The Warm Heart of Africa. Kevin M. Denny
our katundu and showed us to our rooms. Soon, one of the waiters, white coat, starched and pressed to a razor edge, knocked at my door. "Madam, there are towels for your bath and we will serve you dinner in the lounge when you are ready," he said, implying that I would have to be some kind of cave dweller not to realize that a bath was a requirement prior to an evening meal in this part of the world.
“Thanks, that will be fine," I replied, adding, "I will be ready soon.”
"No hurry, Memsab," he replied. "Would you like something cold to drink?".
"Oh yes, what do you have?"
"Oh, a beer would be wonderful," I replied, fantasizing that this would be the way it would be for the next two years.
The beer was cold and after a hot shower it put me in a giddy mood. Tim and Marilyn were already in the lounge, enjoying their second round of drinks. With them were two men dressed in suits. The taller one told me that he felt very fortunate to meet me as he lived in Fort Johnston and understood that I would be living there as well. I nodded in agreement and automatically accepted the glass of beer that was offered to me. My fellow "Fortian" informed us that he was the headmaster of the secondary school and also taught mathematics. He apologized that his English was so weak, although in reality it was actually quite good. He joked that he wished he had studied it "more diligently" in school so that he could speak better. We complimented him on his English and he replied that the real problem was that he had always liked mathematics "too much.”
More beer appeared. The headmaster and his friend, a corpulent, jolly, older man approaching the zenith of his career with the Ministry of Public Work—in charge of all road construction in the Northern Region—drank rapidly and with gusto, with an apparent expectation that we would keep apace. They invited us to join them at dinner; the conversation was as robust as the beer supply.
Dinner was not completed until after 10:30, at which point our jovial fellow travelers invited us to join them in the lounge for a "nightcap or two.” I had already accepted an offer to dine with Mr. Kalindawala, the tall one, and his wife when he returned from his teaching seminar in Blantyre.
Our new friends appeared oblivious to the fact that, of the entourage of servants, only the bar man and one waiter now remained. They ordered drinks nonstop and rolled with laughter at every little joke. They wanted to know everything about America. Had we ever met President Kennedy? What did our families think about us going away for so long? Did we still have cowboys? What ever happened to our Indians? They were also eager to talk of their own country and how fortunate we were to have come in time to see their Independence.
The subject turned to music. They were familiar with Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, but admitted they had not heard much other American music. Tim offered to help make up for the deficit and went to his room, returning with his tape recorder.
"Ah, what is this little box?" Mr. Kalindawala asked.
"Oh, It's a tape recorder. It plays music and it can record your voice," Tim responded.
"Mr. Tim, what do you mean it can record your voice?" Mr. Ntedza slurred.
"Here, let me show you," Tim offered, placing a blank tape in the recorder. "Now, say something," he said.
Mr. Kalindawala looked at Mr. Ntedza, "You go first."
"No, you!”
A friendly argument ensued and finally Mr. Kalindawala joked to his friend,
"Well you are my senior, I guess I must respect my father."
Both men laughed, the kind of unbridled laughter seldom encountered in our sphere of the world. Mr. Ntedza, howled, slapped his knee and reached over to his friend, gripping his knee. He moved back and forth at the waist, in rhythm with his laughter and finally slumped with fatigue. His laughter was contagious and had an asylum character to it. We began to laugh, giggle, chuckle, chortle and howl with him.
Tim rewound the recorder and played back what had just transpired.
On hearing their voices, their jaws dropped in unison and they let out a high pitched exclamation, "Aaah! Aaah! What is this?"
Both became instantaneously apoplectic. Mr. Ntedza was now lying back on the sofa, holding his belly as he roared with laughter. Mr. Kalindawala was amazed. "Joseph," he said to his friend, "there you are, barking like a hyena."
"Yes, but, my friend, you must always remember that you are my junior hyena," he rolled to the floor with the cleverness of his retort.
"Oh, Mr. Tim, do that again?" they asked with bewilderment and awe.
"Oh sure, but maybe someone should sing this time," Tim suggested.
They struggled to their feet and began singing a song, one they might have learned from their grandfathers at an initiation ceremony. It was a chant, praising their own fearlessness. They began to dance as they sang, taking turns singing the lead. It, too, was contagious and was done with absolute abandonment, almost as if in reverie of their days of innocence and irresponsibility. They stopped and told the bar man to come and hear this magic machine. Mr. Ntedza suggested he bring some more beers with him when he came.
Tim rewound the recorder and the chant reappeared. Again amazement overcame the room. "Ah! Ah! I cannot believe it." Mr. Ntedza was now in a fetal position on the sofa. Mr. Kalindawala was laughing so hard he appeared to stop breathing and at one point fell to the floor of the Zomba Rest House. Tim and Marilyn swayed with the infectious merriment. By then, I was so intoxicated by the beer and the atmosphere that I had forgotten all of my fears.
The insanity cascaded. The bar man and waiter joined in, eager to hear their own voices. "It is like magic," one of them roared. “There is an mfiti in the box!”
We smiled with satisfaction. Our magic music box was our gift to our fellow travelers; their mirth and wonderment their gift to us.
It was now midnight. I had to excuse myself because of my exhaustion and my intoxicated state. Mr. Kalindawala stood and bowed, suggesting, "just one more small drink." He reminded me once more of his invitation,
"At Forti I will find you," he promised. Mr. Ntedza insisted I stay for "just one more nightcap."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly," I said with twisted tongue.
Zikomos were exchanged all around and I was wished a pleasant sleep and safe journey. Holding on to the white washed walls for support, I found my way to my room and flopped into bed, filled with hopes that the lorry might fail us once again come morning.
Chapter 4. The Fort
I had heard it would happen but still couldn't believe it. Mrs. Higgins from the Ambassador's party had told me all about it. She said, "It’s almost like a miracle. I don't know how they do it. You never hear them but the instant you awaken it is always there; a pot of steaming tea. It's scary. It's almost like they read your mind while you are asleep. But, you'll learn to love it, Dearie, once you learn that it really isn't intended to be an invasion of your privacy."
I awoke. My head was throbbing as if it was an anvil and there had been an unseen hammer at work through the night. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head. The faint smell of tea soon enveloped me. There it was on the bedside table, still steaming. A bottle of Aspro had been thoughtfully added to the tea tray.
If possible, Tim looked even worse than I felt. Marilyn spoke for him: "The little party went on a bit longer after you left. I went to bed at about one and somehow Tim felt it would be rude if he did not accept their offer to have a few more drinks back in their room. Seems they were enraptured. They just never got tired of hearing themselves on that recorder."
"Tim, old boy, I'll bet your fraternity parties never prepared you for this, did they?" I teased.
"Marilyn, do you have to rattle your spoon so loudly when you stir your coffee?"
We learned by way of an askari that Tim and Marilyn were expected at the