I wake up and sleepily check the time. 5:30! It's the morning of my move, and I've slept later than usual. The sun is already rising.
I shower and dress for my last breakfast at Mafumu Lodge, very happy to again eat out on the patio by the garden.
When I return to my room, I realize how little I need to do to be ready. Why not relax for a while, read, review my photos? I have time.
The ring of the room's phone surprises me. My first thoughts are of all of my family and friends in North America, but then I remind myself that there are people here who already know me and may need to reach me.
"Hello?" I answer. "Good morning, madam," a woman's voice replies. "Your taxi is here." "My taxi!" It is only 8:00, and I hadn't expected to be picked up until 10:00. "Okay, tell him I'll be ready in ten minutes," I say, reflexively accommodating.
I hang up and look around. I haven't even started to get ready. And Marine isn't expecting me yet. What will happen if I arrive at Savanna Courtyard two hours early? She might not even have the key to our flat. Why am I rushing?
I pick up the phone and call the number for reception. The woman's voice answers. "Could you please ask the taxi driver to come back at ten o'clock?" I ask, feeling both relieved and proud. I am not just a passenger or something to be transported, as I've felt so often in the past few days. I am an active agent!
Before 10:00, I am packed and begin to take my luggage to the parking lot. One of the men on staff sees me and comes to carry my bags for me, scolding me laughingly for trying to do it myself. Not tipping him feels awkward, but apparently that is how it's done here. In any case, I don't know what amount would have been insulting, and what would have been too much. Refraining seems simpler.
Weeks later, I read about a Nigerian woman's reaction to tipping in the United States; how every time she does it, she feels like she's paying a bribe. I laugh, recognizing my experience through the looking glass.
A new home
When I arrive at #10 Savanna Courtyard, Marine is waiting outside to greet me. "I just got the key now," she says. "When I knocked on the landlord's door, the man who works for him answered. He asked me to come back later — I think Faheed was still sleeping, and he didn't want to wake him — but I told him you were coming with your things, so we needed the key now. If it had been just me, I'm sure he would have made me wait."
We're both very happy to finally get settled.
Our white, solid wood front door opens into a large, open living space. On the left is a living room with a simple couch, two matching arm chairs, four end tables, a coffee table, a television, and a desk. On the right is the kitchen and dining area. We have a small stove, or “cooker” as it’s called here, a small refrigerator, black wooden table and chairs to seat six, a short pantry shelf, and a small, plastic washing machine.
All the walls are brick, most of them painted white. The high, peaked ceiling is made of varnished wood with black caulking running through the join at the top.
The middle of the back wall opens into a short hallway that leads to bedrooms on the left and right. Each bedroom has its own small bathroom with a tiled, concrete shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. Marine takes the bedroom on the left with a queen-size bed and white mosquito net. I take the one on the right with two twin beds, each with a blue mosquito net. With a couple pillows against the wall, one bed becomes my “couch”, and will be a guest bed when I have visitors.
Although our new home looks simple to me, Marine tells me how much cleaner and better equipped it is than the flat she was sharing with Jonathan. The next day, our colleague and neighbour Chenai drops in after church and confirms this with her exclamations. "You have headboards," she exclaims, "and your walls are so white!" "Our cooker elements aren't just either off or on high, like the one in the flat I shared with Jonathan — they actually adjust their temperatures,” Marine tells her. Until hearing their comments, I hadn't even realized that these were things for which to be grateful.
The market and Chipiku
Since neither of us have much, unpacking only takes a couple hours. Once I'm done, my thoughts turn to groceries. "How do I get to the market from here?" I ask Marine. "I've only been there once," she says. "Why don't you ask Jonathan? I bet he would take you."
I collect my wallet and shopping bags, put on a cap and some sunscreen, walk up the row of flats to #7, and knock on the door. "Marine suggested I ask you to show me the way to the market," I tell Jonathan. He looks mildly surprised, but goes to get his things, and very shortly comes out to join me.
Jonathan is in his late twenties, a lean, quiet man with a slight slouch, full lips, a square jaw, prominent brow, light brown hair, and a receding hairline. From his usual silence and thoughtful expression, I've already guessed that he's an intravert. He seems friendly when he does respond; he’s just someone with a rich internal world who prefers his own company.
Six guards are lounging on the lawn inside the gate. They greet us, and one of them gets up to pull back one welded black geometry of squared iron bar so that we can exit.
We cross the road, and Jonathan leads me along a red dirt path that skirts along the thatch fence of the brick house facing Savanna Courtyard. The path angles onto another street.
Trees shade the roads, and birds call to each other above us. A few other pedestrians are also going somewhere. Once in a while, someone in a car or on a bicycle passes. We step down packed dirt steps held by tree roots, step across a deep ditch with brick sides, cross the road, and walk pass the 24-hour clinic that seems so out of place to me in this quiet neighbourhood.
We turn again, walk down another quiet street, and here we are amidst cars and shops and people. The smell of mandasi -- thick, dense doughnuts of fried bread, slightly sweeter than bannock, and sold out of plastic pails by vendors on the street -- greets my nose.
We turn again, walk down another quiet street, and here we are amidst cars and shops and people. The smell of mandasi -- thick, dense doughnuts of fried bread, slightly sweeter than bannock, and sold out of plastic pails by vendors on the street -- greets my nose.
 |
| Mandasi vendor |
I notice a National Bank, and we pause so I can withdraw money. Across the street from the bank is a large and busy mall, circled by sidewalk. We walk past it and beyond the sidewalk, along the side of a busy road, and then into the embrace of the market.
 |
| Shops on the street side of the market |
We are surrounded by wooden stalls displaying fruits and vegetables, vendors seated at each one. People are milling about, and I breathe in the warm, musty scent of people's bodies as they pass me. I haven’t inhaled this much body odour since gym class in high school, and I’m surprised to find it’s not unpleasant.
I haven't eaten since breakfast, and everything looks delicious. As soon as I stop to admire some green beans, I'm surrounded by young men eager to sell me their produce. I select a few things — a papaya, a package of small ginger bulbs, a little plastic bag of powdered turmeric, carrots, sweet potatoes — and they call out prices. I'm trying to do one thing at a time, but all of them are handing me things and talking at once. I pack my purchases, dole out kwacha to them, pick up my weighty bag, and turn to find Jonathan at my elbow with a small, black plastic bag of his purchases.
On our way back past the mall, I see that there's a Chipiku Plus, which Marine had recommended for anything I couldn't get at the market. I tell Jonathan I'd like to stop there, and he looks reluctant. "That's okay," I say. "I think I can find my way back from here." So he walks on without me, and I turn to go to the store.
A security guard stands at a wooden pedestal in the middle of the entrance, stamping people’s receipts as they exit, and several men are mopping red dirt off the white floors. The aisles are much busier and the produce section better stocked than the Spar store Marine took me to at lunchtime a couple days before. I find one shelf with bags of dals, cumin, bay leaves, kokum, and tamarind, and am reminded of the shops I used to frequent in Vancouver on Fraser Street. A few rows down, there are boxes of the delicious Kenyan tea, Kericho, to which my dear friend Rahel introduced me. And I'm thrilled to find soy milk — I had little hope of getting it here after seeing only dairy milk in plastic bags and tetrapacks at Spar — and peanut butter with no added sugar. They even take Mastercard, so I pay with credit, avoiding the still unfamiliar currency.
A security guard stands at a wooden pedestal in the middle of the entrance, stamping people’s receipts as they exit, and several men are mopping red dirt off the white floors. The aisles are much busier and the produce section better stocked than the Spar store Marine took me to at lunchtime a couple days before. I find one shelf with bags of dals, cumin, bay leaves, kokum, and tamarind, and am reminded of the shops I used to frequent in Vancouver on Fraser Street. A few rows down, there are boxes of the delicious Kenyan tea, Kericho, to which my dear friend Rahel introduced me. And I'm thrilled to find soy milk — I had little hope of getting it here after seeing only dairy milk in plastic bags and tetrapacks at Spar — and peanut butter with no added sugar. They even take Mastercard, so I pay with credit, avoiding the still unfamiliar currency.
Finding my way
Well-burdened now with both a backpack and large grey fabric grocery bag, I begin the walk back home. I recognize familiar landmarks — the bank, the tourist market stalls, a gas station on the corner — and am proud of myself for this early independence. It's 28°C, the groceries are heavy, and although Marine had said the shops were only a couple kilometres from our home, the journey seems longer.
After walking up a short hill, I reach a T-intersection. The 24-hour clinic is on my left, so I turn in that direction. But once I pass it, I'm unsure where to go. A road branches off to the right, but the gates and walls of the residences look too wealthy to be our street. Further down, there's another T-intersection, but when I get there, I'm not sure which way to turn, or whether either way would take me home. I thought I would be able to see our gate from here, but nothing looks that familiar.
After walking up a short hill, I reach a T-intersection. The 24-hour clinic is on my left, so I turn in that direction. But once I pass it, I'm unsure where to go. A road branches off to the right, but the gates and walls of the residences look too wealthy to be our street. Further down, there's another T-intersection, but when I get there, I'm not sure which way to turn, or whether either way would take me home. I thought I would be able to see our gate from here, but nothing looks that familiar.
On the corner across from me, two men are roasting and selling corn. I walk across to them and ask whether they know the way to Savanna Courtyard. They are friendly, but unable to help me. I approach a couple women walking past, but although they respond affirmatively, it soon becomes apparent that they, too, don’t know.
Still hungry, I decide to just take a break and treat myself to a cob of roasted corn. It’s only MK100 ($0.18). I walk back up to the first turnoff and sit down on the grass in front of one of the housing compound walls.
I’m disappointed to find the corn is crunchy and starchy, not sweet and soft as I’d expected. I’m reminded of corn kernel snacks I’ve had before, but, not having oil or salt, this is much plainer.
A couple with a well-used white Toyota Range Rover is also taking a break nearby. We strike up a conversation. They are waiting to look at a flat for rent in one of these housing compounds. The woman, Angela, has just gotten a job in Lilongwe, and they’re moving into town from the village where they’ve been living. After we’ve talked for a while, they invite me to see their sleeping three-year old daughter, lying on the backseat of the Toyota.
Having eaten and rested, I finally give up any pretence of independence and call Marine. “You’re almost here,” she says. “Go back to the T-intersection, turn right, and then turn left at the fork in the road. Savanna Courtyard is the first gate on the left.”
Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.
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Please note that the views expressed here are mine alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Cuso International.
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