By Steve Van Nattan
WARNING: Do not read this unless you read it all please.
I have never before disclosed this account to anyone. You are the first ones to know about it other than myself and a few natives in Africa.
When I was in High School in Kenya, I used to take long hikes to while away the time. One Saturday, I headed up the escarpment of the Great Rift Valley on such a hike. I knew of a small village up near the top of the escarpment where I could buy a box of Bering's Biscuits and a cold bottle of Vimto soda pop. The owner of a shop in that village would welcome me inside, and I could spend the afternoon talking politics with the African equivalent of a West Virginia good old boy.
Well, my day changed seriously. I was about two thirds of the way to the top of the escarpment where the path was very narrow. I rounded a bend in the path, and there in front of me was a very short African. We both were startled at one another, and the little man wheeled and ran off at high speed, well, at least for about twenty feet. At that point he tripped over a vine, and he tumbled over a short cliff of sorts. He landed on a ledge and was marooned, though unhurt.
I realized at once that I was his only means of rescue. I cut a tree vine, dropped it over the edge, and I called out, "Njoo Mzee." Which, in my limited Swahili, meant, "Come, sir."
The little man didn't take long to figure out I was his only hope, and he scampered up the vine and nearly pulled me over on top of him. He again got a terrified look in his eyes as he topped the cliff. I at once said, "Pole, Mzee, usiugope." Roughly, "Take is easy, sir, don't be afraid."
Well, the little old man calmed down, and turning, he invited me to his house for a cup of tea. He introduced himself as "Mzee Kiwongo," and I introduced myself. I was intrigued, and I followed along out of curiosity. As we walked along, I wondered how he got to be so short, and I recalled stories of ancient times when the Wandorobo Tribe lived in these forests. The Wandorobo were a very small people, and they lived in holes, or caves, carved in the ground, usually into banks where there was good drainage.
Well, was I ever shocked, for the way soon led through the most dense bamboo stand I had ever seen. It got to the point where Mzee Kiwongo had to wait for me over and over as I had to squeeze with difficulty between bamboo he had merely slipped through sideways. Finally, as I was getting very exhausted, we came out into a thinning area of bamboo, and across an open area, I saw that the dense bamboo started up again. Just then Mzee Kiwongo pushed aside a branch of a wild olive tree, and he waved my past him.
I stepped around Mzee Kiwongo, and I was shocked to see a doorway in the side of the hillside right in front of me. The door was mounted in a pretty normal looking African doorway, made of hand hewn timbers, and the door was also a lot like the hand made door of any African home. But that was where Africa, as I knew it, ended, for as I stepped through the doorway, I saw that I had entered a very large cave in the side of a mountain of sorts.
I was followed by Mzee Kiwongo, and he waved me to a plastered bench along one wall which was covered by a sheep skin. I sat down, and I looked at Mzee Kiwongo. He was grinning from ear to ear at me. "Ninaona shangaa yako," he said, "Unajuo kabila ganu wenyenji ne hapa?" Which is, "I see your amazement, Do you know what kind of people live here?"
By now I was ready to venture a guess out of extreme curiosity,"Unakua Wandoroboje?" "Are you Wandorobo?" Mzee Kiwongo laughed heartily, and he assured me that this was precisely what his people were. I then asked why I had heard that his people had gone extinct. His story was amazing.
It seems that about 2500 years ago the Wandorobo were a tribe of people living in the north of what is now Kenya in the modern Turkana area. They had been very powerful, and their empire reached into modern Ethiopia and included all of modern Somalia. The Wandorobo survived by trading in gold and precious stones which they mined and bartered from neighboring nations. These people were fierce and deadly in combat, and the neighboring nations paid steep tribute to keep the peace with the Wandorobo.
Well, as time passed, the word got out to the whole Middle East that the Wandorobo nation was the jewel of choice to conquer. Several attempts were made by the Habashia and Saba of South Arabia to take the Wandorobo Empire, but always the Wandorobo would wreck havoc on these ventures and take the invaders as slaves.
Then Mzee Kiwongo told me something that I am sure no history researcher has ever known, and I learned why it had been so carefully hidden.
Back in about 300 AD, the Wandorobo had fallen into decline. They had become the ones who paid tribute to many other nations, and the tables had turned on them. The leader of the Wandorobo Tribe, Sidi Batuta, had learned that there was a great king in Rome who ruled the world of Europe and the Middle East who was named Constantine. Sidi Batuta concluded that if he could get the upper hand by stealth over Constantine, he, Sidi Batuta, could rule the world from the shadows and force Constantine to do his will.
Thus, Sidi Batuta, King of the Wandorobo sent a letter to Rome addressed to Constantine. In this letter, Sidi Batuta made mock submission to Constantine, and then Batuta suggested that Constantine did not really rule an area of the world where he would not visit and lay claim to that land in person. Batuta mentioned in particular the area of the headwaters of the White Nile just north of the Baganda Kingdom, which is Uganda today. Batuta had baited the hook it seems.
What happened next is not in any history book, for Constantine was taken with the idea that he should officially conquer Africa himself. He also suffered under the illusion that Sidi Batuta was eager to submit to his power. Thus, Constantine set up an elaborate entourage of vessels and Roman military to make a journey up the Nile. On his Imperial Barge, Constantine included a throne room, and in it he had placed his Imperial Throne, the symbol of his power.
Sidi Batuta had his agents all along the upper Nile, and as Constantine's barges came up the Nile, the messengers ran along warning the king of the advance of Constantine. When Constantine had reached Omdurman, Sidi Batuta took a moderate force of men and marched to the Nile. He concealed his men along the Nile near a river.
Constantine left Omdurman after restocking provisions, and his pullers again began pulling the barge along the river. The flat lands of Egypt and Sudan had provided level ground and river shores on which the boat pulling slaves could easily walk and tow the barges up river. But, now the tropical jungles began to prevail. The barges slowed down to a crawl as the pullers clambered over all manner of tropical undergrowth. Also, crocodiles and hippos were a constant hazard.
One morning just before noon, Constantine's leading barge was rounding a bend in the Nile, and a side river was seen emptying into the Nile. The pullers would now have to ford the side river, which meant tying off all of the barges and making difficult maneuvers to bring each barge past the side river. The trick was to not lose control of the barges as they were caught in the current of the side river as it emptied into the Nile.
Just as they tied off Constantine's barge to a tree along the river, Sidi Batuta and his men killed the pullers, untied the rope, and they pulled the barge up the side river very quickly. As soon as the barge was near shore, they jumped onto the barge, Constantine jumped into the river, and Batuta's men grabbed Constantine's throne and carried it away. Constantine escaped the crocodiles, and he was rescued by men from the next barge down the way.
Nothing else is known about the expedition except that Constantine never discussed it with anyone. Some say that this humiliating event helped convince him that he should give his empire to the priests of the fledgling Catholic Church. In any case, Sidi Batuta returned home to the Wandorobo Tribe with a new feeling of power in that he had tricked the great Constantine and acquired his throne of power.
Sidi Batuta was the direct ancestor of my host, Mzee Kiwongo, and that throne had sat in the cave inside Kiwongo's cave home for all those years since it was snatched away from what Sidi Batuta thought was the ruler of the world.
After Mzee Kiwongo finished his story, I was in awe of these strange and mysterious facts of history, and I asked Mzee Kiwongo why he had chosen to tell me about them. What Mzee Kiwongo told me next shocked me again, for he stopped speaking in Swahili and said in perfect Oxford English, "I am getting older and a bit tired, my friend, and someone must know the truth about my people." He then saw the shock on my face as he spoke in perfect English, and he said, "Forgive me, for I speak Swahili to all outside people to disguise myself and my people from these English busy bodies who would delight in mucking about in our lives for their own personal ends."
Now, the puzzling thing was, how did this man support his family, and why did he abandon the outside world, for he had matriculated from Makerere University in Uganda with honors. I asked him about this, and he told me that he was not, in fact, abandoning the outside world, for he was an anesthesiologist MD at the Nairobi Government Hospital, and he maintained a flat in Westlands, the upper class suburb of Nairobi. As far as his employers were concerned, he was a quiet bachelor type who preferred to seclude himself.
In fact, Mzee Kiwongo told me he had a bit of a cabin in the bamboo forest where he parked a motorcycle and kept his wardrobe for the outside world. He would hike out to that cabin late on Sunday, change clothes, and ride into Nairobi to his flat. From there he went to work for five days a week, and on Friday afternoon, he made the reverse trip. He was on his way out to make a special Saturday trip into the city of Nakuru, about 40 miles west of the area, to do some shopping, when he and I ran into each other.
As I looked around the cave home more, I saw a number of interesting innovations whereby Mzee Kiwongo had combined the modern and the ancient, and I commented with approval. Kiwongo thanked me. He then said, "Would you like to see the throne of Constantine?" Well, you could have bowled me over with a feather friend, for I could not imagine such a thing. I said, "Well yes, I suppose if it is somewhere about, I would be very curious."
Mzee Kiwongo then told me that I was not to tell anyone about the throne, for there was an ancient prophecy, by Rambush the Archangel, that someone would one day sit on the throne of Constantine again, and that he would destroy an evil imposter who wished to restore the old Roman Empire for evil intent. After that, another great one would displace the impostor, and he would sit on the throne, and he would make great archaeological discoveries all over the world for many years and change all of human history by correcting many errors of evil and lazy historians.
I assured Mzee Kiwongo that I would not divulge any secret he showed me. With this, Kiwongo lead me to the back of the cave. He picked up a kerosene lantern, and held it up high. There in front of us was a smaller door which was like the front door of his home. Kiwongo unlocked a padlock from a hasp, and he swung the door open. There in front of me was a small room just large enough to hold a very old dusty but magnificent throne.
I was speechless. As I gazed on the throne, Mzee Kiwongo whispered, "No one has ever been seated on that throne my friend. I have never wanted to myself, but I also decided that if I ever showed the throne to a European, like you, this person should be invited to sit on the throne. You see, only a European person should follow Constantine, a Roman, in sitting here."
Having said this, Mzee Kiwongo nearly forced me to sit on the throne with a sudden herding motion. I hardly had a chance to consider what might be coming. As I sat on the throne, Mzee Kiwongo closed the door to the room, and only he and I were there together. We both felt no need to speak for a long time. After a while the sounds of rustling came to both of us. I said, "Are there mice in here Mzee?"
"No," said Kiwongo, "But, I think someone is coming."
This puzzled me, for we were alone. Suddenly, a light began to glow around us, and just as suddenly a man in white was standing beside us. We were both terrified. The man in white spoke, "I am Mboga, the archangel. Archangel Rambush was supposed to bring a message to you, but he was detained. You who now sit on the throne of Constantine will one day sit on this throne in power. You will have to displace a great impostor, and then you will make great discoveries of historic import. You will free the world of disinformation about its origins."
With that, the angel virtually disappeared in a flash. Mzee Kiwongo turned to me, and he said, "Well, I am glad to know I lived to learn who the great liberator would be. You will have a great destiny."
Friends, I was floored. Who was I, a sixteen year old teen ager, to be called to such a destiny? Well, I bid the Wandorobo good-bye, and I returned to my dorm room to contemplate the things I had seen in the Kiambu forest. I decided that the story would not be possible for anyone to believe, and so I never told anyone. The years have passed, and that experience in the home of Mzee Kiwongo has grown very dim and not very much of a thing to be considered on a day to day basis.
Well, the other day, I received four rather large parcels, shipped to me from Kenya. I opened them, and was I ever amazed! Someone I still do not know had dismantled the Imperial Throne of Constantine which I saw in that cave long ago, and they had mailed it to me. After meditating on the prophecy again which the angel gave me, I decided that the least I could do would be to assemble the throne and have a look at it in better light.
I did this, and I was delighted, for the throne was really in rather good condition. It would seem that the conditions in the Wandorobo cave had been ideal to preserve the throne over the centuries. Not thinking much about it, and wanting to see if the throne would carry my adult weight, I sat on it.
Again, just as in that earlier day in the home of Mzee Kiwongo, there was a flash of light, and, again, there stood a man in white clothes. I looked at him with a more adult skepticism this time, for he was not the same angel who I had previously seen. He laughed and said, "This time you are visited by Rambush himself. I should have been there before long ago, but I was doing other important things in Bengal."
He made one brief statement more and disappeared without further comment.
This is what he said. "The impostor is sitting on a throne just like the one here in front of you. His name is Paul Crouch, and he is deceiving many. You must call many people together and tell them to drive Paul Crouch out of his throne. Then you must replace his disgusting throne with this genuine throne of Constantine, and you must raise funds to go around the world and discover many historic things and publish them in books. You will discover the lost City of Atlantis and many other things. Go now, and seek your destiny."
I had taken a snapshot of the room with Constantine's
throne in it, but I have never shown it to anyone. It seems like a good idea to
do so. Therefore; here is the room in the cave in Mzee Kiwongo's home with the
Throne of Constantine in it. I realize it is a poor photo, but the light was not
very good and I was using an old 1950s era box camera.
Your contribution could be the one which helps us all learn the truth about the City of Atlantis. You might have the satisfaction of knowing that YOU helped find the Seven Cities of Ciboa.
But first, let us all call on Paul Crouch to get out of his phony throne and hand over TBN to me.
If perchance you doubt this story, I can send you to one even more over the edge.
Yet some of you folks believe every word of it.
CHECK IT OUT You will see many parallels with my story, and a number of parallel links.
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What I have done in the above account is classic, but I did it for your edification. As with all cults and alleged prophetic counterfeits, I have taken a lot of very accurate facts from my on-site knowledge of Africa, and I have added a few necessary fictions. The result is just about the same quality of bilge water that we have heard from Joseph Smith, Mr. Sun Myung Moon, Texe Marrs, and Ron Wyatt. I am amazed at how easy it is to fabricate a new cult or take a patent out on a prophetic fable. If I did not add this comment at the end, I have no doubt that someone out there would send me a donation for this alleged "ministry."
When will we ever learn?