My motherâ€™s father was a crusty old warrior who had taken part in the bitter wars that the Zulus had fought against the English, and he coldly refused to allow his daughter to come under the yoke of what he called the “religion of our enemies.” “I cannot allow my child to become a Christian,” my grandfather was said to have said,” These Christians are a race of thieves, of liars, and murderers, who stole our country from us at sword point and at gunpoint. I would rather die than see a Christ worshipping Christian within the stockade of my village. Never!”
Caught between Catholic missionaries on one hand, and a stubborn old Zulu warrior on the other, my mother and father had no choice but to separate. Although my father already suspected that my mother was pregnant. A great scandal broke out in my grandfatherâ€™s village when my motherâ€™s pregnancy was discovered. My grandfather chased my mother out of his homestead and she was taken by one of her aunts to her own village and there she gave birth to me, an illegitimate child, a child of shame. In those days there was no greater shame among the Zulus than for a girl to give birth out of wedlock. A great stigma was attached to this thing. After a time however, my grandfather allowed my mother -whom he loved dearly to return, back to his village and he insisted that she was not to see my father again.
It so happened that when I was about a year old, a younger brother of my fathers, who had heard about my birth come up from the Natal South Coast to my mothers village and asked my grandfathers permission to take me away, permission that my grandfather angrily granted. “Remove this disgrace from my home, Christian fellow!” he said to my fathers brother, “And tell your brother that if I ever set eyes on him, I will make him suffer bitterly for what he did to my daughter. I will seize him and kill him very slowly indeed. Tell him that.” I was taken to my fatherâ€™s home in the South of Natal, on the northern bank of the Umkumazi River, and there I grew up. And it was while growing up that it was discovered that I was something of a visionary and a prophet. A talent, which together with an artistic inclination, to draw and to sculpt, the woman who now brought me up, my fathers new wife, did her uttermost to suppress.
I did not attend school until I was well within my 14th year of life. And because my family now kept on travelling, as a result of my fathers building profession, which took him from town to town, we became a family of travellers, who never stayed long in one place.
In 1935, my father found a job, a major building job, in the Transvaal and he brought us all from Natal to join him where he was building. I attended school on and off in different schools, and then, in 1937 I went through great shock and trauma, when I was seized and sodomized by a gang of mineworkers outside a mine compound. This caused me to be ill for a long time.
And although I was taken to white doctors, I could find no help until my fathers brother, the same one who had taken me away from my maternal grandfather decided to take me back to my mothers village in the hope that I would find help there. And I did. My grandfather, a man whom my father despised as a heathen and a demon worshipper helped me and brought me back to health, where Christian doctors had failed. I, still a Christian and a confessing catholic, had not believed at all that my grandfather would be able to help me. And I was greatly surprised when he did, and I began to wonder were not the missionaries wrong when they called people such as my grandfather ungodly heathens. If my grandfather had been a stupid heathen savage, as white missionaries loved to call people like him, how is it that he had been able to help me?
It was here that I began to question many things that I never questioned before. Where our ancestors really the savages that quiet missionaries would have us believe they were? Were we Africans really a race of primitives who possessed no knowledge at all before the white man came to Africa? These and many, many other questions began to haunt my mind. And then one day when he was sure that I was fully returned to health, my grandfather told me that the illness that had been troubling me for so long, had actually been a sacred illness which required that I had to become a shaman, a healer. And when the old man said this to me, I readily agreed to undergo initiation at the hands of one of my grandfatherâ€™s daughters, a young sangoma named Myrna.
When they heard that I had become a sangoma, both my father and my stepmother, told my maternal uncle that I was never to set foot in their home again. And so I found myself on my own, a youth without a home, without family and so I began travelling. First I went to Swaziland and then the land of the Basotho, and I developed a wanderlust that was to be with me until today. I was not travelling for enjoyment, however I was travelling for knowledge, in search of clarity of mind and in search of the truth about my people.
Sometimes I would find jobs for a few months and then move on. Sometimes I found myself travelling with missionaries, the very people in whom I no longer believed. Sometimes I found myself travelling with miners, returning home from the Johannesburg gold mines. I came into contact with men and women of countries that I had not known about before. I learned things that I had not known about before. I experienced things, which only those that walk the path of the healer in Africa experience.
If a strange thing was happening in the place that I happened to be, I became one of those who were summoned to that place to help using Africa’s ancient wisdom and knowledge in that situation. I found myself amongst amazing and strange people. I found myself amongst men and women, possessing knowledge that was already ancient when the man Jesus Christ was born. I heard stories from the lips of storytellers that went back to the remotest of the remote times. Stories that very few had ever heard before.
As the years past, I became filled with a fanatical obsession; I realized how rapidly Africa was changing. I realized to my shock and sorrow that the culture of my people, a culture that I had thought immortal, was actually dying. Very, very soon the Africa that I knew would become a forgotten thing. A thing of the past and I decided to try and preserve somehow, what I could of my peopleâ€™s culture. How was I to do that? Friends advised me to write books. One friend advised me to build living museums in which I would preserve the dying culture of my people, and I struggled very hard to bring these things about. I wrote books, and I tried to borrow money from banks and organizations supposedly established to help black people who wanted to establish businesses.
Again and again, I was disappointed until, after long years of struggle. In 1975 I succeeded in obtaining permission and funds to build the first living museum, for the preservation of my peopleâ€™s knowledge, religion and culture, in the centre of Soweto. Many black people misunderstood the purpose of my having built this living museum. They falsely accused me of cooperating with the apartheid regime and of quote-”glamorising the Soweto ghetto.”
But I did not see myself as a politician, I saw myself as a healer, whose duty it was to preserve the greatness of his people, regardless of which government happened to be in power in South Africa. I saw myself as a healer whose purpose it was to create job opportunities for my starving people in Soweto, regardless of whether we were ruled by the apartheid regime or the A.N.C government. I believed firmly that knowledge was about politics and that a race that did not know its true greatness, will never obtain full freedom. And I was saddened by the fact that out people were making huge sacrifices, fighting for freedom when they did not know their full greatness. I said to my now late wife, Cecilia, and myself that if our people gain freedom under these circumstances, that freedom would be an illusion and a fraud.
Years of careful investigation had taught me the European powers that had colonized Africa had done more than just beat our people into submission with artillery and rifles. They had done more than simply sown confusion amongst our people by introducing many conflicting versions of the Christian religion amongst the people. They had deliberately so brain washed our people, that Africans had lost all self-knowledge, self-love, self-respect, self-pride and self-dependency. If you rob a people of all these things you turn them into a race of robots, forever dependent upon you. And even if you stood up and walked away from these people, and said tot them that you were giving them back their freedom, they would stand up and follow you wherever you are going for their minds were still your slaves even though their bodies were now free of your chains.
I believed then as I believe now, that the African has never really gained freedom and independence. Which is why our people have not been able to achieve what nations such as India and the tiger Nations of South East Asia, which were once also colonized by the white people as we were, have today achieved. For example today India is a nuclear power feared and respected by all nations on earth. India is admired for its great culture and its ancient religious philosophies as well as its other philosophies. While Africa is a downtrodden casualty of history forever dependent like a whipped slave upon her former oppressors.
This breaks my heart as a black man, I who, over many years of travelling through my motherland, have discovered that there was a time when we, the black people now held in contempt by many races were once masters of the world. When we, now derided as a nation of savages incapable of ruling itself were once the tutors of the early world, I feel great bitterness, when I see how far we have been made to fall. We whose sons and daughters once walked tall in the Americas, not as slaves but rather as civilizes and rulers. I wept when I found out that we were once the founders of some of the worldâ€™s oldest civilizations. We were there in Sumeria, we were there in India, we founded great kingdoms in Cambodia, and the first man to be saluted as emperor of China was one of us, a son of Africa, a black man. Buddha was a black man from Africa, his earliest statues confirm this. Krishna was a black warrior. The goddess Kali, is depicted as an African woman. Even the bible states that Nimrod was a great man in the eyes of the Lord and he was the father of Cush, who founded the great cushite nation. I weep even now when I see Africans slaughter each other in the streets of South Africa, now supposedly a free nation. I weep even now when my people hunger and suffer in the veld in South Africa. I weep even now when Euro centric education is being fed to our children. Fed in order to make them Afrofobes, creatures that hate and despise their motherland, which look down in contempt upon their own people, because this is what all European educated black people do. They despise Africa and all she stands for. And they are in contempt of the culture of her people. They are still even now doing the colonialists dirty work for them, because if you want to destroy the culture of a nation, you must brainwash the youth of that nation and make them do your dirty work for you.
There is not a single university in Africa, even now which teaches our people the truth about themselves. There is not a single school in South Africa even now which teaches our people about what it means to be an African. Our children who will stone a Sangoma to death, who will burn an Inyanga to death with a petrol soaked car tire even now, do not know, and were never taught that Africans were once kings of the Americas. They were founders of the amazing Olmec Civilization, whose breath taking relics craved in eternal stone still amaze visitors in museums to this day.
Our children who would gladly spit at the face of a sangoma, who hate the traditional dress of their people, would gladly put on a highland kilt, not knowing that amongst the founders of the Scottish nation were black men and woman and that the surnames of some of these Scotsmen, confirm this. Sholto-Douglas, what does this word mean? What does this Surname mean? Sholto- Douglas. It means Behold the black man. Black knights once fought for the kings of Scotland, and the Danish people who are fraudulently represented in the history books as blond and pink skinned Nordics, had large numbers of black men in their ranks. When Alfred slaughtered the Danes, in England so many years ago, amongst the warriors that he slew were dark skinned men, whose ancestors had come to Denmark from Africa thousands of years before. All these truths are hidden from our children.
Our political leaders, fail to create United Nations in Africa. Our political leaders live on a razors edge in Africa everywhere. They sit on shaky thrones from which they can get kicked off by any armed thug carrying the rank of colonel or general. Why? Because you can never build a viable nation on the cesspit of self-ignorance and self-despite. I have seen many African leaders at first sight, I have spoken to some of these men and all of them have one thing in common, they are simply white men in black skins. And this is why they fail again and again to create a peaceful, progressing and prosperous Africa. They are still slaves of their long departed colonial masters. Look at what is happening in South Africa now. Look at the confusion and the crime, the disunity and the epidemic political killings. What do all these things tell you? That our people lack self-pride and self-knowledge and therefore can never be politically united ever.
I have suffered in the cause of my battle against shadows. When you are fighting against ignorance you suffer just as much as you if you were on a battlefield under gun fire. I have lost people I love; I have lost a woman I love years ago in 1960 to the guns of the white man. To the guns of the oppressive regime In was falsely accused of being a supporter of. I lost a son, my first-born son, Innocent, to the knives of black activists, murdering people under the banner of the mass democratic movement. I came close to losing another son to the spears of the Inkatha freedom party, God have mercy upon us! I have been cheated by whites who took advantage of my ignorance and stupidity and who robbed me of millions of rands of money I made out of my books. Even as I am talking to you now there is a white woman, who deceived me into signing away everything that I wrote, everything that I painted, and everything that I sculpted. I have suffered, and am still suffering. Even now there are white men that have set my own children, my sons against me. A born again Christian preacher of lies brain washed my daughters mind and stole her away from me, saying, you must not talk to your father , he is a devil worshipper.
I am not seeking anybodies sympathy when I am telling you this; I just want you all to know who and what Credo Mutwa is. I am one of the scums of this earth, a creature dejected and ridiculed by university professors. Professors who later came sneaking into my home seeking the very information that they ridiculed me for revealing. I am a black man who has every reason to be bitter and angry. But somehow I cannot get myself to be angry. You cannot be angry at the ignorant. You cannot but pity the self-destructive.
Many years ago I was fortunate enough to find a woman who loved me, a woman who became my wife and the mother of my seven children. This woman was a strong and godly woman whose quietness, hid a person of steel, this woman gave up drinking, gave up dependence on alcohol out of the love of her children, and of love of fool and the cretin that she married. Today I stand alone, a man rejected by the world. A widower who lost his wife a few months ago under extremely sinister circumstances. My wife went to hospital supposedly suffering from cancer of the uterus, while I was away, and x-rays showed a strange metal device inside her womb. Nobody knows what this device was. Nobody knows how it had got into my wife’s uterus, but before my wife passed away, I received a threatening letter warning me not to talk to a man named David Icke or else my wife would die. I did not take that warning seriously, and my wife died within two weeks after I had received it. I have every reason to be angry with the frot that is called western civilization. I have every reason to be angry with the various foreign religions that enslave our peoples minds and blinker their vision. I have every reason to be angry with education systems that rob our people of their true worth, of the truth about themselves. This is my friends is Credo Mutwa.
I am a sculptor, who has created large sculptures in various parts of South Africa. I am a painter who has painted pictures that were afterwards stolen from him, by exploiters. I am the writer of books, whose books fill the pockets of others with money, and nit his own. That is Credo Mutwa. I have used the knowledge that I acquired over many years of investigation and travel, I have used that knowledge to create job opportunities for my starving people. The villages that I built in Soweto, and which were destroyed by misguided youths. The villages that I built in Mafekeng, and the village and the statues that I built in the Eastern Cape, placed bread in the hands of my starving fellow South Africans. I made jobs where there are none. I made livings for my people where there had been none. I believe that a truly democratic country, is a country that uses the spiritual talents and the heritage of its people to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. But what has been my reward? I have been scorned; demonise lied about by conspirators, who delight in setting black against black, by gullible blacks that swallow any garbage white newspapers feed them. If you speak about the international conspires, that is the government behind many countries governments, people laugh at you for a fourteen carrot lunatic, but there is such a thing and it is ruining my people even now. The Aids epidemic which will soon wipe out great tribes, such as the Zulus, my people, is no accident, neither is the flood of drugs that is sweeping over this once beautiful country. The soaring crime wave is no accident. The epidemic of political killings which are almost a daily occurrence in some parts of South Africa is no accident either. All these things are planned by someone and carried out by someone on behalf of that someone.
They tell us that the high incidence of rape in South Africa is a macho thing. Rubbish! It is deliberate, it is planned, and most of the woman that is raped in South Africa is raped for black magical purposes. Children who disappear; where do they disappear to? In South Africa today, criminals have got more rights than law-abiding citizens. A criminal will kill your father, in the morning, be arrested in the afternoon and be released on bail on the following morning to come back and kill you who helped the police to put him behind bars. Today in South Africa, as in Prohibition era, America, the distinction between the police and the criminals is getting dimmer and dimmer by the day. And all this is no accident.