Zimbabwe knows how to create heroes. Some conquer the musical stage. Others dominate politics. Some build business empires. Still others command crowds through claims of spiritual power. We celebrate them. Admire them. Imitate them. In some cases we even trust them with hopes they can’t carry.
There’s something deeply attractive about people who appear larger than life.
Over the past two decades, Zimbabweans have looked to various public figures as symbols of success. Whether it’s the influence once wielded by Robert Mugabe, musical genius of Oliver Mtukudzi, flamboyant success of Ginimbi, popularity of Soul Jah Love or the spiritual appeal of Sekuru Ndunge, there’s something deeply attractive about people who appear larger than life, including the immense wealth associated with people like Wicknell Chivayo.
But there’s one question that every celebrity, politician, businessman, traditional healer, and influencer must answer: Will whatever wealth, fame, spiritual power or influence we possess defeat death? Psalm 90 forces us to confront this uncomfortable question. And the answer it gives is devastatingly simple: no one conquers death.
Across Our World, Death Reigns
In 2019 Zimbabwe lost three well-known figures: Robert Mugabe, Oliver Mtukudzi and Sekuru Ndunge. They were followed by Ginimbi, in 2020. Those four figures could hardly have been more different. Mugabe was a politician. Whether you admired or opposed him, few would deny his impact on Zimbabwean history. He outlived rivals and survived political storms, being influential for decades. His speeches commanded international attention. His intellectual abilities were widely recognised.
Will anything meaningful remain when the crowds have gone home?
Mtukudzi was a giant in the music industry. His voice crossed generations and borders. He created a unique sound, winning international recognition. Mtukudzi left behind a catalogue of songs that continue to shape African music. Sekuru Ndunge, on the other hand, held a markedly different form of influence. Thousands sought his help for health, business, relationships, politics, and spiritual matters. People travelled vast distances, from beyond our borders, believing he had answers that weren’t available anywhere else.
However great, all three ended up in the same place. The grave. So too did Wicknell Chivayo. Their achievements and influence differed, as well as their popularity, but death treated each of them in exactly the same way. That should make us pause. For that is exactly the lesson the writer of Ecclesiastes wants us to learn.
Ecclesiastes Urges Honesty in the Face of Death
Ecclesiastes 7:1 is arguably one of the most surprising statements in the Bible. “The day of death is better than the day of birth.” At first glance, it’s offensive. How could a funeral be better than the day of someone’s birth? Importantly, we mustn’t understand this verse as a celebration of death. Nor as being opposed to life, particularly new life. But Ecclesiastes is teaching us wisdom, provocatively.
Funerals force us to think about endings.
Births typically focus our attention on beginnings and possibilities, ambitions or dreams. Funerals force us to think about endings. They remind us that every human life—no matter how impressive—is moving towards the same destination. This is why Ecclesiastes says it’s better to spend time in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting (Ecclesiastes 7:2). Funerals force questions that parties rarely raise. What kind of life was lived? What kind of name did they leave behind? Will anything meaningful remain when the applause has stopped and the crowds have gone home?
Zimbabwe is filled with people pursuing wealth, influence, education, success and recognition. Yet biblical wisdom teaches us to evaluate life from the end rather than the beginning. A good name, says Ecclesiastes 7:1, is better than expensive perfume. Character outlasts celebrity. Integrity survives long after wealth has changed hands. So the grave is a powerful demonstration of what truly matters. It silences the illusion that riches, fame or power will save us. The reality of the grave forces us to ask whether we’re prepared not only to live well but also to die well.
If more life were for sale, Wicknell Chivayo wouldn’t have died. The wealthy would acquire extensions. Politicians would pass laws against death. Businessmen would enter into negotiation. But none of them can do that. Life isn’t for sale and death is certain. “No one has power over the wind to contain it; so no one has power over the time of their death” (Ecclesiastes 8:8).
The Problem Money Cannot Solve
This is where many of us struggle. We know money cannot buy everything. Yet we secretly live as though it can buy the things that matter most. We imagine that if we had a bigger salary or better car, a successful business or maybe fame, life would make sense; we’d enjoy security, stability. Zimbabwe’s social media culture fuels this belief. Every luxury Wicknell Chivayo shared online was another reminder of what we think we need to be happy.
We secretly live as though money can buy the things that matter most.
But Ecclesiastes destroys that illusion. The writer pursued pleasure, achievement, wealth, education and status. He climbed every ladder available. Yet his conclusion is startling. “Meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is meaningless” (Ecclesiastes 1:2). None of these things offer us ultimate meaning because none of them can solve humanity’s deepest problem: death.
What good is wealth if death still comes? Does fame matter to those in their graves? What good is influence if our names eventually fade from memory? One generation praises a celebrity while another barely knows them. The grave mocks every attempt at human greatness.
Psalm 90 on Those Things We Ignore
The reality of human morality and the modern obsession with wealth need the remedy of Psalm 90. For here Moses lifts our eyes away from ourselves and onto God. “Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the whole world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God” (Psalm 90:2). While everything around us changes, God remains unchanged. Before Zimbabwe existed, God was there. Long before kings or politicians ruled, God reigned. Before wealth was accumulated, God possessed everything. And long after our names are forgotten, God will still be there. Ndiye Mukuru Wemazuva (“the King of Days”) is a title that’s appropriate for God alone. He alone is eternal.
Moses goes on, contrasting God’s eternity with our fragility. “You turn people back to dust” (Psalm 90:3). It’s a truth modern societies desperately try to avoid. We’re mortal. Our degrees are temporary. Careers will end. One day our businesses will cease operating. Every human hero is mortal, as are we and our bodies. This is why Moses prays: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). That doesn’t mean living in fear of death, but living with the awareness that life is short and eternity is real.
The Hero We Desperately Need
The death of Wicknell Chivayo, Psalm 90 and Ecclesiastes all leave us with a simple question: if death will eventually take everything, where should we place our hope? The Christian answer isn’t found in greater wealth, more education, greater status or a longer life. For all of those remain subject to the same curse of mortality and death. The answer is found in Jesus Christ.
If death will eventually take everything, where should we place our hope?
Unlike every other human being, Jesus entered death and emerged victorious. He faced the enemy that every generation fears and defeated it. As Peter proclaimed at Pentecost, “it was impossible for death to keep its hold on him” (Acts 2:24). This is why Christians don’t merely admire Jesus as a teacher, leader or moral example. We trust and worship him. He is the risen Lord.
The deepest problem facing humanity isn’t poverty, political instability, or even death itself. It is separation from God. But through Christ’s death and resurrection, he dealt with both sin and death, opening the way to eternal life for all who believe. The wisdom of Ecclesiastes isn’t meant to drive us to despair. It’s meant to free us from trusting things that cannot save us and drive us towards the only one who can.
