Lusaka life

M. goes to get her hair plaited and drops me off at Kabwata Cultural Centre, a residential centre where young people are encouraged in traditional arts. At the centre of the community, around eight small huts display every shape of wood carving, soapstone and metal sculpture. There are tables in each hut crammed with carved goods. Each table belongs to a craftsman, and in each hut, carvings are thrust into my hands for admiration.
It is early morning and I realize that I am the only shopper.
There are nice things, some traditional African – some more abstract. But having the goods thrust into my hands feels oppressive, and I knew I have to be firm. “I am only looking just now. I just want to see your style. I will come back in a few weeks, before I leave.”
In one hut the radio is tuned to a talkshow. The artisans lean in to listen keenly and give me little attention.
“Mugabe is a true African. Mugabe is on the right track,” a radio voice announces.
“Who is that?” I ask.
An intent listener looks up with a smile. “Michael Sata – our next President.”
“We must push out these foreign investors – these infestors!” He announces. The men in the hut laugh, and I leave feeling suddenly unwelcome.
But I do buy something. Two roughly hewn bowls from a woman who is clearly pregnant and has a child with pale kwashiorkor hair and a nose etched in green snot. The woman and child remind me of the Zambia I used to know – poor green-nosed children, women in chitenges – and not a mobile phone in sight.
I hurry out of the market and pause at the Salaula stalls that line the road. These sell the clothes that are shipped from our charity shops – all items worn, most donated to local high street shops. I see football jerseys, ladies jackets, bras and trousers. Women sift intently through the fabrics. I’d like to go and browse, but after hearing Michael Sata’s comments about ‘foreign infesters’, I feel I should move on.
Along Burma Road, the minivan drivers toot their horns as I walk, but again I am seeking a taxi. I need to go to the car rental office at the Intercontinental Hotel in the embassy section of town. Somehow I don’t think that’s on the mini van route.
I follow the dusty track toward Nationalist Road and the University Teaching Hospital. The last time I walked this road was 25 years ago, and I’d met Maggie Chisulu. We’d been friends up at my old hospital in Northern Province. She was a Registered Nurse and had hated rural living – it had ruffled her modern feathers and Maggie was a very up-to-date woman.
She loved to talk about the plans for her white wedding to her businessman fiancé, and I loved to tease her. “Oh, these businessmen, you can’t marry one of them – they have women in every town.”
But Maggie would smile “No, no, he is a Christian!” The two of us would laugh when she said this, although I was never sure why.
Maggie’s ward was across from mine. She was in charge of men’s surgical. The light was dimmer there and the air staler. But when Rosalie or the other nuns grew irksome, I would cross to Maggie’s ward and sound off on my frustrations. Sometimes, I let off too much steam and called the nuns names that would make Maggie’s eyes grow wide. But she would let me spit and fume and, when I was through, Maggie would giggle and I would laugh and feel so much better.
And then Maggie would ask a question on English wedding protocol – she so wanted her day to be right.
But I was the worst person to ask. “Marriage, Maggie, is for women who want to loose their freedom.”
She would shake her head. “No, no, my fiancé is a good man – he is a Christian.”
And then the two of us would really laugh.
But the most unique thing about Maggie was her faith – not in God, but in me! She thought I could do anything. One evening she and her housemate, Ruth, heard noises outside their door. The next morning she told me of her fear and said, “But, it was alright because I looked out the window and saw you saying goodbye to a friend and I knew you would not let anything happen to me.”
Another day Melitta and I had some Yugoslav engineers visit. We’d met them the night before at a bar Melitta’s boyfriend had taken us to. None of the Yugoslavs spoke English, but one did have some knowledge of German, so he would translate his friend’s words from Serbo-Croat to German; while Melitta would translate the statement me.
Maggie had seen their vehicle outside our house and came by to ask if our friends would give her a lift to Mpika, 30 kilometres away.
With Melitta translating to German and the engineer translating to Serbo-Croat, our guests agreed.
But their journey wasn’t a straight one. They took a detour off the tar road and headed far into the bush along a narrow dust track. They told Maggie in Serbo-Croat that they had to stop and check an electrical generator, but she couldn’t understand a word.
The next day she told me that she held onto her seat imagining rape and murder. But, she said with a big smile on her face, “I kept reminding myself that Yvonne knows where I am and Yvonne will not let anything happen to me.”
But I’d met Maggie on this road by accident after she was married. She had been posted to the University Teaching Hospital in Lusaka so she could live with her husband. I was visiting the VSO house and going to market when I saw her heading out of the hospital.
When we saw each other we laughed so hard. She invited me back to her flat, and we both giggled together as she showed me her rooms, her furnishings and, of course, her wedding photos. I was thrilled for Maggie. I never did meet her husband, but I’ve always hoped he was good to her.
Nationalist Road feels tighter than before, and I want to peer through the gates to find the VSO house. This was like a youth hostel for volunteers and a great place for conversation. Paul was our host – Paul who sat up late many nights listening as I complained about the nuns. But Paul is dead now, shot by robbers in Uganda, the posting he had taken after Zambia.
I pause at the old VSO house, but mini vans coming from the hospital toot their horns almost repeatedly to get my custom, and I feel guarded. I don’t want to be seen looking for something, like a stranger who doesn’t know the neighbourhood. So I keep a brisk pace and look ahead until I see a blue cab and I flag him down.
The taxi is old, no outside door handle, and the worn seats are covered with crocheted lace. The driver, an older, cheery man, asks how I am. I love these greetings – the words sound sincere – like people really want to know how you are.
“I am very well,” I say. “And you?”
He nods. “The rains will come soon, and we will have a good harvest on my brother’s farm.”
As we drive past the hospital, I tell him that I once knew this road so well, but it has changed – more buildings!
“Ah, it is getting old now – and overcrowded.”
We pause at a red light and four young boys stop at my window with their hands out. Their faces are dusty and their look firm, almost defiant as they held out their hands for money. I look at the driver for direction. “They are orphans?” I ask.
He shrugs and moves the car forward as the light changes, and my decision to give or not is taken away.
“What do you think we should do about the orphans?” I ask him.
“Madam, if I knew the answer to that question, then they would make me president.”
His answer is evasive, and we both know the question wasn’t fair. Too many parents have died, and too many people are raising their off-spring. The country is now saturated with what is known in political-speak as ‘orphans and vulnerable young people’. Statistics put the number at about 20 percent of all children. I think about the four boys faces – they weren’t cute, but they were hungry and I now wished I had given them money.
The InterContinental is cool and spacious after the dusty streets. The car rental office has a closed sign on its door, so I head to the restaurant for lunch. It’s my first meal of the day. M. by her own admission, is not a cook and goes for long periods with little food. I have been following her example, but suddenly I have a headache and know I need something to eat.
My eyes scan the menu – pizza, pasta, the usual fare aimed at the western palate. An omelette sounds good – protein, which I’m sure I need – and the fries that come with it sound so attractive. But what if the eggs aren’t cooked through?
I look at the meat option and worry that it might by old.
A cheese sandwich sounds safe, but I need the protein. And some iron – I have my period.
In a fit of daring, I settle on lasagne. But the waiter looks at me in surprise. As he hurries off I wonder if I’ve chosen something that has sat in the kitchen for a while – like a lucky antique that everyone has grown fond of.
The food takes a long time, so I eat the bread and hope the lasagna is being made from scratch. When it finally arrives, it tastes odd – old or maybe just tasteless. I peer into the tomato sauce and can see no signs of green leaf to indicate basil or oregano. I pick at the dish until my stomach feels sated but not full.
I have a habit of never finishing what’s on my plate – call it rebellion left over from childhood. I often heard those catchphrases on ‘starving Africans’, but I always knew that finishing my dinner would never help them. I simply don’t’ have a massive appetite – small and frequent has been my habit. In restaurants at home, chef’s have come out from kitchens to ask if there was something wrong with the food, and I’ve always shaken my head. The food was good, I just don’t like that feeling of fullness. Maybe we ply our plates too high – abundance can be a bad thing, especially when those who go without are far away.
But here in Zambia it’s different. There is no denying the hungry children – I just saw them.
I feel the waiter’s wide-eyed stare as he arrives at my table. “Madam, was the food to your satisfaction?”
“Yes,” I nod and smile my assurance. “It was very filling.” But I feel guilty. The starving children are out there – and the waiter knows it.