In Nkangal, Mpumalanga province, authorities discovered about 200 people, some of whom were very young, only 14 years old, in an unregistered rehabilitation center. Among these individuals were those who were chained and lacked proper access to water and toilets. Reports indicate that this facility was managed by a pastor and his wife. The people apparently sought help, healing, and perhaps a second chance in life there, but instead found themselves in conditions requiring serious investigation.
The situation in Nkangal prompts reflection on a broader issue: why do we sometimes refuse the right to question people simply because they claim to speak on behalf of God? Africa has experience with this matter.
When European missionaries arrived on African shores, their intentions were not always uniform. Some offered education, medical aid, and sincere compassion. However, others became part of the colonial project that deemed African spiritual experiences, customs, and knowledge inferior. Ancestors were told that their beliefs were pagan, traditions backward, and salvation depended on abandoning ancestral ways.
The Bible arrived alongside the colonial flag, and at times these two elements acted in concert. While colonial powers seized land, extracted wealth, and subjugated the African population, religious teachings could be used to encourage obedience, quell resistance, and present European dominance as a mission of civilizing activity. The conqueror could claim that he was not just taking land, but also saving souls.
This is how power operates. It does not always arrive with weapons. Sometimes it comes with the Bible, promising paradise but demanding submission on earth. Before anyone accuses me of attacking Christianity, it must be clarified: the problem is not faith. The problem is how people use the authority that faith grants them. Churches served as refuges, places of resistance, and solidarity. Religious figures opposed apartheid, defended the oppressed, and helped communities survive the darkest hours.
However, no pulpit should turn into a throne above accountability. Today, desperate families entrust their loved ones to religious leaders, believing that prayer, discipline, and spiritual intervention can save them from addiction and other problems. Such despair deserves compassion, not exploitation. The title of pastor is not a license to imprison people. Calling an institution a place of healing does not make cruelty therapeutic. A call to God cannot transform the denial of basic human dignity into divine intervention.
It is also necessary to acknowledge the damage colonialism inflicted on our self-esteem. Generations were instilled with distrust of African knowledge and urged to seek answers elsewhere. This legacy should prompt us toward more critical thinking, not less.
Our liberation should not mean replacing the power of the colonial master with unquestionable religious authority. We cannot celebrate political freedom while simultaneously surrendering our minds to anyone who claims a direct connection to paradise. If a person chains another, strips them of dignity, and calls it healing, we must have the courage to ask questions, regardless of that person's title.
In Nkangal, the authorities are obligated to establish what happened and hold those responsible accountable. Faith should liberate the human spirit, not imprison the human body. We cannot claim to have broken the chains of colonialism if we remain willing to kneel before anyone who promises paradise while taking away our human dignity.