Nozipho Fadzai Wabatagore | Weddings and Woes

That summer, the topic of marriage surfaced once again. I was thirty-four years old, already considered “off the market” by Harare’s unwritten marital guidelines. Amai instinctively began making plans for my bride price and wedding. She had decided that an Imba Matombo wedding would be both classy and affordable—exactly what one would expect from a venue in Harare’s upscale northern suburbs. The only thing she seemed to have overlooked, or perhaps was willing to leave to chance, was finding me a husband.

#

Yolky sunbeams oozed through the bus’s cracked window, and I fixed my gaze on Amai’s squinted eyes, her golden-black spectacles perched at the edge of her nose. At that moment, I knew—she wouldn’t budge on our visit to Holy Water Church. The radio flicked on, and Apostolic gospel music blared, drowning out the murmurs of the passengers, the pounding drums echoing through the cramped space.

We sped past Jameson Hotel, its grandeur nothing more than a façade. At the same time, female vendors, clutching vegetables, tomatoes, and sweets in big black bags, jogged alongside the slowing bus, ready to flee from the police. The government had banned street vendors from the central business district. Amai’s Vote ZANU-PF T-shirt clung to her chest like a crumpled election poster.

The bus approached our stop, and Amai and I jumped off, stepping into the thick air of the street. As we walked, I took in the rows of corrugated sheet metal houses with small, cluttered backyards and avocado trees leaning with age.

“Mai Sam knows a miracle pastor,” Amai said, her voice thick with excitement as she chewed her tongue. “Don’t act like you don’t care. Just ask me already what kind of miracles he does!”

I bristled at the thought. The neighbourhood’s notorious gossiper, Mai Sam, was someone Amai usually avoided. She dropped by uninvited, and on more than one occasion, Amai had told me to lie about us not being home when she knocked. So, when Amai mentioned her, I knew she was desperate enough to take anything Mai Sam said seriously.

Amai elbowed my shoulder, reminding me that I hadn’t responded.

“He prays for unmarried women,” Amai continued. “Even women over forty have found husbands after attending his sessions.”

I felt a knot twist in my stomach. This wasn’t like Amai. A devout Catholic, she had always found the rise of miracle pastors in our neighbourhood disturbing. Yet here she was, speaking with a fervour I hadn’t seen before. Pastors who claimed to help women find husbands had become a booming business in Zimbabwe. I knew why—women my age struggled to find partners, as men often sought younger girls just out of high school. Amai’s consolation for my singleness had always been my promising law career. But I had recently lost my job as a lawyer. The wife of the law firm’s owner accused me of having an affair with her husband, claiming that an unmarried woman shouldn’t be working late hours with a married man. Although the accusation was completely unfounded, the firm dismissed me from my job. From then on, my singleness became a burden Amai could no longer ignore.

Her face’s panic made Amai’s wrinkles furrow deeper into her skin, and carved her worries, making me take her suggestion seriously.

“What’s this pastor’s name?” I asked, trying to mask my scepticism.

Amai’s face lit up with excitement as she leaned closer. “Pastor Joza,” she whispered. “He preaches at Holy Water Church.”

Her mouth moved quickly as she rattled off stories of elite women he had helped find husbands, mentioning the fees he charged with a touch of concern. As she spoke, I realised that a week at home without Amai questioning me about my non-existent boyfriend was becoming increasingly impossible.

“Are you serious, Mama?” I asked, my tone edged with sarcasm. The idea of wasting money on a miracle pastor seemed absurd to me.

“Yes, why else would I bring it up?” Amai’s voice rose, the agitation in her words clear. “We need to act fast, or it will be too late. I’ll contact him.”

When we reached home, I felt like a customer being harassed in the Mbira market, pressured into buying something I didn’t want. My eyes finally found relief at seeing our grey cement house, the large jacaranda tree standing tall beside it. The other houses had avocado trees, but none had the same worn comfort as ours.

We entered the lounge to find Baba sitting on the black leather sofa, the other old couches bearing yellowing cushion covers. The room smelled of sweet potatoes. In front of Baba, a plate of sweet potato peels sat beside the TV. I took the plate and carried it into the kitchen.

“I texted Pastor Joza,” Amai called out. “He said we should attend Holy Water this Sunday.”

“Mama, I’m uncomfortable with this,” I said, my voice low. “What will Father Moyo think if he finds out we went to see a miracle preacher?”

Amai scoffed. “You see how your child behaves, Tawanda? She’s paranoid. Father Moyo won’t know.”

Baba turned his head slightly, acknowledging Amai’s comment without saying much.

“Baba Fungai, tell her you’re waiting for her bride price,” Amai teased. She turned back to me, “See? She’s not listening to me.”

#

Early the following morning, Amai went to church to help her friend Mai Pai prepare for her daughter’s wedding. I had promised to join her later to clean the gold candlesticks. At that time, Michelle, Mai Pai’s twenty-six-year-old daughter, was the talk of Harare. She was a stunning beauty who had caught the eye of a successful businessman, and Mai Pai couldn’t help but share the news. She proudly told everyone that Michelle’s wedding would be broadcast on Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation and that her daughter was set to appear on the front page of The Herald.

The door was slightly ajar when I arrived at the back entrance behind the altar. I peered inside to find Amai holding a cloth in the corner. She looked shaken, almost cornered, like an antelope caught in the wild. When she saw me, she immediately pressed a finger to her lips, signalling me to be quiet. I moved in beside her, straining to hear the conversation.

“Can you believe Mai Fungai asked me if Fungai could be a bridesmaid for Michelle?” Mai Pai’s voice rang out.

“What? She wants her spinster to be a bridesmaid?” Mai Kanyemba responded with disbelief.

“I know! The audacity to ask such a thing. I would never allow it,” Mai Pai retorted.

The two women burst into laughter, clapping their hands in exaggerated shock. Amai gripped the wall for support. Her eyes were red and glassy. I rushed to comfort her, but she pushed me away before I could reach her. It was clear this had shaken her more deeply than I realised. Amai didn’t cry—she saved her tears for funerals. I wanted to say something, to offer solace, but I stopped myself. I knew this wasn’t the right moment to reason with her. Over the years, I had grown accustomed to overhearing people talk about my singleness as though it were some kind of affliction. I had become immune to it. But Amai was not coping with my singleness.

I left through the back door, retreating to gather my thoughts.

#

Amai came home later than usual, her face swollen and red from crying. She dropped her handbag onto the floor and collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the switched-off TV.

“Fungai, come here,” she called weakly.

I hesitated at the door, unsure what she needed, but her impatience urged me forward.

Amai tsked, motioning me in. “That man is useless,” she muttered bitterly.

I stood behind the door, tense and curious. Who was Amai talking about?

“I talked to Father Moyo about finding you a husband,” she continued. “But he said you’re already doing everything you can. He said, ‘All in God’s time, Mai Fungai,’ and then asked me to leave his office.”

I felt a sharp, surprising relief. “I agree with Father Moyo, Mama. Everything happens in God’s time.”

Amai clapped her hands together, visibly frustrated. She shifted her position on the couch, standing, then sitting again.

“You and Father Moyo are wrong,” she said, her voice edged with determination. “Mai Sam was right. We need to see Pastor Joza.”

#

The following Sunday, before we left the house, Amai was so thrilled by my decision to come to Holy Water that she kissed me. The quickness of her kiss reminded me of the one Judas gave Jesus. As we walked, I forced myself to keep moving, determined not to faint. The sun’s rays burned my skin, and I could feel the cocoa butter lotion melting off. Amai, however, seemed unbothered by the heat. She walked with urgency, her hips swaying with each step.

When we reached Holy Water, I wasn’t surprised by what I saw. It was the kind of place in transition—a half-built church with no roof. I wondered how Pastor Joza could find me a husband if he couldn’t even afford to finish his church. We sat in a large hall that reeked of freshly plastered cement. The smell invaded my nostrils, making me sneeze. I tried to stifle it, pulling my arms close to my nose to muffle the sound.

Pastor Joza stood at the podium. He was tall, with a round belly and a long, flowing beard. “Wives should obey their husbands as God commands, and husbands should love their wives,” he declared.

The parishioners nodded vigorously. Some women in colourful African dresses clapped their hands and shouted, “Amen.” My long blue polka-dotted dress covered my black sandals. The women beside me wore bright red, yellow, blue, and green T-shirts emblazoned with Pastor Joza’s face. They fanned themselves with their hands, struggling against the sun that beat down on everyone. I regretted not wearing a hat. Men in black suits across the aisle wiped sweat from their foreheads.

My neighbour Rosina sat before me, breastfeeding her baby, when Pastor Joza began reading from Ephesians. Just then, the baby let out an ear-piercing cry. Pastor Joza leapt off the stage and rushed to the front row, throwing himself onto Rosina. He placed his large hands on her head, rubbing it violently. Rosina’s breasts shook, and the baby’s mouth jerked off her nipple, spilling milk onto her cream blouse. Pastor Joza continued to shake her as if he were on fire. Rosina struggled to free herself, trying to loosen his grip.

“Wives, obey your husbands as you obey the Lord,” Pastor Joza shouted, his hands still on Rosina’s head.

Her body shuddered under the force of his words, and I watched as he continued to yell about wives and unmarried women in Harare. He stopped shaking her just in time to prevent the baby from falling from her arms. His eyes scanned the congregation, finally resting on me. It seemed like he suddenly remembered where he was, and he hurried back up to the stage, calling for all the unmarried women to come forward.

I didn’t want to stand up, but Amai gave me one of her “get up there now” looks. Reluctantly, I joined the other women. We were eight in total, and I was right in the middle. The congregation stared at us, their gazes sharp and disapproving, like headlights caught in a car’s glare. Some women closed their eyes in prayer, but I kept mine open. Several people pinched their noses, covering their faces with handkerchiefs as though they feared we might spread something contagious.

“Father, remove whatever demons prevent these women from finding a husband. Jehovah destroys Lucifer and his spirits. Cover your children with your holy blood,” Pastor Joza prayed.

The chant of hallelujahs, Amens, and God is great slowly overwhelmed the sermon. When Pastor Joza finished the prayer, we returned to our seats. People rushed toward the tiny door, eager to leave. We followed, squeezed between elbows and bodies, each step a struggle. As we finally stepped outside, Pastor Joza approached Amai and me.

“How are you, Amai Fungai? Is this the girl?” he asked, his eyes lingering on my chest.

“Yes, that’s Fungai,” Amai replied, pushing me closer to him.

“Can Fungai leave us so we can discuss the way forward?” Pastor Joza asked.

Amai gently pushed me away, and I moved to stand under the shade of a large guava tree. I could still see them clearly from where I stood. Pastor Joza’s hands waved as if trying to shoo away invisible flies. Amai nodded eagerly, her posture that of a schoolchild speaking to the headmaster. Her smile was wide when she returned, as though she’d just received the best news.

“He agreed to help, Fungai. I can’t believe it,” she said, practically bouncing excitedly. “Finally, we can solve this once and for all.”

I nodded but couldn’t bring myself to smile. The weight of reality hit me hard, and my lips remained pressed together. We stood there watching wealthier families piled into their Mercedes Benzes, Toyotas, and Prados. I couldn’t help but remember how my law career was supposed to lead me to that kind of life. Now, here I was, seeking help from miracle-working pastors. After losing my job, I was confident I’d find another one. After all, I had a law degree. But then, the law firm ran a story in the scandalous H-Metro newspaper about a promiscuous lawyer on the hunt for husbands. I froze when I saw my own picture splashed across the front page. The headline read: SHAMELESS LAWYER, HUSBAND SNITCHER. In that instant, I understood the full weight of my precarious situation.

Amai, I, and the remaining worshippers made our way home. The cars speeding past us kicked up red dust that coated our clothes. I choked on it, coughing as we walked.

#

After attending Holy Water, a strange childhood memory resurfaced, sending a shiver down my spine. I felt goosebumps as I recalled walking down Julius Nyerere Street with Amai. She went into Edgar’s shop, leaving me to wait outside. I stood at the entrance, my gaze drifting aimlessly when a man in a Holy Water T-shirt approached me.

“Hello, sister. Have you heard of Holy Water?” he asked, his voice oddly smooth.

I stiffened, standing as rigid as a ruler, too afraid to move. The man was tall, towering over me, and when I looked up, he bent down to meet my gaze.

“Have you been baptized?” he asked.

“Yes,” I muttered, hoping he would take the hint and walk away.

“Ah, that’s very good,” he said with a grin. “Here’s a pamphlet. Would you like to come with me to our stall and get a free Holy Water Bible?”

Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand. We started walking toward his stall when, suddenly, Amai came rushing up to us, her voice sharp and concerned.

“Where are you taking my child?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

“We are…” the man stammered, but Amai cut him off before he could finish.

“Child kidnapper,” Amai screamed, pulling my hand away from the man. “I will make sure you’re arrested, you monster.”

As he released my hand, the man dashed back to his stall with a surge of urgency, leaving me momentarily stunned in the bustling street.

“Are you okay, Fungai? Where were you going with a stranger? Don’t you know these new churches are satanic?”

A sudden memory resurfaced as I sat on my bed, staring at the yellowed paint peeling on the walls. I had seen Pastor Joza before—the same man from the stall. Of course, he was older now, heavier. I couldn’t believe it: my first encounter with Holy Water had been when I was so young.

I wondered whether I should tell Amai the truth—that Pastor Joza had tried to take me outside Edgars shop. But the thought of it made my chest tighten. I feared she’d think I was just making excuses, so I stayed silent. Instead, I told myself he was a changed man—a decent, God-fearing man.

#

Amai was part of the Marian Guild at church, so when we didn’t attend Sunday service, Amai Chipanga called. She said she was coming over to check on Amai. After hanging up, Amai quickly dressed in her blue tracksuit and flopped onto the sofa, draping a wool blanket over herself to play sick. She was embarrassed to talk about Holy Water church, or her plan to have Pastor Joza find me a husband.

“Fungai,” she asked me, “can you bring me a hot wet towel for my forehead?”

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Amai Chipanga standing there, her white and blue guild uniform a stark contrast against the dullness of the day. I briefly considered telling her about Holy Water Church. She could convince Amai to abandon her ridiculous idea. But I quickly dismissed it—there was a real risk she might tell Father Moyo, which could be disastrous for our reputation.

“How are you, dear?” Amai Chipanga asked, her voice warm.

“I’m good,” I said, hesitating for a moment before adding, “but can I ask you something?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Of course, my daughter in Christ. What is it? I hope it’s not about your headline in H-Metro?”

Amai, still under her blanket, walked to the door, and Amai Chipanga turned to embrace her. I saw Amai stiffen slightly, probably having overheard the conversation. She kept her lips pressed tight, disapproval flickering in her eyes.

We entered the lounge, where Amai sank back into her blanket, shivering as if caught in a snowstorm. Amai Chipanga took out her prayer book, and I noticed her eyes scanning the pages, but she didn’t seem to really be reading. Amai’s coughs became louder, more pronounced. Amai Chipanga quickly opened the prayer book and began reciting a healing prayer in soft, rhythmic tones. She refused the tea I offered her, her gaze never leaving the pages.

Walking her to the door afterwards, I thought again about confessing everything. But as I glanced at Amai, her lips pressed into a tight line, I knew better than to speak. The tension between us was clear—I couldn’t risk it.

#

I felt a growing sense of unease in the days leading up to Pastor Joza’s visit. Amai was becoming increasingly consumed by her ideas. She showed me images of wedding dresses, suggesting that we buy one so I could “manifest” my dream husband. Her beliefs were growing more outlandish by the day. One evening, after work, she came home with “The Secret” by Rhonda Byrne. She told me a colleague had recommended it as a powerful philosophy for manifesting your desires.

As the days passed, Amai began quoting sentences from the book during our breakfast in the kitchen, her words punctuating the stillness of the morning.

“Life is not happening to you. You are creating it,” she said, spooning her porridge with a quick, almost desperate energy.

Amai was slowly morphing into someone else, someone I didn’t quite recognise. Was it my fault I was still unmarried? I couldn’t shake the sinking dread settling slowly into my bones like a coldness. Losing my law career greatly affected my self-esteem, stripping away the protective barrier that had once kept Amai distracted. Before my dismissal, Amai had found solace in my success as one of Harare’s top lawyers. But now, with that success gone, she saw the raw truth behind my unmarried state—the way someone who’s never truly experienced the pain of an illness finally feels it all at once. She’d become so consumed by her quest to find me a husband that I began to worry about her sanity. She went on Holy Water prayer trips up the mountains, fasting for days without food or sleep. She believed every method could bring her vision to life, no matter how extreme.

Then, the day before Pastor Joza was due to visit, Amai handed me a vision board she had made. On it was a picture of my face, carefully cut out and placed on a digital image of a white ball gown, almost identical to the one Amai had insisted I buy. She believed the right man would follow if I owned the right wedding dress. Beside me was a man who looked like Will Smith, dressed in a black three-piece suit. There were also images of women in long lilac dresses and groomsmen in grey tuxedos. Amai even included pictures of Imba Matombo, the dream wedding venue in Harare that she envisioned for me.

The board sparkled with promise, a dazzling vision of what could be if I only cooperated with Pastor Joza’s solution. I imagined myself in the pages of The Herald, my face next to the announcement of my engagement, and the image of a house full of children, the chaotic bliss of school drop-offs filling my mind. For a moment, the idea was tempting, almost comforting. But then, I felt the frailty of the cardboard in my hands. It was light, almost fragile like it could crumble at any moment.

As Amai proudly stuck the vision board to my bedroom wall, it looked more like a billboard—a bright, alluring promise of a future I wasn’t sure I wanted. That night, I had a nightmare. I stood at the altar, waiting for my husband-to-be when the priest solemnly announced that he wasn’t coming.

#

The following day, I slipped into black skinny jeans and a Beetle T-shirt while Amai donned a Robert Mugabe shirt and a long denim skirt. We were both waiting for Pastor Joza in the lounge when he arrived. He settled onto Father’s black leather sofa and looked around the room.

“Where is the girl?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over us.

Amai gave me a subtle nudge, urging me to approach him. I hesitated for a moment before finally walking over.

“I place this holy oil on your forehead in the name of the Almighty Father,” he said, his voice steady and solemn.

He forcefully shoved me to the ground. Fortunately, I landed on my knees before he touched my head and screamed in tongues. Mother knelt beside me with her eyes closed. I kept my eyes open. My legs began to vibrate. Pastor Joza pressed his hands on my head, making my body wobble. He thrust my head harder. The more he pushed, the more I felt like I was carrying water in a calabash.

“Jehovah, please help Fungi find a husband. Destroy the spirits of evil and stop these demons that are driving men away from her,” Pastor Joza pleaded.

Suddenly, the heaviness on my head lifted. His hands moved down to my neck and continued to my left breast, where his fingers paused.

“Father, as I hold Fungai’s heart, I pray that you open her heart to love and a husband,” he continued.

I froze. Fear gripped my knees, weakening them. Pastor Joza sensed my body’s stiffening and secured his hand firmly on my breast. His confidence increased as my body silenced itself. He kneaded my breasts faster and harder. Finally, wanting to escape this torture, I closed my eyes. I had hoped closing my eyes would swallow my shame, but it didn’t. In fact, memories rose again as if they wanted to avenge my forgetfulness, pulling me back to the sun-drenched days of my childhood. I was ten years again, wandering the grassy paths of my grandmother’s rural homestead, where every corner held a secret and every breeze whispered stories of the past. My grandmother had sent me to gather firewood from a nearby forest. I was about to lift the bundle when large hands suddenly blindfolded me. I struggled against the hands, but they were too strong. I froze. Soon after, someone was on top of me. I saw the man’s wrinkled face before I passed out. His warm sweat dripping onto my face woke me up. My eyes slowly opened. I was lying in the meadow without any clothes on. The elderly man stood up and ran off. I was in excruciating pain, and my back had splinters of wood.

Pastor Joza’s hands groping my breasts awakened me from the past. He forced my fingers inside his trousers, and I wrenched my hand in refusal. His mouth opened in shock. I heard Father’s gumboots on the wooden tiles, and Pastor Joza pushed my hands off his zipper.

“Amen, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Pastor Joza said, his voice heavy with finality.

Mother blinked, struggling to open her eyes. She attempted to rise but staggered slightly, half-blind, before sinking into the sofa.

“Is she healed, Father?” Amai asked, her voice laced with expectation.

Pastor Joza shook his head slowly, a gesture of frustration as if disappointed by the result. Just then, Baba walked into the room, his presence commanding attention.

“We may need to do more prayer sessions, Amai Fungai,” Pastor Joza said. “But for now, I must leave.”

I stood up, my legs unsteady and sank onto the couch beside Amai. Pastor Joza bowed in deference to Baba and exited, his footsteps echoing in the room’s stillness.

I couldn’t stay in that space longer if I wanted to continue breathing. I fled from the lounge, slamming my bedroom door behind me. The wedding dress Amai had hung there fell to the floor in a soft, disheartened heap. I collapsed onto the satin fabric, tears staining the delicate material. The pain of unfulfilled dreams toppled down on me, the images of Pastor Joza’s face flickering like a voodoo doll in my mind, tormenting my peace. When I finally lifted my head, I eyeballed the vision board, its promise of a perfect future still hanging there, watching me, unblinking.

#

I watched the sunlight filter softly through my bedroom window, casting warm rays across the room. After the incident, I confided in Amai about Pastor Joza. She didn’t hesitate—she reported him to the police. His church was shut down, and he was now behind bars in Chikurubi. Meanwhile, I had submitted applications to numerous law firms, hopeful for a chance.

My phone rang, awakening my hopes.

“Hello, is this Fungai?”

“Yes, this is she,” I replied, my heart racing.

“We’re calling from Herbert Chitepo Law Firm. We’d like to invite you for an interview. If you’re interested, please email us your availability.”

I tightened my grip on the phone, my mind a whirlwind of disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” I managed, my voice trying to remain professional even though tears threatened to spill.

The sun’s snugness caressed my skin softly, breaking my layers of cold fear. The tenderness within me unveiled a silent sign of new beginnings. I imagined myself at Herbert Chitepo, earning enough to buy my own house, finally stepping out of my parent’s home, and planting the roots I’d longed for.

——-

Image: Wiki Sinaloa Unsplash