Touches of Christmas

2015

As I write this, time is already rushing through the month carrying us speedily towards another Christmas. So often we have been reminded that there are only so many days to shop before the next festive season is upon us.

When I look back to our Christmas last year, it is not the festivities that touched me as much as the little acts of precious kindness which preceded our gathering together on THE DAY.

I have some tests

In the little suburban shopping centre just up the road I went to visit the optometrist for an eye test. 

She spent some time with me, trying this and that and the other and finally suggested I went to see an eye specialist. When I asked her how much I owed her for her time she replied: “Nothing. Had I been able to help you there would have been a fee but there is nothing I can do. Come back and tell me what the eye specialist advises.”

Having accomplished that visit I then went to have tea at a little Chinese shop round the corner, charmingly decorated with lanterns and bright colours. The owner came to the door and glowered at me as the little tables and chairs had not been set out yet.

“I only wanted a cup of tea,” I told him, whereupon he set up a table and chair and tea was served. I noticed him sitting nearby with his head bent over, considering his day’s reckonings I expect. I went over to him, thanked him for tea and asked him how much it was. He waved his hand above his head and said: “Alright… it’s alright.”

I said: “Thank you – and happy Christmas.” He just nodded his head without looking up.

On Christmas Eve we went to son Paul’s home in St Stithian’s School, set amongst many acres of fields, bushes and tree-lined roads with beautiful views overlooking Johannesburg. 
Some neighbours of Peta and Paul’s two houses up had invited anyone who wanted to join them in the road for a glass of wine. There were chairs set out on the side of the road and opposite us on the grass verge in front of the house was an interesting display of angels, Mary and Joseph and the new born babe, cows, rabbits, stars and from a tree hung a sort of waterfall of lights.

There was too a gnome, which I believe stays there all year round. At Easter time I believe the Christmas display is replaced with rabbits!

We were offered mince pies and a drink and as it was very hot our host rushed up to the shops nearby and bought us all an ice lolly.

Above us, shining down on this great city and ourselves was the most magnificent moon. It seemed to me to be a Super Moon. When my grand-daughter Emma looked it up on her constant stand by “Google” she told me that the last moon on Christmas Eve was in 1977. I was deeply touched. We were warmly entertained by strangers under resplendent moonlight.

Grandson Philip came with me to a carol concert at St Michael’s Church. The majestic flower arrangements, the beauty of the words of the hymns and the atmosphere of wonder, joy and hope lifted our hearts in worship of Christ our lord.

 Philip & I singing at the carol concert

       Standing next to me grandson Philip sang and delighted those around us with the beauty of his voice. These are the touches of Christmas that delighted and filled me with warmth.

With the excitement of Christmas day upon us, we all seemed to go off in different directions. Some to church, others to start cooking, others to put the last wrappings on presents which were arranged under the beautiful decorated Christmas tree where we all eventually gathered.

Having mentioned that I really like marshmallows I was given a huge amount of marshmallows, some in a large glass container, others in twists and another large ring of marshmallows arranged on a stick like a large marshmallow sucker (aka lollipop). 

It had taken me some months to eat them all and now I have gone off them entirely. Moral – never mention anything you like before Christmas!

Guests arrived for lunch in the late morning, and tables were set on the long, spacious front verandah to seat about twenty guests.

We all sat down after grace was said. The first course was served -Parma ham and melon. We all set to with enthusiasm, when one of the guests shouted out angrily: “Don’t talk to me from the bathroom window!”

 A small voice replied: “I am locked in.”

"I am locked in!"

It was Squirrel, one of my grandson David’s friends. David rushed off to help accompanied by another young man, while the rest of us appallingly went on eating Parma ham and melon, ignoring the situation in spite of the shouting through the bathroom door and the odd bang.

Next to the verandah in an alcove is a window for the bathroom. 

Squirrel’s Dad finally went through to the bathroom door to give assistance, but was told that his help was not needed. I suppose he was considered too old to be of service although he had years of experience as a motor mechanic.

by JR

"we were well into the second course..."

Time 
Time ...Time moved on and we were well into the second course of vegetables, lamb, chicken etc before David and his friend finally broke the door down and a shaken and embarrassed Squirrel sat down as unobtrusively as he could to eat his disturbed lunch.

In the evening the older guests all drifted off to bed while the young ones carried on with their party. When they all finally went to bed much, much later, they could not find Squirrel. Having searched everywhere for him they left the back door open for him.

The next morning he appeared looking quite fresh and perky. “Where were you Squirrel?” everyone asked.

He had slept under the fir trees far away from locks and keys and bathrooms – and where else would a squirrel sleep?

Women of Zimbabwe

 In September I went on a visit to Zimbabwe, that beloved, destroyed country where I had spent most of my life.

I stayed with my son Richard and his wife Fiona at Peterhouse School. There, a reliable supply of electricity and water are available. 
Across green playing fields in the school grounds a great orange ball sinks quite quickly behind the earth’s edge, leaving its glow for some moments and an abundance of purple jacaranda blossoms. This is the oval sun, spilling its heat and light from cloudless skies. What a paradise.

 The school has a game park where granite rocks balance one on top of the other or lie flat in great sheathes where one can picnic and watch the light change, where animals wander freely and the stillness creeps into your soul.

It is only an hour’s drive from this oasis into Harare and I had the opportunity to visit dear friends, some in retirement homes and some still living in their own houses. There are two very well kept retirement homes in Harare, and women living there make friends and communicate and go for walks together. 
Widows living there are sometimes helped by their families who now reside outside the country, far away in Canada, Australia or Dubai, so instead of being surrounded by children and grandchildren they are with friends - and they look after each other. 

They laugh together, play bridge, go to lectures and enjoy entertainments within the generous facilities at the retirement homes. There is fun, laughter and smiles, fellowship and the comfort of companions. 

Yet day-to-day living is not so easy. There were electricity cuts for 18 hours a day. This was not a spasmodic cut, but continued, day after day.

How do we do our washing? When can we iron our clothes? Where did I put the candles? Has my solar lamp run out? Do I need gas for my gas stove? Has everything gone off in the fridge? These are some of their daily thoughts.

Single women living outside retirement homes have a similar battle, perhaps even more difficult when they have to buy water to fill their tanks. Some houses have inverters which give enough power for the television and one light bulb. Wealthier and younger people have generators, meaning they have to buy fuel – all very expensive.

There is too, the problem of turning things off. Sometimes when a tap is turned on it is followed by an expletive such as “Damn! There is no water,” and one easily forgets to turn it off. When – if – the municipal or borehole water does come on, a flood ensues if the offender has been away for an hour or two. 

But I suppose that is better than having to walk for miles to scoop water out of a well or river as other friends like Sophie do.

The same pitfalls apply to electric heaters or electric blankets in the winter. “Damn, the lights have gone, I’ll go to bed without my hot water bottle,” one may say, and while they try to keep warm the electricity switch may have been be forgotten, which can result in a fire.

For survival it is necessary to keep your wits about you all the time.

Less expensive homes for the elderly in the not-so-elite suburbs have walls around them to protect the residents from passers-by, litter and the traders from small businesses that operate in the street. Behind the filth is a secure peaceful haven of care and orderliness.

Yet none of these inconveniences, annoyances and shortages detract from the spirit of the people who live there still. Their cheerfulness, resilience and flexibility are wonderful to see and their faith in a loving father supports them. There seems to be no wingeing and whining, but rather an acceptance and the courage to use each hour they have been granted positively, come what may.

Women of Zimbabwe, I salute you.

 [Illustrations by Pauline Battigelli]

Shopping

In Harare with Dingaan......

Around the corner from where I used to live at number 10 St Luke’s Road in Rhodesville, a suburb of Harare, is a spectacular fruit and vegetable market bursting with produce. 
As you walk into the large thatched building there is a gentle mist, which keeps the vegetables fresh and the customers cool.

Waist high boxed shelves are arranged in blocks of colour. In fact when I think of that market I think of colour – red apples, green apples, yellow apples, orange paw paws, green and black punnets of grapes, pink potatoes, grey potatoes, purple onions, white onions etc.

And there’s a tea room next door where the world meets for a friendly chat and a prolonged cup or two of cappuccino coffee.

Often I used to walk to this market once known as Honeydew with assistant gardener and Mr Fix-it Dingaan, Sophie’s husband, who is 80+, very frail and nearly stone deaf. 

He would always put on his long trousers and a smart shirt to take me shopping and would walk two steps behind me and direct my path with remarks like “mind that big hole in the road” or “here comes a bicycle”. It was quite the wrong way for a partially sighted person to be directed but he insisted - a reversal of positions would have not been polite to him. He was a true gentleman.

We would do the shopping and Dingaan would pack a little tartan bag with wheels and pull it along so he did not have to carry too heavy a load.

On one occasion, coming out of the side road of Honeydew on our way home, we noticed a huge truck about to turn into it. Dingaan called to me to “GO” so I went, but then he yelled “STOP!” I heard the truck coming towards us and so I ran rapidly across the road, full tilt into a gathering of surprised basket weavers. 

“Today is not my day to die,” I informed them as they looked at me in wonder.

I was soon joined by Dingaan and we went on our way having negotiated the main road without incident. As we ambled happily along the pedestrian path I heard a car hooting as it bowled down the same main road. It was a friend of mine named Pam on her way home from the airport with her sister Jo. I rushed forward to greet them, waving and smiling, then tripped. It was one of those falls where your head moves forward and your legs move like pistons trying to catch up. But no such luck - and down I went on hands and knees.

Greeting Pam and her sister, I assured them I was fine – only a graze on the knee. When I looked back at Dingaan he was almost white-faced, standing with dropped jaw and limp outstretched hands hanging at his sides. The tartan shopping bag lay askew on the ground with vegetables spread all over the path.
We gathered them up, packed them away again and headed slowly back home. When we arrived at the front door of the cottage, Sophie took one look at us and said, “What has happened?!”

Dingaan was looking very peaky so I gave him a glass of sherry and we were told by Sophie that we were never, ever allowed to go shopping again. 
Well I always listen to Sophie, and we sadly never did.

* * * * * * *  * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * *  *

... and in Johannesburg with Innocent

Whenever I visit my son Anthony in Johannesburg I am taken shopping by a tall man with the flattering but unlikely name of Innocent.

He has long legs which he crosses modestly when standing and talking and he punctuates his every sentence with a huge laugh which he thinks is a good way of keeping out of trouble.

We drive in Anthony’s old truck which he seems to understand. I did have to reprimand him a few times for driving using the cell phone in his left hand while waving at a passing “chick” with his right and yelling “yebbo”.

On arrival at the shops we usually parked in the space for disabled elderlies although at first we had no sticker giving us this privilege. Innocent seemed to get away with it by shouting “You see – Gogo (granny),” and laughing hilariously.

In the shop we meandered through the long aisles in a haphazard fashion, stopping to stare at all the rows upon rows of food which I could not differentiate and he could not recognise, since both of us hail from Zimbabwe.

The one item that really floored us was the range of digestive biscuits. There are so many different kinds, only one of which I would buy – not chocolate, not wholewheat, but plain. 

Sometimes we would get into trouble by stopping the trolley across the aisle instead of keeping it  strictly to the left or right. After apologies, laughter from Innocent and “yebbo” we were forgiven by the many kindly folk who shop there.

Once or twice when the truck was not working Innocent kindly gave me a lift in his own car of which he was very proud. Apart from a strong smell of carbon dioxide coming through the floor boards and many rattles, it went all right. 

Innocent would drive that car overnight to Zimbabwe to see his wife and children. He would collect katundu in Zimbabwe for people living down here. Once he was stopped in Gwanda and fined for overloading. He told me he had to sell everything he was carrying to pay the fine.

 It would embarrass me unspeakably when Innocent would peer over my shoulder at the till for I knew I had bought more than he could possibly afford.

Our shopping finished eventually, and after executing a few terrifying U-turns at the robots and taking a shortcut through the corner garage, we would make our way home.

The Haircuts

Father Richard has twin sons Phillip and Rich.

Rich

They both arrived home after being away for some time, Rich from Tanzania where he had been working on a tobacco estate and Phillip from Johannesburg where he had been singing.

Their mother Fiona took one look at them and said firmly: “These boys must have haircuts. So while Fiona did some
peaceful shopping father Richard, Claire his daughter, the twins and I set off to find a cottage in Borrowdale where the hairdresser lived.

We had bought some chicken pies for our lunch. We were soon shown through the charming cottage onto a spacious verandah and sat in comfortable chairs where we quite rudely munched our pies while Rich was summoned for a haircut at a table and chair on the other end of the verandah.

He had very thick copper coloured hair and the attractive little hairdresser set to with a snapping of scissors and a few grumbles about the length or thickness of his hair which she said would take half an hour to cut instead of the usual 15 minutes. Teasingly she said that in fact she should charge him twice as much.

All was going well until her young son brought out onto the verandah, an alert white parakeet that flew at once onto Philip’s lap. When in doubt Philip sings, so he sang a little song on the lines of: “I wish you’d fly away, leave me be like yesterday.”

"I don't do parrots."

Discouragingly the white parakeet nestled under his arm.

But soon enough, the parakeet became bored with that and wandered over to Claire, who retreated behind a chair saying: “I don’t do parrots.”

Then it marched across to Father Richard and tackled his shoelaces. When in doubt father Richard smokes. The parrot moved away swiftly looking affronted.

Father smokes when in doubt

I told them that I thought they showed no courage at all when it came to birds.
A little later I moved from the verandah to the lounge to look more closely at a painting. As I came back onto the verandah the parakeet gave me a good peck on the left heel, which bled. Cotton wool and plasters were rushed to the scene and the parrot was removed to its cage.

Claire said to me: “You see Granny that is why we don’t like parrots.”

My reply was: “Well Claire, I’m glad he pecked me as I didn’t kick up much of a fuss. Imagine if he had pecked you lot.”

The last thing we saw when we left the cottage were two wrinkly-browed heavily dew-lapped dogs with their noses pressed against the glass door gazing at the parrot cage. We wonder if it ever got its just deserts – and they just got dessert?

Listening

I listen to tapes sent to me by Tape Aids for the Blind library service. I have macular degeneration and can no longer read print so my audio tapes are a great source of comfort and interest to me.

They set off from the depot in Durban, South Africa, neatly packed in little plastic containers with buckles on the outside to keep the tapes safely inside as they journey to my home in Harare, Zimbabwe.
When the tapes, sent by post arrive, they are thrown over the gate and are picked up by the gardener English (who doesn’t speak a word of it) and handed to me with great deference.
I am never without tapes for the wonderful people in Durban seem to have a sixth sense as to when to send me some more.

To return, I simply have to pack them back into the box and the reversible label addressed to me is simply reversed – and returned to sender via the Post Office here, where there is no charge at all for carrying them by mail.

This amazing free service for blind or partially sighted readers is all done without fuss; no emails, telephone calls and there is never any problem at all – can you imagine that?

I always have an enjoyable book to listen to and in a world of frantic IT interchanges the joy of listening to a good book in a quiet cottage is a soothing panacea.

When I originally joined I was given a form to fill in with various categories of choice – science fiction/murder mystery/ biographies/ autobiographies etc. 

Oh what wonderful hours I have spent listening to the biographies of Julie Andrews and Elizabeth Taylor, the perfect writings of classics like Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, Shakespeare and sometimes poetry. 

I have tasted the flavour of Ireland with Maeve Binchley and walked the paths of history with Jean Plaidy and revelled in the spiritually enlightened words of CS Lewis and Charles Spurgeon, plus the Bible itself – what a gift to be able to have the unlimited time to listen to that.

 I have been very amused at some of the most modern writers who seem to wish to squeeze out every drop of emotion they possibly can with a display of physical indications. Sometimes a very practical picture is painted of having conversations taking place in the kitchen, while coffee is made, stirred, sipped or gulped according to the rise and fall of the conversation.

Then there is a description of the workings of the throat: he gulped; she felt a lump in her throat; his throat tightened; he choked; he swallowed.

Emphasis is given to a flow of emotions by observing the course of tears. “…..she shut her eyes and a tear escaped down her cheek” or “…her tears overflowed”.

How about: “He looked deep into her eyes and saw them fill……Their eyes caught…..Their eyes locked.”

Plus: “She looked down at her feet……..He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling”.

Funniest of all is the mouth: “He grinned a slow grin.” I tried to do that in front of the mirror and failed.

“She pulled up the corners of her mouth and tried to smile.” (Try that one.)

The body too comes into play: “He lurched through the door…….He eased himself closer……He leaned his shoulder against the doorway……He sighed through his teeth’

“She exhaled and then spoke.” How do you do that?!

Ah well, all writers are different and that is what makes the written word so interesting.

In conversation, how many people listen well? They usually do the talking and then look at their watch when you reply! Yet how interesting and informative is it when true conversation emerges; when experiencing a stimulating exchange of ideas that are expressed and listened to.

It is a gift to find a good listener who is not anxious to interrupt and overcome your poorer efforts with a form of aggressive vocal thunder. There must be so many wonderful stories hidden away that could be told to a sympathetic and interested listener.

Let us find time to listen. 

Each story differs – and again, that is what makes it interesting.

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.