There are moments in life that don’t just happen—they awaken us. They shift something ancient within us. They stir memories we never lived but somehow carry deep in our bones.
For me, that awakening began when I lost my father. His passing broke something wide open in me, something sacred and terrifying. In the hollow of that grief, I discovered my gift—the spiritual sight, the calling, the weight of purpose that cannot be ignored once revealed.
For the past two and a half years, I’ve been walking a spiritual path—one that has taken me through silence, dreams, visions, and undeniable moments of divine instruction.
My spirit has been stirred, taught, stretched, and sometimes tested in the most painful ways. But never abandoned. The presence of the God of Shembe and my ancestors has never left me, even when I doubted myself the most.
There were many nights where I dreamt of the Shembe church. Sometimes I would see myself there in white, sometimes surrounded by people I had never met, but felt deeply connected to. These weren’t just dreams—they were spiritual messages that grew louder, more vivid, more persistent with time.
I now know they were preparing me for something greater.
It was around this time that I met Somkhanda. A man whose soul speaks in the language of spirit, whose love feels like a return to something sacred. From the very beginning, I sensed something about him—something deeply spiritual.
Long before he confirmed it, I had a strong feeling that he too was walking a path guided by the teachings of Shembe. When he finally spoke of it, I smiled. Not in surprise, but in recognition. Our journeys had crossed for a reason.
We live in different provinces, separated by distance but tethered by something much stronger—faith, purpose, and spirit. We didn’t go to the church together. In fact, I walked into the Shembe church for the first time alone. But I was never truly alone.
Because when I entered that sacred space, something profound happened. Before I was allowed to step in, I was encouraged to call upon my ancestors—to invite them in with me.
That moment made me weep. It was the affirmation I didn’t know I needed. So many churches ask us to leave parts of ourselves at the door—our traditions, our ancestry, our roots. But this space embraced all of me. The girl who mourns her father.
The woman who dreams in visions. The spirit who speaks with the dead. I was told to come as I am, and to bring those who walk with me in spirit. And so I did.
Inside, I found not just a place of worship, but a home for my spirit. A place where the divine is not separate from our culture, but found within it. The singing echoed through the mountains like thunder and prayer.
The garments moved like wind-blessed rivers. I didn’t feel like a stranger—I felt returned. Restored. Rooted.
It was in that moment, standing beneath the gaze of the heavens and the presence of Unyazi Lwezulu, that I understood the full meaning of spiritual alignment. My journey didn’t begin with the church. It began in pain, in loss, in longing. But it led me here, to sacred ground, to ancestral presence, to spiritual truth.
Somkhanda and I may walk this path in different places, but we are journeying together in spirit. That, to me, is a powerful kind of love. One that doesn’t need constant proximity to be present. One that understands that spiritual timing is often more important than physical timing.
Our love is not rushed. It is rooted.
And as for me—I continue to walk this road. With white garments wrapped not just around my body, but around my soul. With the God of Shembe beside me. With my ancestors leading me. With my father’s voice in the wind.
With the knowing that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.
This is more than a spiritual journey.
It is a homecoming.
Aaaaammeeeeeen!
