This Flag or This Plague? Worshiping A Dead Tree

A strange thing has happened to Zimbabweans after 130 years this coming September. You see, in September of 1890, a group of strangers in hovels on wheels, ngoro, drawn by cattle and manyurusi, appeared on the scene at the foothill of Harare Kopje. We, the local people were curious. We had seen these kneeless people before, of course. It gladdened our hearts to see that they did, after all, travel and live as a community. Before that, we had seen them roaming the width and breadth of our land as individuals frenetically looking for the glittering metal that sends them crazy, barely in the company of their own kind. Did they not trust each other, we wondered?

Well, in the month of Gunyana, they appeared on the scene. It was a spectacle to behold. One of the first things they did was to plant a tree. It was not a tree that otherwise sane people plant. They planted a dead tree completely shorn of its roots and branches. Confound it! Who plants a tree without roots and branches? They did not bother to water it. Can you believe it? No sooner had we asked these questions, to ourselves of course, that they put a piece of cloth with crisscrossed colours on top of their branchless tree. This left us greatly puzzled.

Our puzzlement soon gave way to amusement. You see, the very next morning after the planting of the branchless tree, the kneeless strangers lined up in front of the peculiar tree. As usual, a cool breeze wafted its way across the Mukuvusi River. The gentle wind had the colourful cloth flattering. Our strange guests started to sing solemn songs while worshipfully facing the dead tree. They did so with their hats off and their right hands on their left chests close to the location of the heart. We were sure this was a ritual to make the peculiar tree come back to flourishing life again. Day by day, we went to watch the show hoping to see the miraculous resurrection of the branchless tree. No miracle happened in spite of the daily somber ritual by our strange guests.

It was some sharp-witted ambuya who solved the mystery of the dead tree. She said this was their god they were worshipping. It was a sensible point. We found the whole show quite entertaining, nevertheless. Laughing at the strange ritual became our daily bread so to speak. We have our own God, but one not represented by a dead tree without branches much less a fluttering piece of cloth atop of it.

One day, our laughter turned into startlement. The strangers told us they had taken possession of the land in the name of the god of their ancestors. We were quite sure their god was truly crazy. After being kind and hospitable to them, never mind their madness, they just woke up one day to tell us we were subjects to their queen, the only one the god of the dead tree was beseeched to bless. Guns pointed at us, we were forced to start worshipping the god of the dead tree with a flattering piece of cloth. We protested, which was natural. A number of our people were cut to pieces of ghastly human flesh. The Gatling gun, the cannon and dynamite did that to us. We capitulated. That is how we started to supplicate before a dead and branchless tree atop of which is a piece of cloth.

Today, we are faithful believers of this god and passionate practitioners and defenders of the peculiar ritual. The colour of the piece of cloth has changed numerous times, but we remain resolute in our acquired habit of paying homage to the god of the branchless dead tree. 

We have become a strange people, indeed.

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