July 4
The stodgy white that was being served out from the large cooking pot wasn’t exactly inspiring. We had been here long enough now to know the right consistency of the Malawian national dish. Evance, our house boy, said he knew how to make nsima, but with our ten or more guests already sitting on our khonde, we were beginning to doubt it somewhat – and they were Malawian, they would know the difference. Nsima, beans and masamba (pumpkin leaf in ground peanut flour) for the Malawian touch, then some roast chicken and potatoes along with salad for the Western touch. At least we had an excuse: Mzungus attempting to cook Malawian food.
Heather’s palliative care departmental team lunch went well, with the Malawians mostly sitting there quietly smothering their food, salad included, in layers of salt, while they devoured their soft drinks with an almost religious fervor. The few mzungus tried to keep conversation flowing, but that’s just the way it often is. We ended with a present giving ceremony of sorts, the Malawians dropping to their knees to hand us our gifts for Heather’s unpaid help the whole year. A beautiful African wall hanging, a large chitenge and a far from beautiful Malawi carved statue letter holder. And for “mister,” a touristy black Malawian t-shirt. All very thoughtful indeed, and Heth even managed to almost hold back tears while she spoke… how very brave she is.
It was after lunch, with everything cleaned up and myself having gone back to work with the car, that Heth noticed. Walking towards Queens rather than taking the minibus, Heth was struck more than usual by the cacophony of action on the streets, the overwhelming lack of white faces, the friendly 'hellos' with beaming smiles. It wasn’t lost on her that these were the feelings identical to the last time we were without a car, back when we lived in the wholly uninspiring College of Medicine guest house with the grumpy cook, Kingsley. Before we had slotted comfortably into the Blantyre social scene and knew the ins and outs of living in an African city. Back when Heth was without a job and would walk the streets battling with lethargic Malawians organising our brand new expat life while I accustomed myself with the workings of a completely foreign hospital setting. It wasn’t lost on her that our life, in this last year, had indeed turned a full circle. This weekend we would lose our ultra-comfortable bed to the new owner, next week the car, and next weekend the house. Soon after that we will be making our way independently to Lilongwe, bags in hand being the only possessions we have in the country, on our way to the airport. And with all these feelings, whether or not by nature of what we had mentally prepared ourselves for next, she thought to herself, its time to leave.
Heather’s palliative care departmental team lunch went well, with the Malawians mostly sitting there quietly smothering their food, salad included, in layers of salt, while they devoured their soft drinks with an almost religious fervor. The few mzungus tried to keep conversation flowing, but that’s just the way it often is. We ended with a present giving ceremony of sorts, the Malawians dropping to their knees to hand us our gifts for Heather’s unpaid help the whole year. A beautiful African wall hanging, a large chitenge and a far from beautiful Malawi carved statue letter holder. And for “mister,” a touristy black Malawian t-shirt. All very thoughtful indeed, and Heth even managed to almost hold back tears while she spoke… how very brave she is.
It was after lunch, with everything cleaned up and myself having gone back to work with the car, that Heth noticed. Walking towards Queens rather than taking the minibus, Heth was struck more than usual by the cacophony of action on the streets, the overwhelming lack of white faces, the friendly 'hellos' with beaming smiles. It wasn’t lost on her that these were the feelings identical to the last time we were without a car, back when we lived in the wholly uninspiring College of Medicine guest house with the grumpy cook, Kingsley. Before we had slotted comfortably into the Blantyre social scene and knew the ins and outs of living in an African city. Back when Heth was without a job and would walk the streets battling with lethargic Malawians organising our brand new expat life while I accustomed myself with the workings of a completely foreign hospital setting. It wasn’t lost on her that our life, in this last year, had indeed turned a full circle. This weekend we would lose our ultra-comfortable bed to the new owner, next week the car, and next weekend the house. Soon after that we will be making our way independently to Lilongwe, bags in hand being the only possessions we have in the country, on our way to the airport. And with all these feelings, whether or not by nature of what we had mentally prepared ourselves for next, she thought to herself, its time to leave.
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