Miracle Money

This past week I have been in the south of the country, visiting some of our projects and meeting with our partners. First in a place called Blantyre, considered the ‘commercial hub’ of the country, meaning that there are a few more tall buildings and the population more packed together (4 million, compared to Lilongwe’s 6 million, but in a much smaller area); and then Zomba, the former capital of the country. Blantyre was one of the first populated areas, as it was where the British (actually Scottish Presbyterian) missionaries settled in what was then British Central Africa.

It took four hours to drive from Lilongwe, and at one point we were so close to the Mozambique border that I received a text message from that country’s mobile network provider welcoming me to Mozambique! My colleagues pointed out the bullet scarring on buildings – homes and shops – along the border, a reminder of the decades long civil war in Mozambique that is again threatening to erupt. Already there are a few thousand Mozambique refugees who have crossed the border trying to escape the rumbles of war.

There were five of us in the car.  Me, two national staff, my Kenyan boss and a local driver.  

Usually, whenever I am a passenger in a car, especially when driving through beautiful countryside, I find myself staring out the window and zoning out. I think it started back when I was travelling through Indonesia in the 90s, cramped in buses and minibuses with unrelentingly curious people, as a way to get a bit of privacy.  In any case, it still happens now and I often have to remind myself to engage with the people I am travelling with. This journey, however, I didn’t need to remind myself, as a few minutes after we climbed in the car and staked our claim to space, one of my colleagues said: “So, shall I tell you the story about the miracle money?”

And who could resist such a telling?!

It happens that the colleague telling the story, D., who holds a senior position in the organization, is a member of the Enlightened Christian Gathering Church. This in itself is not remarkable, as all Malawians are regular and dedicated church-goers. Several of my colleagues are even ordained pastors. However, this particular church is infamous due to its charismatic but quite controversial leader, Shepherd Bushiri.

Bushiri is in his 30s, always smartly dressed in well tailored suits, and is fabulously wealthy. He owns three private jets, mineral mines in South Africa and even an oil well in Saudi Arabia. Recently, he lent money to the country of South Sudan and was feted by that country’s foreign minister, at the same time as he was decried as a ‘false prophet’ by South Sudan’s influential Council of Bishops. 

The man also claims to perform miracles. He can create photo images just by thinking about them (I wasn’t quite sure how this worked, but apparently he did it on TV so it must be true) and he can also conjure up the ‘miracle money’ my colleague was talking about. For the last couple of years, Bushiri has been inviting his congregation to pray and ask for money (there’s even a youtube video). And lo and behold, some of them are receiving varying cash deposits in their bank accounts. One woman, D tells us, bought a car, and was paying it off in installments. But every month, the installment failed to be debited from her account. Finally, she contacted the car dealership, and they said they had no knowledge of her buying a car from them, so there was no payment to be collected. A miracle, D says. 

I am quietly sceptical. Not everyone who asks gets the money, and even though D had been joining his brethren in praying for money every Sunday, he hadn't received the much talked about cash deposit. Until that morning. On his way to work, D says, he stopped at an ATM to check his balance, and there it was, 250,000 kwacha, which is about 250 GBP and quite a bit of money here. 

I asked him what his statement said, as surely that would indicate who deposited the money. But he claimed the money had been deposited by angels. Have you ever given money to the church through your bank account, I ask, leaving the obvious conclusion hanging there. He leaves it hanging.  It is not my place as an atheist westerner to really question his belief, so I am thankful when everyone else in the car does. The driver, the least educated out of all of us, calls Bushiri a scam artist who is clearly laundering money for criminals. Another colleague tells how his cousin had given up a good job as a lawyer to be part of Bushiri's following, and subsequently plummeted his family into financial ruin.  Another colleague wants to know how Bushiri’s love of money and fiscal prosperity sits with the Bible’s teaching that rich men will find it hard to get into heaven. D quotes Bushiri, who has been criticised for his excessive lifestyle by the Malawian press, that Jesus was not against financial profits, as even he found money in the mouth of a fish, a version of 'miracle money' he says. 

And on they go, quoting lines from the Bible to support their argument for and against Bushiri and his methods. I ask some more colleagues later how they feel about Bushiri, and the oft repeated phrase is ‘false prophet’. Why isn’t he investigated I ask, but it seems that as Church his finances are beyond the government’s remit.  And in the end, he will be exposed as either a man of god or a wolf in sheep’s clothing (another Bible scripture), I am told, even if that end is when he stands before God.

I find this ‘everything is in God’s hands’ attitude a little frustrating, and rather ironically, reminiscent of the wonderful and equally frustrating Arabic phrase “Inshallaah” (God willing) which basically absolves everyone from ever taking responsibility or ever being pro-active about change.  

So, in the meantime while we wait for the final adjudicator’s decision, Bushiri goes on drawing thousands to his church with the hope that they too will be recipients of Miracle Money. D offers to take me to his church so I can also have the opportunity to pray for miracle money. I smile, I'll just wait until payday, I say.