The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “In this case, yes, the snake was bad. He snuck a sleeping potion into chameleon’s food and waited until he fell asleep. When he did, snake opened the package and pulled out the people’s gift and draped it about his body like a cloak.”

  “What was the gift, Gogo?”

  “God made new skins for us, child.”

  “And the snake stole them.”

  Cebisa nodded.

  “I told you snakes were bad.”

  “When the chameleon woke up, he saw immediately what had happened. Snake had donned his new skin and was so pleased with himself and the results of his trickery. When the people found out what had happened to their new skins they hated snake and his children from that day forward for his deceit and theft. The chameleon was so ashamed of himself for allowing snake the chance to trick him that he cannot face us. He hides. He hides forever from people so that we cannot see his shame. To make up for the loss of the new skins, God gave us His ultimate gift. When our bodies are too old, or damaged, or broken to give us a good life any longer, He gave us the gift of death.”

  “Why didn’t He make people more new skins so we don’t have to die?” Imogen whispered.

  “Because in death we can live for the rest of eternity with the Creator. That is His greatest gift, little one. Heaven.”

  “What’s Heaven like, Cebisa?”

  She scratched her chin, seemingly thoughtful for a moment. “Heaven is the most perfect thing you can ever think of, Miss Immy.”

  Imogen closed her eyes and remembered her mother tucking her and Amahle into bed the night before she went away, kissing them both on the forehead, and telling them to sleep tight. That was the most perfect thing she could imagine. And it had gone. It wouldn’t come back.

  “Then Heaven doesn’t exist, Cebisa.”

  “Of course it does—”

  “No, it doesn’t. We buried it this afternoon.” She stumbled to her feet and ran from the fire, ignoring the shouts and pounding feet at her back. She ran as hard as she could through the rows of grapes until she reached the orchard at the far end of the property. She swung herself up into the branches and let the tears fall. The rustling below alerted her to Amahle trying to climb up behind her. But her shorter arms and legs stopped her from being able to reach the first branch. Imogen could have just ignored her plight and hoped that eventually she’d go away. She didn’t. In her loneliness, she reached out her hand and helped pull Amahle up beside her. For as long as Imogen could remember, they had been best friends. She needed Amahle, and she knew Amahle needed to help her just as much. She wrapped her arms around Imogen’s shoulders, whispered promises to look after her, and held her till the tears stopped falling, and they both dozed.

  It was the sound of men crashing through the shrubs, yelling Imogen’s name that woke them both as dawn coloured the sky. Imogen’s father sounded both terrified and terrifying as he screamed for her. They looked at each other before they quickly dropped out of the tree and waited for Alain Frost to reach them.

  “Imogen, get in the car. You’re leaving.” He grabbed her hand roughly and began tugging her back toward the house.

  “Leaving? Father, where am I going?”

  “You, man,” he said, pointing at the man closest to him, “get the car round the front. Her suitcase is in the hallway. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  “Where are we going, Papa?” Imogen looked at Amahle, but she was running to keep up with her father’s long stride.

  “Mr. Frost, where you going to, boss?” Amahle called after them.

  The car was waiting when Imogen was pushed into the backseat. The boot slammed shut loudly and her father dropped quickly into the driver’s seat while barking orders to the foreman. “Do not let any of those bastards slack off while I’m gone. I’ll be back by the end of the day, and I expect those vats to be so clean I could eat off of them, man.”

  “Yah, boss.”

  “And get that kid off my car before it ends up under the fucking wheels.” Amahle was leaning through the window, hugging Imogen as he threw the engine into gear and punched the accelerator. The man grabbed Amahle around the waist and hoisted her away.

  “Amahle!”

  “Immy!” She kicked at the man holding her and set off running as soon as he dropped her, swearing under his breath. “Immy!”

  “Stop that bloody snivelling, girl.” Her father turned to her. “It’s time to move on from childish things, Imogen. Time to grow up.”

  Imogen didn’t say anything as she battled to hold the tears in check, desperate to please her father so that he’d let her return home.

  “I know that little black girl was your friend, but that’s not how the world works. Do you understand me?”

  She wanted to say, no, but thought better of it. “Where are you taking me, Father?”

  “To the airport.”

  “But why?”

  “You’re going to England, girl. It’s all arranged. You’ll start school there on Monday. Your mother’s sister will meet you at the airport in London.”

  “But I don’t want to go to London.”

  “It’s all arranged.”

  “I don’t know Mother’s sister.”

  “You’ll get to know her.”

  “I want to stay here, Papa, with you.”

  “We don’t always get what we want, young lady.”

  “Please, Papa. Please don’t send me away. I’ll be good. Please.”

  “Enough, Imogen.” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “That is enough.” He pulled over on the side of the road. “It is all arranged. You will adapt. You are strong. And most importantly, you will be safe over there.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t care what you want. I am your father and you will do as you’re told. Do you hear me?” He stormed out of the car and walked twenty feet onto the dirt verge. He kicked at stones and clumps of sod, shook his fists, and screamed at the sky.

  It looked different. The sky. When she’d fallen asleep under it last night, she’d still believed that everything would be okay. Yes, her mother was dead, and it was hard times, but they’d get through it, and everything would be okay. Now the sky was still blue, it still had clouds, the sun still shone down on them all. But it wasn’t the same. It never would be again.

  Chapter One

  Amahle looked out from the podium. The auditorium was dark. It was difficult to make out anything more than a few indistinct faces in the crowd of hundreds, but that made it easier for her. Instead of having to look at each woman as they watched her, listened to her, she could focus on the message she was trying to get across rather than worrying whether it was pity she could see on their faces when she got to the part about Grace. She couldn’t deal with pity, the biggest waste of time she could ever contemplate. She glanced into the wings and caught the eye of her seemingly ever-present bodyguard and friend, Thambo Umpala. A quick smile and a nod reassured her that everything was fine, and she set about delivering the speech she’d prepared.

  “My friends, the constitution of the Republic of South Africa is set on the foundation of human dignity and equality for all. Everyone is equal before the law and has equal right to its benefits and protections as well as its punishments, regardless of their race, gender, marital status, sex, pregnancy status, ethnic or social origin, colour, age, disability, conscience, belief, culture, language, birth, or their sexual orientation. I believe in this. I believe we all deserve these rights. We, as a people, fought for them, generation after generation.

  “Our laws say we cannot be denied our freedoms or privileges as South Africans because we are women, or black, or twenty, or fifty. Then why are so many women denied the right to have their rapes taken seriously because we are lesbians?

  “Corrective rape. A despicable term for a despicable act. Where the very idea that forcing a lesbian woman to have sex with a man will make her ‘normal.’ Will make her fit into society’s box for her. Will make her—us—what
they expect us to be.

  “Eight years ago, my partner was raped by three men. They beat her and they raped her. It was reported to the police immediately. Police came into our home and listened to what she had to say. Then they wrote in their little notebooks three words. Lesbian. Corrective. Rape.”

  Boos echoed around the hall. Amahle held up her hands to quiet the crowd.

  “Grace’s rapists were never found.”

  “Bastard Boers,” a voice from the crowd jeered at the ineffectual police.

  “Grace is not alone. More than five hundred women every year report an incident of corrective rape to the police. In recent years, more than thirty such assaults have resulted in murder. In a country with more than nine thousand reported rapes every year, that seems like a pretty small figure, doesn’t it?

  “As far as I’m concerned, both numbers are far too high. There should be no incidence of rape. Ever. The police force’s ineffective action against any aspect of the rape culture that has gripped South Africa belittles its effort as a whole and makes a mockery of it.”

  Shouts of “hear, hear” and “yes” chorused through the room.

  “I call for all women, lesbian and straight, to stand up and say enough is enough. There is no justifiable reason for rape. Her skirt is never too short, nor is she so butch she deserves it. She can never be so drunk that it just happens, or offensive to his manhood because she doesn’t want to sleep with him. There is nothing that makes it acceptable for one man, two, three, four, five, or however many, to beat, hold at gunpoint, or force a woman in any way to have sexual intercourse with him. Nothing.”

  Applause filled the air. She let it go on for a moment before holding her hands up for quiet again. “In the past eight years, I have seen many changes in South Africa. We all have. Some good, and some not. But I think we can all agree that in some areas there is still a long way to go. This, my friends, is one such area.”

  Cheers emanated from the darkened seating bank. “As a nation, we know that we cannot win the battle alone. We know the rewards, and the risks, in standing up against those who try to keep us where they think we belong. No more, my friends, no more. We fought that battle and won. We will fight this one too. We will achieve our goals. We will realize the rights we are entitled to.

  “We cannot turn the other cheek and let these hate crimes go unreported. We cannot hide because we fear what they will do to us. We cannot turn our backs and let those who are meant to protect us all write off these crimes as deserved or understandable. As though they don’t matter.

  “They matter, my friends. We matter.”

  Applause and cheers echoed around the room. Stomping feet added a staccato beat against the seating bank, and the auditorium filled with the resounding chorus of approval as Amahle exited the stage to a standing ovation. The wall of sound followed her into the wings and out the door as Thambo escorted her out of the building and straight into the waiting car.

  “You don’t worry about upsetting the police?” he asked.

  “Why should I worry about that? All I do is tell the truth. If they’re upset about it perhaps they should do their jobs better and not give me such an easy target.”

  “I worry more about you becoming a target, Minister.”

  “That’s your job, Thambo.” She fastened her seat belt. “Mine, unfortunately, is to make myself one.”

  He shook his head and turned back to the front seat as they made their way from the University of South Africa to the Houses of Parliament. Her driver pulled up at the members’ entrance around the back. The white marble columns and bright red bricks were not quite as grand as the front entrance, but in many ways, Amahle preferred the more understated entrance. It gave her the feeling that she was coming to work rather than attending the theatrical event that seemed to surround much of what went on inside the building.

  A second car pulled up at the same time, and her boss climbed out of his car under a much heavier guard than she employed. James Wilson, Minister for Health, former lawyer and judge who made his name and reputation presiding over many of the amnesty hearings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, smiled and pulled open the door for her.

  “Ah, Amahle, how’s it, my dear?”

  “Very well, James. You?” She smiled at the elderly statesman. His hair had silvered over the years she had known him, his skin showing a few liver spots here and there, but his mind was as sharp as ever, and he was a giant in the political arena. She’d been grateful for his patronage over the years and grateful for the position he had afforded her in his parliamentary department.

  “Not bad, not bad. The old bones are still doing what I tell them to do.”

  “Long may it continue, James.”

  “A little bird tells me you were giving a speech this morning.”

  “And which little bird would that be?”

  He tapped the side of his nose. “A gentleman never kisses and tells, my dear.”

  She laughed as he winked at her. “Is that right?”

  “So how did it go?”

  “I think it went very well.”

  “Is this that thing the Cape Chameleon rag organized?”

  “It’s not a rag, James.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “They have some very detailed and informative investigative stories.”

  “Hmm. Not exactly the Mail & Guardian though, are they?”

  “Not everyone can be your precious M & G.”

  “Still. Be careful.”

  “Of what? Besides, you didn’t hire me to be careful, James. I’m the cannon in your back pocket.”

  “Yah. And one of these days, young lady, you’re gonna blow off my backside.” He wagged his finger at her, and she was reminded of her grandmother scolding her as a child.

  She laughed. “Only you can get away with calling me that, James.”

  “I know. No one else would have the balls to try it. Be good, Amahle.”

  “See you.” She tugged on the jacket of her deep purple skirt suit and walked into her office. “Good morning, Claudia,” she said to her secretary. As the undersecretary for health, Amahle’s offices were substantial, yet seemingly always overcrowded with both people and work.

  “Good morning, Minister. How are you today?”

  “I’m good. You? Haircut?”

  “Very well, thank you. And yes. Do you like it?” Claudia ran her fingers through her red hair. Yesterday, it had fallen to her waist; today, it brushed the tops of her shoulders in bouncing loose curls.

  “It really suits you. Brings out your eyes. I’ll bet it’s cooler too, right?”

  “Oh my God, you have no idea. Well, of course you do. It’s the same length as yours now, but I mean, after having so much, it was such a relief last night.” She chuckled. “I’m babbling now. Back to work. Your first appointment is already waiting.”

  Amahle cocked her head to one side. She and Claudia had worked together so long now that the younger woman understood the shorthand.

  “Mr. Julius Steele. Investigative journalist with the Mail & Guardian Online.”

  She chuckled at the irony given her recent conversation with James, but she could remember nothing of the appointment.

  “He arranged an interview when it was announced in the Cape Chameleon Online magazine that you’d be giving the speech today.”

  She still didn’t recall the meeting but nodded anyway. “Can you arrange tea for us please?”

  “Certainly.” She indicated the scruffy looking guy sitting on one of the small chairs in the corridor. His dirty blond hair looked like it had needed cutting several weeks ago and hung in his eyes, causing him to constantly flick it out of his sight line. His jeans dragged on the floor, the backs dirty and ripped having been walked on for far too many months. He wore a buff coloured photographer’s style waistcoat with more pockets than Amahle could ever imagine knowing what to do with, and his sunglasses tucked in the front of a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Lies, Damned Lies, and Politics.” He stood when he
saw her approach and held out his hand.

  “Minister Nkosi, how are you this morning?”

  “I’m very well, thank you. And you, Mr. Steele?” She shook his hand as she entered the office.

  “Very good. Please call me Julius.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Amahle.”

  He nodded his assent.

  “Nice shirt, by the way. Where can I get one?”

  He chuckled. “I’ll send you one in the post.” He sat when Amahle winked and pointed to one of the sofas. “Thank you for agreeing to this interview. It will be on the front page of M & G Online by the end of the week.” He held up a small digital recorder. “Do you mind? I’m not very good at making notes quickly. I can’t read my own writing afterward.”

  Amahle smiled. “I don’t mind at all.” She leaned back in her chair, relaxed, confident, and enjoying the small respite in her otherwise hectic day.

  “That was a very passionate speech, Amahle.”

  “Thank you. You were there?”

  He nodded and put the recorder on the table between them.

  “You did well to get back here before me.”

  “I’d say I have as little interest in making friends with the police as you do.” He winked. “Given your personal history and your sexuality, it’s very easy to understand your viewpoint on the subject of corrective rape and indeed on LGBT rights, but I think we’ll come to that later if that’s okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “What made you decide to follow a career in politics?”

  “A combination of things, but there are two standout moments in my life that made me certain this was my path.” She ran her fingers over her hair, making sure every strand was in place. “When I was very young, I lost a very close friend. We were more like sisters than friends. I had never felt so helpless. I was devastated.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She didn’t. She was taken away by her father and never returned to South Africa. I vowed to never feel so helpless again. I knew Imogen’s father was wrong to send her away. For many more reasons than I was able to articulate at the time. I was just a child. I wasn’t listened to, and I vowed then that I would always fight for what I believed to be right.”