our work in his village. He pledged his full support and pleaded that we "not forget the needs of my people."
Our retreat through the village brought no less excitement than our arrival. At our starting point, the women trilled again and the children reacted to us with the excitement of a circus parade. The agogo spoke again and the women responded with laughs.
"What did she say, Martin?" I asked.
"She said they would not mind lending you a man but they didn't think they had any good enough for you to keep!" he explained.
Chapter 10. The Magic Box
Saturday afternoon there was a knock on my door. It was my old friend from the Zomba Guest House, Mr. Kalindawala. He greeted me softly, almost meekly, asking if I would accept his invitation for "some lunch following church.” I told him I would be delighted and looked forward to meeting his family. The rest of the afternoon I worked on my curtains and matching bedspread. I was determined to make a mark on that small part of my world I controlled.
Ali kept his word. For dinner he served roasted goat, proudly demonstrating thriftiness. It tasted surprisingly good, reminiscent of the only venison that I had in my life but a bit more difficult to chew. Ali beamed with pride and promised that if I liked the roast tonight, "Just wait, Madam, and see what I can do with the leftovers tomorrow."
I told him about my invitation from Mr. Kalindawala and he took the opportunity to tactfully hint that with a refrigerator I would be able to enjoy curry goat on Monday but, as it was, the meat would probably not stay good until then.
I offered him the remainder of the roast, but he read this as a challenge to his integrity. "No, madam, I never take food from the kitchen. It's not right. Take a little and then start to think it's okay to take a lot”, he pontificated.
The next morning Ali was at my door, "Madam, excuse me but it is almost ten. I am just wanting to know is it that you are sick, Miss Susan?"
"No, I'm just taking it easy this morning," I responded at once feeling comfort in his concern and resentment at his nurturing. I made a decision: the first time he told me to eat my vegetables because they were good for me, I would draw the line.
I drank his tea and wondered what would be best to wear. I certainly did not want to wear anything too formal for the occasion, but at the same time, I imagined that Mr. Kalindawala would be making his own efforts to make the gathering special. I finally decided on a corduroy skirt and print blouse--- something I might wear to a Friday night dance, but not quite up to par for a Saturday night date.
My intuition was on target. It was evident that he and his family had taken steps to make my visit special. As I approached his home---a fairly new government house adjoining his school---Mr. Kalinadawala sprang to greet me. It was a strange little greeting, half-European and half-African. An African bow, with the joining of the hands as if in gratitude for a favor; a British formality, perhaps more in keeping with the arrival of a cousin to the Queen than a twenty year old American. Following his greeting, he introduced me to his wife, far less an amalgam of traditional and foreign than himself. She appeared to speak very little English and initially was deferential to the point of appearing withdrawn. She warmed up as I began to speak Chinyanja. When the two children at her side heard our interchange they began to wail with laughter. Adami, the elder of the two, dressed in a clean, newly-pressed white shirt, dark trousers and brand new shoes, readily stepped forward to shake my hand. He was polite and self-confident. His sister was reticent. Something about me struck terror in her poor little two-and-a-half-year-old heart. She gasped in panic and clung to her mother's skirt. She finally only held out her hand to me when both her mother and father were successful in prying it away from the skirt. She was wearing a petite pink and white smocked dress so fresh it must have been put on only moments before my arrival. Her feet seemed uncomfortable and a bit unaccustomed to the bright black patent leather shoes she wore with white socks with a delicate pink trim.
My first job was clear. I had to capture the confidence of the youngest in the family. I had brought some candy and a children's book in anticipation of this task and it worked quite well. Within five minutes Mariamu appeared to tolerate my presence. Within twenty minutes, we were good friends. With parental bracing she eventually was even able tolerate a few restless moments on my lap.
Soon, Mr. Kalindawala's cultural ambivalence faded. At home he was clearly African with only a thin veneer of modernism. He insisted that I call him by his Christian name, informing me that he had been given the name Mphwepi at birth but that he had been Edward since his baptism at the Mission School at age seven. Lucia, his wife, had been born into a Christian family and had her name since birth.
Their home was much like my own with similar amenities and government-issued furniture. Little effort had been expended in decoration but everything was clean and neat. Edward sensed the need for some explanation, "The Ministry of Education has transferred us seven times in eleven years. It is difficult to call any place home any more."
I assured him I knew the feeling of being an outsider.
Edward was aware from our evening at the guesthouse that I drank beer. It was difficult to appreciate whether the large volumes of beer produced were for my pleasure or whether I was participating in a regular Sunday afternoon ritual. Whatever the case, I soon had more alcohol than my own daytime tolerance would allow. I kept drinking with the thought that if I stopped it might leave Edward alone and vulnerable to his wife's approbation. I took consolation that she, too, was drinking, albeit at a more measured pace than the two of us.
After a while, Mariamu lost interest in the whole event, while Adami drifted in and out of the sitting room. There was no indication that my hosts were eager to eat; the beer was still abundant.
Midway into the second hour of our cocktails, Edward began to speak in a mildly commanding way to his wife, in rapid Chinyanja. I gleaned only an occasional word. She returned with a box.
"Edward wants to show you something," she said, handing the box to me.
I opened it. "Ah! Ah! Edward you have bought a tape recorder!"
From the corner, Adami's half-interested voice interjected, "Oh, no, Madam. We have had that recorder for two years."
My anger spiked immediately. At first it was real. I had been duped, made fun of, victimized, forced to drink beer and watch two drunk pranksters make fools out of three naive Americans. My real anger subsided and turned theatric when Lucia explained, "Poor Edward, he has been so upset that he could not be your friend until he told you the truth."
I turned on him. "You are a dog, no, a laughing hyena. You are as dumb as a chicken and as cruel as a baboon. You are as mean and nasty as a she-goat in heat and as smelly as an elephant." Suddenly I was grateful for the lesson in "village cursing" that Justin, our language instructor, had given me one night in Boston after we had consumed a few American beers.
His wife added, in rapidly-improving English, "And as potent as an old billy goat!"
By this point Edward had rolled to the ground laughing. He cowered as I pounded him on the back. His wife watched appreciatively. "You are a scoundrel and lower than steamy cow manure! You are a liar and a fool, but, I think, perhaps, we can be friends," I said.
Mariamu regained interest in the proceedings at this point. I would have to leave it to her future therapist to determine what permanent psychological damage might have been caused by the sight of an Mzungu woman bashing her drunken father on the floor of her home while her mother
