Cecil John Rhodes: Private Life, Colonial Myth, and the Violation of Sacred Matopos
By Princess Eugene Majuru
The ritual season of Kwanzaa, particularly Day Two – Kujichagulia (Self-Determination), calls African people to reclaim the power to define ourselves, name ourselves, and tell our own story. It is during such moments of remembrance that the presence of Cecil John Rhodes—both in our historical memory and in the physical burial of his remains at Matopos—stands as a painful contradiction to African spirituality, sovereignty, and identity.
Rhodes was not merely a “visitor” to Africa; he was a calculated architect of dispossession. His private life, ambitions, and ideology reveal a man deeply committed to white supremacy, imperial expansion, and the systematic exploitation of African land and labour. In his own writings and actions, Rhodes made clear that he believed Anglo-Saxons were a “chosen race,” destined to rule the world. Africa, in his view, was not a home to sovereign peoples but a resource field to be conquered, named, and owned.
Behind the public image of a businessman and empire-builder lay a deeply troubled private life marked by obsession with power, secrecy, and domination. Rhodes never married, lived a reclusive and controlling personal life, and surrounded himself with loyalists who advanced his imperial vision. His wealth—built on land theft, forced labour, and violent conquest—funded not only his political ambitions but also institutions designed to reproduce colonial power, such as the Rhodes Scholarships, which subtly perpetuate imperial influence under the guise of “excellence.”
Yet perhaps the greatest insult lies not only in what Rhodes did in life, but in where he was laid to rest in death.
Matopos (Matobo Hills) is a sacred spiritual landscape for the Ndebele and broader Shona cosmology. It is a place of ancestral presence, rain-making rituals, spiritual guardianship, and communion between the living and the departed. Sacred hills are not neutral ground; they are living spiritual spaces governed by laws older than colonial borders—laws that demand moral integrity, ancestral legitimacy, and spiritual harmony.
Rhodes had none of these.
To bury a man who orchestrated massacres, land seizures, and cultural destruction in a sacred African shrine is a direct violation of African spiritual law. In African cosmology, one’s burial place matters because it anchors the spirit within a moral and ancestral order. Rhodes did not belong to that order. His interment at Matopos represents the ultimate colonial arrogance: the belief that even in death, the colonizer has the right to occupy sacred African space.
This act disrupted spiritual balance. It symbolized conquest beyond the physical—an attempt to dominate African memory, spirituality, and identity itself. From an African perspective, such a burial is not an honour but a desecration.
As African people—whether raised in Zambia, Zimbabwe, or across the diaspora—we must understand that self-determination is not only political or economic. It is spiritual and historical. Reclaiming our identity requires confronting these unresolved colonial symbols and asking difficult questions:
Why does Rhodes still rest on sacred land?
Whose laws are being upheld—colonial or ancestral?
And what does justice look like in a decolonized future?
Kujichagulia demands that we tell the truth: Rhodes’ life represented exploitation, not civilization; violation, not partnership. His burial at Matopos stands as a lingering wound—a reminder that colonialism did not merely steal land, but attempted to overwrite African sacred order.
The road map of our people’s struggle is incomplete without addressing such symbols. True liberation will come when African land, history, and spirituality are restored to African authority—defined by us, protected by us, and honoured according to our laws.
Self-determination begins when we refuse to honor those who dishonoured us.
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