and then politely drifted from his small circle to talk with some of the others who were on the khonde and enjoy the splendor of sunset on the Shire.
Suddenly, I was overcome with a desire to flee, to run down the street and knock on the Wilson’s door, begging them to let me join their Saturday night Scrabble twosome. The impulse subsided when the Colonel's wife asked me what appeared to be a very sincere question,
"Susan, what has it been like so far? Everything you expected?"
The question was so open ended; the answer so complex and so confusing. I feared that if I shared the truth I might break into tears. I chose vagueness and sugar coating in reply, with as stiff an upper lip as I could muster. "Frankly, it has been a bit rough getting started, but undoubtedly it will get much better. I am very anxious to get on with my work in the village."
Betsy, as she asked me to call her, said that the British had a similar volunteer program and that a number of nurses would be coming out in the near future to work in rural hospitals. I envied the structure of their assignments and would have opted to empty bed pans on the cancer ward rather than doing what I was doing--- but felt that I had covered my feelings adequately.
Then, as if for the enjoyment of our visitors from the city, a hippo announced himself from among the reeds along the river's shore. The massive beast let out a resonant bellow for the D.C.'s ensemble and I felt a momentary twinge of pride that he was a creature of the Fort.
With the aid of another gin-and-tonic, I began to feel more relaxed. I asked myself when was the last time I had dined with a district commissioner, a magistrate, a police chief and a colonel and then decided to make the best of it.
Dining in Fort Johnston proved to be a leisurely event. Dinner was not served until around ten o'clock. To no great surprise, the D.C. seated me between the Police Chief and himself.
The conversation at the dinner table was predictable if not predetermined. In less than three months the Union Jack would be lowered for the last time and the Nyasaland Protectorate would become the Nation of Malawi. Each of the men around the table would have a new boss, a man who had become an African nationalist in the most extraordinary way.
The ruddy-faced colonel, animated and domineering, now slurring a good share of his words, was the designee to tell the story that they all knew so well. It might have been for my benefit, but I suspect it was more like the repeated telling of a ghost story around the campfire---an attempt to gain mastery over a scary and threatening, ill-defined monster.
"This Banda is an interesting fellow," he began. "I've only met him once, but he was full of assurance that he intended us to stay in charge of the Rifles. He said that he didn't see there being enough trained natives to run the Government and that he was looking for many of us to stay on. I certainly hope so, because this bloody place will go down the loo pretty damn quick if they turn it over to the bloody wogs."
The others around the table nodded in agreement and gave the Colonel approval to pursue his prerogative to expound.
"He is a clever little fellow, this Banda, no doubt about it. The story goes that he was born up in the Kasungu region, in a typical, dirt-poor village with nothing much going for it except a mission trying to win souls by educating the watotos and holding splendid sing-songs on Sundays. Anyway, it seems little Hastings got his name from one of the missionaries favored by his parents. He must have been a bloody bright enough chap. At any rate, they say he learned to read and write in a snap. He was so good that when he was only twelve the missionaries arranged to send him up to the Livingstonia Mission to train as a teacher."
The colonel stopped momentarily as a bombo refilled his wine glass and then he forged ahead, as colonels must do, not particularly concerned whether he had captured his audience yet. "Anyway, the story goes that the little fellow was taking his first exam at the school and was placed in the back of the classroom, behind a burly lad who was blocking his view of the blackboard. When he stood up to see the blackboard, one of the instructors thought he was trying to cheat and called him in front of the class. Apparently, he wanted to hear none of the young Banda's side of the story and kept berating him for his dishonesty. This was more embarrassment than Banda was prepared to take. The next day little Hastings was gone. Barefoot and penniless, he walked to Southern Rhodesia where he hoped to continue his studies. But, when he reached Bulawayo, he had to take a job as an orderly in a local hospital just to eat and he wasn't able to get on with his studies as he had planned. Soon, he took off again on foot. This time he made his way to Johannesburg where he had better luck. During the days he worked underground in the gold mines and at night he went to school. After some time, a group of American Missionaries took note of his talents and arranged for him to go to the States to continue his education."
"And it proved to be a good investment. He's been sucking on America's tit ever since," the D.C. huffed, quickly relinquishing the podium back to the Colonel.
"Anyway, he must have done well in high school, because he was able to continue his studies at the University of Chicago and then, perhaps, motivated by his spell as an orderly in Rhodesia, he was determined to go to medical school. At this point there was little that could stop young Hastings and he was able to work his way into Meharry Medical School. I've heard Meharry is an all-black school in the South that gave him a bitter and lasting taste of segregation. Apparently he wasn't allowed into restaurants and had to drink from a spigot marked for darkies only. I've heard he has told some of his friends that he had been treated much better in South Africa than he ever was in America. On the other hand, he's known to be favorably inclined toward the States because of the opportunity that it provided him. At any rate, no one is expecting him to tilt toward the communists.
"He left the States after medical school and went to Edinburgh for more training before he set up practice in England. That was just before the war. He eventually moved from the North to London and he must have prospered. His cozy row house in Kilburn took on a faintly conspiratorial air, I'm told. Friends like Kenyatta and Nkrumah would drop by for tea and political chat. But Dr. Banda himself never seemed drawn back to his own country and, in fact, in the end, actually had to be more or less dragged back.
"When McMillan started to talk about the Winds of change in Africa and it had become clear that we had much more to lose than to gain by trying to hang on to this penniless, land- locked relic of a colony, Banda's name began to be bantered about as someone who could be the 'father figure' that the new nation needed," the colonel paused to sip his wine.
"Unfortunately for Banda, his supporters brought him back a little too soon and he had to spend a couple of years in jail in Rhodesia to control his rabble-rousing, while we were in the business of paving the way for a smooth transition," he said with a blush of self-satisfaction.
"He sure can work up a crowd," the D.C. interjected.
"Oh, there's no doubt about it. He can raise hell! But they say he is nowhere near as fiery as he makes out to be in his speeches. You must remember, he's basically a bloody Brit in wog's clothing. My God, when he landed in Chileka Airport in '58, he didn't even speak the language. Imagine that, the hero returns, thousands of worshipers there to meet him and he can't even speak the first word of Chinyanja to them. It is going to be interesting, that's all I can tell you."
Dinner was served, and with a few glasses of wine, my giddiness set in. I dared not burst out in front of the D.C. or his guests, but it all struck me as incongruous beyond imagination. There was not a black face to be seen, other than the D.C’s faithful "boys," who were apparently thought to be invisible or unable to comprehend the conversation. And, there I was, Peace Corps Volunteer, idealistic and dedicated, drunk on the District Commissioner's booze and beside myself with the absurdity of it all. How could I ever describe this to my friends back home? There was probably no sense in trying.
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