The Warm Heart of Africa. Kevin M. Denny
began to well up and then ran in rivulets down my dusty cheeks. This was not what I'd expected. There was not an African living within two hundred yards of me. I felt guilty about my hot water, electricity that stayed on until eleven at night and a seventy-year-old cook who sent his wife home alone in the dark---to tend to my needs. How different would my greeting have been if I were living in a village, perhaps with a freshly-mudded and thatched hut proudly built for my arrival, with music, dancing and drinking carrying on until the morning hours? I wiped the dust and tears from my face with water that was beginning to warm.
The omelet, fried potatoes and carrots were delicious. Ali proved his mettle.
Soon I fell asleep, as a mosquito whirled annoyingly around my net-draped bed---a womb that provided, for the moment, a psychological haven from the world that surrounded me.I awoke to a knocking at the door. It was the D.C.’s askari, "Good morning, Memsab. Did you sleep well, I hope? The D.C. hopes it is your pleasure to come to his office at eight o'clock. Can I tell him that is good?"
"Certainly. Yes. Please tell him I'll be there," I replied, adjusting to the bright light of day.
Ali approached, "Look, I have some very nice fish for you, chambo." He showed me two large fishes in a bucket of water, still swimming. "One for dinner and one for now," he explained.
He served breakfast apologetically, "No tomatoes at the market this morning. I will go back again."
The chambo was filleted, fried and marvelous. The potatoes were crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. The carrots were over-cooked, English style, but sweet and delicious.
The D.C. was dressed as the evening before, except today's ascot was green rather than maroon. "I hope you slept well."
"Wonderfully, I said, not about to admit that the sleep was miserable and the tears plentiful.
"How's that new boy of yours working out?" he asked.
"He's terrific and I've already had my first chambo. It was excellent."
"One of the joys of Mangochi!" After a pause he added, "You know you have come to a rather difficult area, don't you?" Pointing across the river and upward toward the lake he explained, "The area is predominantly Yao. They are almost all Muslims, converted by the Arab slave traders that came from Zanzibar a hundred years ago. The Yao threw their lot in with the Arabs and became their middlemen. The grandfather of Chief Makangila was one of the most bloodthirsty slavers that the world had ever seen, until we put our gunboats on the lake. His prey was the pagans and Christians on this side of the lake who were defenseless against his guns and thugs. At one point, it was so bad that almost every village from here to Nkotakota was either decimated by the slavers or abandoned for fear of their attack."
I nodded my head, but could not imagine the horror of men hunting men.
"Feelings still run high at times," he added, "but the Christians and the Muslims get along reasonably well, especially since they both know which law they must follow now," he said, once again reinforcing the importance of his office, in which he apparently served as administrator, judge, enforcer of the law and minor deity. "Miss Jarrett, do be careful. Around here it is very easy to get yourself involved in some pretty messy things without much effort. The Yao are very proud and quick to show their temper but they know who is in charge now. The Nyanja are a more docile crowd, always have been. They are pretty content if they have their daily ration of nsima and ndiwo. The biggest trouble we have with them is when the maize is harvested. They always feel that they have produced a surplus, even in the worst of years, and they turn the surplus into native beer. With this mowa they get a bit wild at time---a murder here or a rape there---but they usually just stick to their villages and dance until they pass out. They're fine until the next day, when it starts again, until the beer runs out. The shame of it is that every year there are villages that run out of maize before the next harvest and those are the difficult times. The hospitals fill up with children suffering from malnutrition. But those are the lucky ones; most never make it to the hospital. There would be plenty of food most years if the men didn't leave all the hoeing to the women and if they didn't then turn the harvest into beer. Anyway, I encourage you to find a Christian village to work in. The missionaries have done a splendid job, they really have. In one of the villages where the missionaries have been you'll always find blokes, especially younger ones, who speak enough English to help you on your way. The Yao, if they get any education at all it is at the hands of the ulemu, who just teaches them how to memorize the Koran."
I nodded again.
He looked at his wristwatch, "For the first couple of days I'm sure you'll just want to settle in and get to know the place a bit. This afternoon you will be meeting Mr. Mlanga. He is the Senior Medical Assistant. We don't have a doctor here but he's bloody good. He runs the hospital, and quite frankly, although he's never been to medical school, I'd rather have him cut out my appendix than some of foreign-educated baboons I've seen come here who couldn't stand the bush for more than a month and had to get back to the big city as soon as they could. Anyway, he's expecting you and he'll show you the hospital and tell you about the people you'll be working with."
"Thanks, Mr. Marsden. I'm looking forward to seeing the hospital."
"Great. Mlanga will be expecting you about two o'clock, but he will be working on African time no doubt. Sorry I have to run. I have to get out to one of those bloody village courts and try to settle a dispute about some goats or chickens or some other ridiculous thing. Seems they have some buggers out there who still want to take on the justice part of things with their pangas.
"Thanks again," I muttered.
"Fine. Let me know if there is anything you need. Remember, although this may be Muslim territory, we still work on Fridays around here, but most of those who have Muslim boys give them half the day off. Righto, then I'm off. Perhaps I'll see you over at the Club later. And, oh, do remember, you are free to join. We have special membership rates for short-timers like yourself and I know this Peace Corps thing does not come with a lot of money. I am sure we can work something out for you."
As he accompanied me to the door, I wondered what his criterion was for "short-term." To me, two years seemed far from short. Then he asked, "Have you done some exploring around the Fort yet?"
"Not really, I'm planning to have to look around this morning."
"Well, I think you'll find the place to be in a bit of decay these days but, at one time, it was a rather grand old place. Cheerio."
I couldn't believe my ears. They still said Righto and Cheerio---just like in those old British war movies. Maybe the sun never did set on the Empire. One thing was sure, my snooker---whatever kind of English "hit-the-ball-with-a-stick" game it was---would be no more advanced when I left than it was at the moment, for I would not be joining the cloob!
I walked to the ferry and saw the Shire by daylight for the first time. It was surprisingly swift. Gigantic masses of vegetation, floating islands called sudd, drifted down the river. Teams of fisherman cast their nets from dugout canoes. Groups of villagers awaited the return of the ferry: old men carrying heavy loads on their bicycles, mothers with babies wrapped with colorful cloth on their back, and the old and infirm returning from their visits to the hospital. Children were playing everywhere. A gaggle of small boys swam and jostled each other at the river's edge. Toddlers, usurped from their position on their mother's backs or breasts, played with stones while their mothers conversed with each other, awaiting the return of the ferry.
I had not gone unnoticed. The swimming boys began their "Mzungu" chant. A barely-walking infant stared at me and then in terror broke into tears and ran in panic to the comfort of his mother. The women began to smile and laugh with each other, though seconds before the conversation had been somber.
"Moni, Amai. Muli Bwanji?" I used my flawless greeting.
The women laughed and turned their heads shyly. They returned my greeting, but also made it clear that the conversation could not go much further---they spoke Chiyao, as different from the language we'd learned as English was from Lithuanian. The universal language of infant admiration carried the moment, however. The mothers were friendly and smiling