting place for the original Mutota or Munhumutapa.
Slowly, quietly but tentatively, we made another beeline down the slope, our fad tellingly sheepish but our determination and resilience, collectively torpedoing our fatigue.
At the foot of the mountain, one by one, we put our shoes on and went back to the cars. There we left again for Tuwuyu Tusere through a very difficult terrain, again putting the vehicle engines to test. After about an hour, we got to another mountain, Tuwuyu Tusere. Again we parked and removed shoes and hats. The ritual was sacrosanct.
Up we climbed the uphill, our soft feed at the mess of the thorns, again. On the ground, debris from old clay pots, broken stone grinders and many historical artefacts, spoke to centuries old occupations. The eight baobabs are no longer there, probably swallowed by history; swallowed by time, for, time is a great teacher, it even smothers steel. We could not find the grave. We found nothing. Even the elderly in the villages on the swathe of land below, do not have an idea of where he was buried.
Being the foot of the vast and interlocking hills, hillocks, valleys and mountains chains that form Matusadonha Mountain Rangeitself the colloquial white settler’s failure for Matosi Adona (the vast droppings of animal dung)- some cave must be the place of interment of Mutota, aka Munhumutapa, Mwenemutapa, Monomutapa.
It is said that generation after generation has allowed history to be lost, lost and lost for good.
WE set off to Matopo Hills, to see Cecil John Rhodes’ grave, some 35 km South West of Bulawayo. It is early in the morning as the sun hesitantly climbs out of the womb of its wise mother from the east. Grass and tree branches sing notes from the sunrise wind, helped by a cacophony of singing birds, yonder in the hills and hillocks.
Balancing rocks stands unveiled, blushing in the sunrise, amid fluffy savanna grass heads, that ripple across the plains in a rusty-golden hue. Somewhere in the mind, there is a tickling taste of how Africa must have been a century ago. Matobo, Matopos or even without a name, must have been some heaven on earth, given the wild animals you see as soon as you enter.
Shaggy waterbucks display their large lyre-shaped horns on the watery fringes of Lake Matobo, a rhino runs in athletic gait intermittently looking sideways and forwards, giraffes glide across the grassy hills, between grazing zebra herds, while pairs of wide-eyed dik-dik dart into scrubby bush like overgrown hares on spindly legs.
When driving past hillocks squadrons of banded mongoose dart between trees, while rock rabbits hoist their heads up to look, before going down under the caves. A klipspringer stands silhouetted on the rocks seeming ready to dance with the rocks.
After clearing one of the sharp curves, a kudu bull stands in the middle of the road, ears well-pronounced behind its iron-polished corkscrew horns. Off it shoots into the bush, head turned into a spear-like stance. It is a perpetual bullet flight.
As the road serpentines further inside the park, life becomes a mystery wreathed in dotted balancing rocks, uncharacteristic rock outcrops and fear of the wilderness. Matobo National Park is a scenic gem.
Matobo National Park forms the core of the Matobo or Matopos Hills, an area of granite kopjes and wooded valleys commencing some 35 km south of Bulawayo. The hills were formed over two billion years ago with granite being forced to the surface, this has eroded to produce smooth “whaleback dwalas” and broken kopjes, strewn with boulders and interspersed with thickets of vegetation.
Mzilikazi, founder of the Ndebele nation, gave the area its name, Matobo meaning “bald heads”.
British Empire-builder and former prime minister of the Cape Colony, Cecil John Rhodes, who colonized this country in 1890 was buried in the Matobo Hills. After colonization, the country was named Rhodesia after Rhodes.
After a decade of occupation, Rhodes visited England in 1901. He was already ill on his return to Cape Town in the early months of 1902 and died soon afterwards at his seaside cottage in Muizenberg, Cape Town. In his will he asked to be buried on the ‘View of the World’ hill in the Matobo district, Matabeleland.
Today, his grave, built on granite rock promontory is a tourist attraction. The road to Rhodes’ grave is tarred through and through. Tour guides about. Literature is plenty. Thousands of tourists visit the grave, take pictures read his history, albeit after paying.
In short, Rhode’s grave has been commercialised, respectfully preserved an extreme opposition of that of Munhumutapa, our great conqueror whose stone work, formed the basis of naming this country, the Great Zimbabwe The epitaph is clear and well kept. The national park is the oldest in Zimbabwe, established in 1926 as Rhodes Matopos National Park, a bequest from colonialist Rhodes. The original park borders extended well to the south and east of the current park.
The current name Matobo reflects the correct vernacular pronunciation of the area. The Matobo Hills were designated as a Unesco World Heritage Site in 2003. The area “exhibits a profusion of distinctive rock landforms rising above the granite shield that covers much of Zimbabwe”.