Ministry put us up at its training center, in two large dorms with cooks to provide our meals and a variety of servants waited eagerly to attend to our every need. But our time in Blantyre would be short. It was twenty-four hours until that moment when we'd learn our final destinations. We all knew just enough about our new country to know that the luck of the draw could make all the difference—the difference between a city or a village; a Christian or a Muslim culture; the lake or the highlands. In some cases, it could mean the difference between survival and failure.
I took a deep breath. The Director announced that I would be going to Fort Johnston. I had no idea whether I was a winner or a loser in the draw. The name alone made me feel cheated. Others were getting to go to places with real African names like Karonga, Dowa, Nkotakota, Kazungu, and Mzimba. I was ending up with a town undoubtedly named for a missionary, explorer or British civil servant. It didn't seem like an auspicious start.
Accumulated wisdom varied as to the luck of my draw. Mr. Blackwell said Fort Johnston was hot and humid with lots of mosquitoes and malaria. Alfred Shambira, a Nyanja from the central part of the country, the local director of the Peace Corps, said that I was lucky because I would be able to get fresh fish every day, but added I would have to be careful not to swim in the lake because of the hippos, crocs and bilharzia.
I would find out for myself in a few days. I figured it gave me just enough time to research the snakes of the region and make my absolutely final decision about going.
It turned four and I was quickly aware of the significance of that hour in the tropics. "Madam your tea is ready on the khonde." One of the servants, Robinson, bowed and then retreated taking his first five steps backwards, his hands touching tip to tip in a respectful manner. He returned as I was refilling my cup. "Excuse me, Memsab, someone here to see you."
"Who is it?" I wondered out loud.
"It is the man who says he talked with you yesterday, Madam." He then added graciously,
"Maybe you cannot recall him, but he is someone I know. Can I bring him to you?"
I looked at Jan, pouting about her assignment to Karonga, so far to the north that she would have to learn an entirely new language, so remote that trips back to Blantyre were measured in terms of days, not hours. "What the hell, Susan. What's another surprise for today? Go for it," she said, raising her eyebrows, her pinky finger extended like a proper plantation owner's wife as she sipped her tea.
"Memsab, I hope I am not a trouble to you and the other Donna. I can return at your pleasure." It was rheumy-eyed old Ali, creeping forward like a cat stalking a chipmunk. He had exchanged his waiter's coat and battered fez for a flowing kanzu and a beaded cap. "Excuse me Madam, but I am too happy for you because my friend says that you are going to Fort Johnston, my home. I am too happy for you, Madam."
"Oh hello, it's you, Ali," I replied, his chiseled teeth bringing instantaneous reverie. "Moni bombo. Muli bwanji?"... “Hello, Sir. How are you?”
"Oh, Madam, your Chinyanja is too good," he said, responding, "Dili bwino. Kaya inu?"....”I’m fine. How about you?”
"Dili bwino," I said, completing the greeting, with more than a modest sense of accomplishment.
He laughed, "But, Madam, you are going to have to learn to speak Chiyao—my language—if you are going to Forti."
"Going where?" I questioned.
"Oh Madam, Forti is what we call Fort Johnston. I should have known the Memsab might not have heard that yet."
Forti still did not sound very African. "I'm afraid I don't know much about it."
"It is where I was born and my people are still there. Perhaps I can show you around the villages," Ali offered.
That is very kind of you, but I am sure there will be people there to guide me," I said, with less assurance than my response might have conveyed.
Then, Jan asked, "And Ali, what can you tell me about Karonga?"
His face wrinkled, like he'd just eaten a persimmon (at least, what I imagined eating a persimmon would do to one's face), "Oh, papani! " he replied with a look of concern. "Is that where you are going? Oh, that is too bad."
“Yea, that's what they all tell me," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, papani. It is too far. Even I have not seen it. It is too far."
Jan looked at me despondently, "I'd like to think it's just the luck of the draw, but what is it about this girl from Minneapolis that gives anyone the slightest hint she is going to be able to survive the wilds of Karonga?"
"Maybe, you will like it there," he consoled, adding, "The fish there is too good!"
Jan looked at me and sighed, "I'm beginning to pity all those poor people going to pleasant little places that don't have fish."
I laughed, "Jan, I have a feeling that you are going to love it...Karonga...nice place...the fish is too good!"
Ali interrupted the gallows humor. "Memsab ?..."
I gave him a look to let him know that such formality was not needed.
"Madam Jarrett", he continued.
"No. No. Call me Susan," I said, instinctively wondering whether this would be too informal for an elderly Muslim habituated to decades of "Bwanas,” "Memsabs" and "Donnas".
"Miss Susan," he continued, "I am very eager to see my village again. I have worked for many years in Blantyre. I would like to go back to my home. I have worked for Bwana Bradley for five years, but he has just gone home to U.K. Now I am free to work for you. You will need a cook in Forti and I would work as houseboy for you too, even though for Mr. Bradley I was just a cook," adding by way of explanation, "He had such a big house and so many big dinner parties that one bombo could not do all the work. Here, read his letter," he said taking it from itswell-worn manila envelope.
"Ali, I could never afford a cook like you. This letter says you are famous for your cooking. I simply could not afford a cook like you."
"Here, look at my chit book," he begged, placing it in my hand. The passport-sized chit book began with its first reference dated July 17, 1905:
Ali, a Yao from Mangochi, was employed by me as a kitchen boy for four years. His work was always excellent. He has excellent manners and understands proper hygiene but requires guidance because of his young age. The reason for his termination is the completion of my career and imminent return to the United Kingdom. I straightforwardly recommend Ali to anyone seeking an honest servant, willing to learn."
The signature was pure Victorian scroll. Ali continued his sales pitch, "That was from Bwana Elliott. He was the District Commissioner in Zomba. He was too nice. He built the Blantyre-Zomba road. His wife liked me too much because I was such a young toto, and I would play with her children when I was not working in the kitchen."
"Well Ali, how old are you now?" I asked.
"Madam, in this country no one knows his age. I was about seven years old when I first went to work for Mr. Elliott and I have been working since."
A quick calculation made him well over seventy years old. His chit book was a museum piece. His references were magnificent. "I have told you I cannot
