The Colourless Chameleon (A fable)

Once upon a time there was a colourless chameleon. He felt very insecure. Unlike other chameleons his colour did not change as he moved from one surface to another but remained a pale shade of grey.

He felt very sad and vulnerable without his natural camouflage system, as he sat on the grey slasto of a small verandah. He looked up at the white wall next to him and saw a small gecko clinging there, with its dark eyes gleaming as it watched for a

by Greg

passing mosquito.

The chameleon called up to him. “Do you always sit on the wall so you can’t be seen?”

“Yes,” said the gecko. “This is where my food is and no-one can see me.”

“Where can I go?” said the chameleon. “I can’t sit here forever.”

“Well,” advised the gecko, “Go and sit in the grey lavender bush – in among the grey leaves for a change.”

Very gingerly the chameleon moved to the steps of the verandah and eased himself down onto the grey pathway that led to the lavender. His movement was very slow indeed as he moved one foot shakily towards the shrub then the other.

His toes were clumped together in sets of two and three and he moved one leg backwards and forwards exploring the territory before committing himself to taking a step. He slid slowly into the lavender bush. He was quite safe here he thought, although the lavender made him dizzy.

Looking around he spotted a praying mantis. It had great oval eyes set in a triangular head which swiveled on a very slender neck. Its delicate front legs were clasped in front of him as if praying and its shiny gossamer wings hid its body. It looked very wise.

“Sir or madam” said the chameleon deferentially. “May I ask your advice?”

The praying mantis turned its head and very gently so as not to dislodge anything, nodded, also very gently.

“I would like to be able to change colour like all the other chameleons.”

“Go to the end of a rainbow,” said the praying mantis. “Ask Mr Crow to take you there.” The chameleon unfurled his long tongue and was about to swallow they praying mantis when it flew off at great speed with a whirr of delicate wings. “Oh dear,” thought the chameleon, “I shouldn’t have done that. He was very kind.”

The chameleon managed to eat a grasshopper instead and then settled himself amongst the sweetness of the grey lavender for the night. 

He listened to the evensong of the birds as they praised their creator and also settled down for the night. First the call of the choir master, the heuglin robin, then the full choir - kurrichane thrush, red crested lourie, turtle dove all sang praise and thanks for the day. 

Heuglin's robin

Crows were not invited to join in. The frogs and the crickets sang their song too once the sun had gone down.

The sad little chameleon felt comforted and safe while the smell of the lavender made him feel tranquil and sleepy.

He awoke in the morning to the sound of a rooster crowing and then the morning song of the birds greeting a new day.

He decided he must be brave and move across the green grass to the big tree where the crow often sat. Slowly, gingerly, he made his way, looking forward with one eye and keeping the other eye on the look-out for danger.

A large crow flew down from the tree with a raucous craak!, skidded to a halt and speculatively gazed at the chameleon who made himself look as prehistoric as possible by swelling up the flesh under his jaw, hissing and baring his bread knife teeth.

After a close inspection the crow decided he did not look edible and in a grumpy coarse voice said: “Well? What do you want?”

“Please dear Mr Crow,” said the chameleon, “I would like you to take me to the foot of a rainbow.”

“Caw caw!” the crow laughed. “I suppose you want to find a pot of gold!”

“No,” said the chameleon. “I want to find my colours. I am grey, only grey, and live a dangerous life because I have no camouflage.”

The crow considered this for some time. “All right,” he said at last. “But if we find the pot of gold there it will be mine, all mine.”

The chameleon reversed himself onto the crow’s back and wrapped his prehensile tail round the crow’s neck. It didn’t really matter that he was travelling backwards as he could look either to the front or back or sideways or he could rotate his eyes. He pushed his feet deep into the crow’s feathers and hung on for dear life as the crow put his head down and ran forward until his wings lifted and they were off.

They flew along the tops of the trees to the north where rain clouds had gathered and where a heavy shower had fallen.

There in the early morning sunlight they saw it - a beautiful rainbow with colours of red, yellow, green, blue, violet, orange and indigo.

They flew towards the great arc in the sky and followed the curve down to the earth. After a bumpy landing the crow crashed to a halt. The crow shook off the chameleon, who unwound his tail and slid thankfully to the ground feeling slightly nauseous. The crow stomped around, greedily looking everywhere for the pot of gold.

He was furious when he couldn’t find it. He stamped his feet, screamed and then flew off in a terrible huff.

The chameleon picked himself up and in a trembling walk drew near to the colours. They were so bright that he squinted at first.

Slowly he eased himself in the depths of the colours and lay there, dazzled. He could feel the colours of God’s love all around him, making him warm and joyous. He rolled in the colours. He stretched in the colours. He took great breaths of delight. For the first time in his life he felt confident and free from fear.   

The colours faded and the chameleon walked forward onto dried yellow grass. He looked in wonder as his colour changed. He stepped onto a green bush and again his colour changed, as it did too upon the rich brown earth, the bark of a tree, a red nasturtium and a purple petunia. 

by Greg

Each time his colour changed.

He was overwhelmed with love and thanks to the great God who had formed him and now given him his colours.

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

Well - well!

10 St Luke's by Greg (1998)

Fifty three years ago when our family first went to live at 10 St Luke’s Road, Harare, there was a well at the back of the garden behind a line of privet trees.

As we had two sons aged five and two years old, the first thing we did in the garden was to fill the well to ensure their safety. Everything went into that well.

 Rocks, old cement, pieces of wood, old bricks were all thrown down the hole until it was level with the surrounds. Soil was pressed over the well and grass planted and then it was forgotten.

The children played over it, rode bicycles, the gardener pushed the wheel barrow over it and the soil remained sealed over the well.

A borehole was put down in another section of the garden and offered abundant supply of water, always, even in drought years.

Many years later after my four sons had grown up and made their lives elsewhere and I was on my own I decided to sell 10 St Luke’s Road, although I remained living in the cottage at the back of the property.

I was away in Nyanga with the family when I received a call from Sophie.

 “Madam!” she said, voice heavy with alarm, “There’s a big, big hole in the garden and Fafadzwa has fallen in!”

“Madam, we got him out but it is very terrible.”

"There's a big, big hole in the garden...."

She did not phone again to tell me how the child was so I spent a few days in extreme worry until I returned home to find out the whole story.

Three children were looking at the rabbits in their pen behind the line of privet trees. Two of them stepped back safely but little Fafadzwa disappeared  - with earth, grass and roots - into the depths of the old well, now empty.

Oo.....er! by Shaun

There were screams and shouts and everyone came running to see what had happened. There was no rope on the property so the hose was quickly brought and tied around a tree and two lengths let down into the well. Fafadzwa’s father called Last, let down the hose while Fafadzwa’s mother shouted encouragement to Fafadzwa at the bottom of the well, who was screaming and crying.

Last was going to tie Fafadzwa to the hose with a towel wrapped around him, but the little boy was so 

frightened that his father held him close with one arm and held onto the hose pipe with the other. 

Pulling....

Sophie called to Cephas from next door who climbed over a wall and rushed to help and soon Dingaan and Cephas pulled the hose upwards.

Little Fafadzwa was washed down with Dettol and warm water and given a Panadol. He had a headache and his ribs were sore. After two days his mother took him to the clinic for a check-up. They were told by the clinic that if the child was fine after two days then they had nothing to worry about.

When I saw him on my return he stood on his stocky little two-year-old legs at gazed at me with huge eyes until his mother picked him up, sat him on her hip and gave him his little bowl of rice which he liked to carry around with him in case he felt peckish.

The well has been re-filled with more rocks and whatever else could be found. I believe that because it is not possible to compact a well, unless an impenetrable substance like clay is used, so gradually the contents deep down below are washed away. Perhaps in another fifty years that well will once again open up.

Harare’s underground water table has dropped by around 15 feet. So many boreholes have been drilled: there is so much demand as the municipal supply of water is intermittent. Some however, have had no water for years and residents have to buy water at enormous cost.

There was no water at the bottom of the well at St Luke’s. Had there been, little Fafadzwa might have drowned.

The Feet

This oil painting by Joan hangs in the All Saints Mission in Mutoko, Zimbabwe.

Blessed are the feet of him who brings good news of our lord Jesus Christ.

 I seemed to be kneeling at the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ. The folds of his woven garment fell around them.

 Oh the tenderness of feet and toes. How they can ache after a long day of standing. The agonizing pain of gout, a cracked or broken bone or a sprained ligament can disable walking for days or weeks or months.

The stubbing of a toe against a table leg or stone can send a thrill of pain almost to the spine.

The foot is so wonderfully crafted. There are the little bones of the toes, each small joint giving way to movement. Then the long bones and ligaments of the foot leading to the ankle which gives mobility. The curve of the heel, the arch of the instep and the ball of the foot lie underneath to provide a cushion.

How many miles did Jesus walk through the dust and sand of the desert, across rocky sun baked earth or up craggy rocky paths to the mountain tops?

Once, in a mysterious and miraculous way, Jesus walked on water, upheld buoyantly by his faith divinity and His Father’s great love. How cool and soft and unresistant it must have felt to him. How joyous.

In the coolness of the evening after a long, dusty day water was brought in, sandals were removed and feet were washed for cleanliness and refreshment then were carefully dried.

Mary Magdalene knelt before Jesus one evening, took his feet gently in her hands and washed them lovingly with her tears before drying them with her hair.

Our Lord cared for and comforted his tired disciples on the night of the last supper; an act of extremely love, servitude, humility and service.

And when at last you plumbed the depths of sin and took it from us and laid it on your shoulders, Lord Jesus, your feet were nailed to the cross.  J.R.

Andrew’s departure

Sketch by Joan Robertson

While I was away staying with my son Richard and his wife Fiona and their family in Marondera, a country down about an hour’s drive from my home in Harare, I received a phone call. 
It was Sophie.

“Medem!” She said. “Andrew is dead!”

 I know a few Andrews and said in confusion, “Andrew?”

“Yes!” said Sophie. “Andrew – Dingaan’s brother, Andrew!”

“Oh,” I said, “Andrew!”  - and hope she did not hear the relief in my voice when I realised it was not one of the Andrews I knew. How insensitive we can be to other people’s pain.

“The police are there and then they are coming to take Andrew to the morgue. We want to go and make a funeral,” she added.

“Go at once Sophie!” I said, “I’ll see you when I get back next week.”

When I returned home come Tuesday, I found two very sad helpers waiting for me - Sophie (a very large and majestic woman of 59) and her thin dignified little husband of 82. In the cool quiet of the evening when Sophie and I sat down together on the verandah for a chat I asked her to tell me about the funeral.

 “It was horrible,” she said. “Horrible!”

Secret places

Andrew had lived in a room of a house he shared with eight other tenants in a high density suburb of Harare. He was an asthmatic and had confided in Dingaan that should he die, his money could be found in a secret place in his room. The landlord had been given the key of the room “in case”.

When Sophie and Dingaan arrived they were shown into Andrew’s room and Dingaan looked for the money, only to find that it had disappeared.

....family and friends gathered ....by Pauline Battigelli

They were then escorted to a large tree to greet arriving family members and friends, who gathered and sat comfortably there. They were also served lunch by the church ladies. “Andrew was a Roma,” said Sophie.

Andrew’s three brothers went to visit the morgue and were satisfied with the very smart coffin bought by his “medem”. She also arranged a bus to collect the mourners and take them to the burial ground.

Funeral wait

The funeral took a long time. Evidently once the coffin was placed in the ground, cement was packed around its sides.

“They put the cement around – and around – around - and around – around,” Sophie paused as she recalled. “Then we had to wait for it to dry.”

This took time of course. “Then they take corrugated iron, put it on top and then more cement to cover,” said Sophie.

“Why do they do that?” I asked amazed.

"...we had to wait for it to dry"  J.R.

“That was a very smart coffin,” continued Sophie. It had white curtains inside and a pillow - ‘medem’ had paid US$1,000 for it. They say that when a coffin is smart like that people come at night, take up the coffin and cut out the nice material.

When these proceedings were finally over the bus returned the mourners to Andrew’s home and they all began to leave.

“That landlord,” said Sophie, “that man, he told us the next day we had to clear Andrew’s room. He did not want to see anything. Everything out! He wanted to let that room at once.”

“I went to sleep in a bed in Andrew’s room with a sister and the men stayed outside to talk. The landlord, so fat, he wears trousers low low at the back and when he bends down you can see half his backside. I told Dingaan to say something to him but Dingaan said it was not his business.”

Grass bed

When the talking of the men finished outside the landlord stood up, went inside and locked the door of his house. “He left those men outside and they had to sleep there on the grass,” she said. “That landlord was Andrew’s friend. Andrew got him here from Malawi and then that landlord made lots of money and bought a house. Now he’s got money he’s dishonourable.”

Dingaan also got an upset stomach from the Roma food or the bad water and on top of that, a bad cough.

Early next morning the landlord chided and chivvied the family to hurry up and clear the room. The family shared out the belongings and moved heavy furniture onto the grass where a brother who knew someone who had a truck, would take it away.

A hungry, depressed group took their share of Andrew’s belongings in their arms and sat outside. “Now we have all the stuff,” said Sophie, “what do we do now? How can we carry it home?”

One woman had the idea that she could hire a trolley for $1 from the local supermarket, so she went off to do just that. As the others sat there in despair, a commuter bus passed by slowly and then stopped. The driver jumped out and called to the group. “Can I help you?” They explained that they had a very big problem and he said simply, “I will help you.”

Photo Cheryl Robertson

Everyone bundled into the commuter bus and the driver took them to their addresses and dropped each of them off right at their homes, with all their katundu (baggage).

“That driver, he was a very, very good man,” Sophie smiled. “For nothing he did that – not like the landlord.”           

                                                  J.R.

Sophie's Holiday

Sophie is a woman of ample proportion, just like these in
this Verandah  Gallery, Harare, greetings card

After a year’s hard work Sophie decided to take a month-long holiday in 2008 and visit her daughter Fiona and her grand children in Rusape.

Her only means of getting there was to take the bus which makes a run there and back once a week.

No-one knew what the bus fare was except that it was in the billions or even zillions and as withdrawals from banks are only Z$500 per day it would have taken her a couple of lifetimes to withdraw enough money for her bus fare.

The only answer was forex, money bought in from outside Zimbabwe, and then she felt afraid that she might be beaten up at the bus stop and the money stolen.

She managed to extract quite a lot of rand from me and some US dollars from the tenants in the main house, which she fearfully tucked away for her impending “fagash” or holiday.

Fortunately the whole matter was resolved for her. A relative died – another relative travelled from Rusape for the funeral in Harare. He offered Sophie a lift in his truck. Sophie is a woman of ample proportions (although not nearly as ample as they used to be), so the back of the truck might not have been too comfortable for her. She took with her a grandson born out of wedlock aged four and called Blessing.

On her return she told me the story of her holiday.

Truck to Tanda

They passed through Rusape and took the Nyanga road for some miles before turning off left onto a dust road which she said was very bad. The truck lurched and bumped and bounced its way to a little spread out village called Tanda, from which you walked towards the mountains of Nyanga.

The people of Tanda are poor but very
welcoming (pic by Pauline Battigelli)

The people of Tanda are very welcoming and whatever they have they share. The children are given their food first and the mothers eat the leftovers by scraping a finger over the plate or pot and licking off any little bits.

The mothers walk to Nyanga to work in the potato fields. For a morning’s work they receive about two kilogrammes of potatoes which they take home to their families, carrying their potatoes on their heads. If they work a full day they may take more potatoes.

“How far is Tanda from Nyanga?” I asked Sophie. “I don’t know,” she said, “I did not walk there but you go up the hills – and down the hills.”

The people are bent over from carrying loads, especially the elderly. One woman told Sophie that if you tie a tight belt around your middle you do not feel so hungry as your “matumbas” are squeezed.

The people of Tanda pray and sing praises to God and they say that when things are very bad you must stand still and say “Jesus” and he will help you. They say that he is like a very hot frying pan. He makes you sizzle.

The people of Tanda share their food

 Sophie managed to get a lift back to Harare and so she did not have to spend the forex.

“I gave it to my grandmother,” she said.

Having spent a week with her family she is now back in Harare planting mealies in any little spare space of ground she can find having brought the seed back with her from Rusape. She will have her own crop of mealies if it rains, so the remainder of the holiday will be spent tilling the fields round the Cresta Hotel.

She showed me her hands which were swollen. “Look at my hands,” she said. “I had to hang on to the truck with both hands so I did not fall out on that terrible road!”

“And what about Blessing?” I asked.

“Oh Blessing,” she said, “He was asleep!”