in the reedy brush along the river.
Sleep mercifully put a stop to my ruminations, but it could not have been earlier than 3:00 a.m., because I had been checking my watch with my flashlight regularly up until that time. In the morning, my fitful sleep was interrupted by the crowing of a rooster in my neighbor's compound. The sun had risen and I had survived the night. I also began to realize how much comfort I derived from Ali's presence. He had come to represent safety, security and selflessness in such a few short days.
I felt so stupid, like a honeymooner waking up and telling her loving husband that she should never have married. I wanted to go home. I would never make it.
After breakfast I went to the hospital and met Mr. Kamwendo, my "counterpart." He was young and shy. After some gentle negotiations, it was agreed that I would call him Martin and he would call me Susan, although I could sense his residual unease with the informality of the arrangement. He detailed for me his responsibilities as a health assistant. Tactfully, he let me know that, although he had been assigned to work with me, there would be times when he would have other responsibilities, such as when there was a suspected outbreak of smallpox or when he had to participate in a vaccination campaign. He seemed eager to learn about our project and assured me that T.B. was a very serious problem in the villages. He also explained that his day would have to be devoted to completing his paperwork for the immunization program. He suggested that work begin in earnest on Monday, saying he would take me to some villages to meet the village headman. He said the ufumus would be the key to any success in our work.
With nothing to do past 9:30, I returned home and continued my novel where I had left off at last night's "blackout". At noon I took the ferry across the river and wandered into the small market on the opposite shore. I soon became accustomed to the adult stares and the children’s frightened reactions. I began a rather extended conversation as I bargained for groundnuts. Women selling their wares---rice, maize, flour, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, dried fish and groundnuts---began laughing as if my attempts to communicate had brought comic relief to a routine day in the market.
I walked back to the ferry eating my roasted groundnuts and studied Fort Johnston from the opposite shore for the first time. It had the profile of a small town, which, at one time, might have been industrious and thriving. Now it awaited a new dawn.
I returned home, the rest of my groundnuts serving as my lunch.
As promised, Ali returned by mid-afternoon. He built a fire for my bath and brought me tea. "You did not eat anything I left you," he reprimanded.
"No, I was not hungry, but the tea tastes good, thanks," I begged his forgiveness.
"It is very difficult Madam, being away from your family, isn't it?" he asked, triggering thoughts of everyone I now missed so dearly. "Not to worry, Miss Susan," he consoled, "You will make friends here very soon."
"I hope so. I certainly hope you are right," I said, enjoying the comforting warmth of the tea.
With Ali's return, I had slept well and my appetite had returned. As if to compensate for his absence, breakfast was huge, with eggs, toast and fresh chambo. I began to cry. Ali insisted on knowing what was wrong. When I told him my fears of being alone, he said he would no longer go to his own village on Thursday night but would remain to sleep in his quarters adjacent to the kitchen. I objected. The next day he discretely made arrangements for his sister's son, Rafiki, to stay with me in his absence...for a mere five shillings a month.
After eating I went to my room and had a talk with myself. "Susan, the choice is yours. You can feel sorry for yourself or you can pull yourself together. There is no one else who can take care of you. It is up to you." Surprisingly, my pep talk encouraged me. I felt better and set out a plan for the day. I realized I must make my roundouval my home and I needed to do things to personalize my government-issued accommodations.
I unpacked the rest of my belongings, placing family pictures on the chest in my sitting room. I walked to the dukas and leisurely picked out a colorful floral material for curtains and matching pillows for the sitting room. My afternoon project, cutting the patterns, made me feel productive. By evening the tailor who occupied the veranda of one of the Indian shops had completed the sewing. By evening the sitting room was pleasant enough for sitting. At about eight, Ali asked, “You are not going to the cloob, madam? Everyone goes there on Saturday night."
I knew he wouldn't understand my explanation, so I simply shrugged it off, "No, I'm too tired tonight."
Ever since Chapel Hill, Sundays have meant just one thing---a morning to recover after a night of partying. The next morning I awoke and felt guilty that I was not going to church. I wondered what inner need I was attempting to fill.
After breakfast, I explored the town. Along the road back to Blantyre, brightly dressed women with children in tow or on their backs paraded jauntily down the road. Occasionally they were accompanied by their husbands, also in their Sunday finest. From all directions, they filed into a small, but quite elegant, church, brick with a grass roof, not out of context for Devonshire or Leeds. At first I simply passed by, leery of being a stranger, reluctant to intrude on a local rite. But returning from my walk, I was enticed by the sounds and was drawn to the door.
Strangely familiar hymns were being sung with enthusiasm by the worshipers kneeling on the cement floor. The sound was African. On one side of the churchwomen began the refrain, their voices high pitched and feminine. The men on the opposite side gave the response in melodic, masculine falsetto. I faintly recalled the hymn, but the words were Chinyanja and the atmosphere so African that accompanying drums would not have been out of place. A woman next to the door motioned to me to come to a space on the floor near her. I knelt and felt the spirit of the moment; my aloneness began to lift.
I spent the afternoon completing my pillows and writing letters. After dinner, I walked to the river, and sitting at the foot of Victoria's monument, I watched the most colorful sunset of my life---pinks changing to golds, then to blues and finally to magentas, as the day exhausted itself with grace and beauty.
Lingering on the steps of the monument I felt proud that I had survived my first weekend at the “Fort.”
Next morning, there was already a crowd at the hospital by the time I arrived. Martin was several minutes late and apologized. He explained the need to change our schedule: "I am sorry to tell you, I have just learned that the senior health assistant will be visiting tomorrow and I must have my monthly reports complete. That means I cannot go with you to the village today. Tomorrow I must be here to be available to him as well."
I reminded myself that I was a guest in the country. In training, it had been emphasized it might take months for us to be accepted, but patience would have its own reward. I rescheduled with Martin for Wednesday morning.
I felt uncomfortable around the hospital, as if a voyeur. Our training had been so limited; I had so few skills to offer. It was evident that the medical assistants and nurses knew their jobs and were dedicated to their patients. I didn't want to intrude; the work we had been trained to do would have to be done in the villages. I did, however, enter the children's ward and looked for the tiny girl that Mr. Mlanga had admitted for measles. At first the nurse did not recall the child but then said, "Oh yes, I know the one you mean," she said. "The poor thing took pneumonia and none of the medicines could help her. She died yesterday."
I could visualize the child's eyes. She was real. I encountered death for the first time in my life.
Chapter 8. The First White Woman
Wednesday morning Martin
