The Road to Maphisa

On the road to Maphisa, a rural town west of Bulawayo, I was crammed onto a bus with other civil servants on the way to a Conference. It was a ten hour journey in all and, to be honest, quite a miserable experience. Unfamiliar with Shona and Ndebele dialects, there were few opportunities to communicate with my colleagues, other than small talk graces. Only a few months into my stay in Zimbawe, this was a real low point for me, and I turned to Paul's letters in the New Testament to carry me through the trip. The letters were a real source of inspiration and encouragement to me at the time and gave me a much needed pick-me-up.

The conference began and we heard customary reports from different regions across the country as to how things were going. The high point of the conference was to be a large financial  donation from a European Embassy representative, a generous investment drawing tv media attention. On the morning of the transfer, the Head of my department in the Ministry arrived and suggested a brief report on how things had progressed during the conference. I was given 30 minutes to prepare a small summary speech. Dumbfounded, I had little to say, relying on fragmented pieces I'd managed to comprehend during the numerous meetings. When the moment came, I rallied with a brief presentation which built up to a rallying cry I'd heard used effectively by the VSO director in Zimbabwe - something like 'we might not be able to change the world, but through our efforts, we can change somebody's world.' It's all I had, but it worked a treat, and I received a standing ovation! If I do say so myself, it was a bloody marvellous, fly by the seat of my pants effort which compensated for lack of detail by going emotional. Moments later, the tv cameras showed up with the Norwegian representatives. The Director, in his wisdom, suggested that I make the presentation again for the benefit of our guests! Make it again! Oh come on!

After the second presentation, naturally a less enthused and dim shadow of the first, I had a long talk with the Norwegian representative, travelling with her young son and fiance. She was concerned about the investment, wanting to keep good tabs on that was happenig to the money being given. In that time we bonded quickly and I was, in all honesty, happy to talk to someone familiar with my world in the North. Soon the conference was over and we all gathered on the bus for the trip back. The SUV the Norwegian delegation was travelling in passed us on the single lane track and sped off in the distance. A few minutes later, the bus came to a stop and the SUV lay on it's side ahead. The son and the mum were together on the side of the road - saved by their seatbelts. The husband-to-be had not been so lucky, and he lay lifeless on the path. I sat with the lady for what seemed like hours, miles from anywhere, while she caressed her fiance's hair. The little boy was removed from the scene as we waited an eternity for medical services, which eventually came in the form of a police truck with a metal coffin in the back. As we sat there, I noticed her looking at a small metal cross I had pinned to my shirt. I wanted to take it off and hide it, the first time I'd really been ashamed of my faith - for not knowing where God could possibly be in this whole scenario. I feared her asking me right there where God was - a question which would come later that evening. For now, I had no answers and no comfort other than being a presence with her. She asked me to travel into the City hospital for support, and once there I called the Norwegian Embassy to let them know of the tragedy. They arranged for us to stay in a house for the evening and we would be picked up the following day. That evening, in the strange surroundings with strangers as hosts, there was plenty more time for conversation. She asked me about the cross and my faith. Any answers I did give went along the lines of 'I don't really know', with the odd 'I believe God is with us in the darkest of times' when it seemed appropriate. The breaking point came when a news clip on the tv played the conference proceedings from earlier that day. How could they know of the tragedy that would unfold hours later? Tears filled the room as images of the smiling couple crossed the room.

That evening I remember sleeping outside the main house and in back quarters. I couldn't sleep and woke up many times sweating and petrified - as though there were unknown and unfirendly forces stirring in the room. Illusion or not, at the time they were real - real enough to frighten me to the core. Not knowing what to do against prowling powers and principalities, inner demons, or simply bad dreams, I slept with my Bible open on the bed all night.

The next day officers from the Embassy arrived and drove us on the long road home. I managed to get word out to the church back home, who immediately lifted up this family in prayer through the local prayer network. Small token perhaps, but who knows. A couple of months later we met for lunch before she was heading hoome to begin a new assignment away from the haunting memory of loss in Zimbabwe. I had expected a torrent of abuse for any talk about God. Instead, she told me that she had felt somehow comforted since the accident and didn't know how to explain it. She said she was interested in joining a church to explore this 'sense' a little more on her return home.

I do not know how this story turned out for my Norwegian friend. Perhaps the church turned out to be a dead end street. But this story reminds me that, even though I had wanted to take off my cross that day on the road to Maphisa, denying my faith to avoid the awkwardness of it all, that God could provide comfort where I imagined such comfort was impossible. And that opening a Bible in the midst of fear and trepidation, while a seemingly ridiculous thing to do, can sometimes get you through the night!