Читать книгу The Warm Heart of Africa - Kevin M. Denny - Страница 18

I knew it would come. I had even predicted it would come via a loyal askari: "The District Commissioner requests the honor of your presence...." There seemed to be no way out of it, short of malaria or unconscionably bad manners. Saturday I would be dining with the D.C.

Monday morning Martin and I crossed the river to visit villages in the Mtamila area. We visited two or three, but could not find a headman in any of them. It probably didn't matter, because, as I learned very quickly, the women spoke only Chiyao and they did not understand even my most basic Chinyanja. They were primarily Muslim, their tribe having been converted by slave traders from Zanzibar a century earlier. Although they now showed no clear distinction from their Christian neighbors across the lake---they are both equally poor---I'd been told they were once quite prosperous from their participation in the slave trade. Martin and I agreed that we had looked at enough villages and that we should return to Samama to finalize the support of the headman to start our work there.

When I got home I had my first visit from the Peace Corps. Jim Archer, one of two assistant directors, had arrived with an African assistant bringing some supplies for our project. I could tell he was not pleased with my luxurious accommodations, but I chose to ignore his looks rather than to apologize for my opulence.

However, he did bring a surprise or two. In addition to laboratory supplies and other equipment for our project, he brought a red, 3-speed Schwinn, with shiny chrome fenders. On the spot, Ali offered to trade me for his Raleigh. I almost took him up on the offer, especially as it looked as if the American product might not be able to endure the African terrain but I could not at this point afford to alienate my trusty cook.

He also brought a book locker, containing about a hundred paperback books. Salvation! Having already completed the dozen or so books I had brought with me, I was overjoyed. This new supply might last me another six months. The selector had done well; it was an English major's delight, all the classics I had always thought I ought to read, but never got around to: Shakespeare, Dickens, Dostoevsky, Twain, Melville, Conrad, Hawthorne, Cervantes, Flaubert, Mailer and the Bible, all in one collection. Perhaps I would emerge in two years an educated woman.

Before he left, I reported on my rudimentary progress. He appeared satisfied. "Don't hurry," he advised. "It takes time to be accepted and we don't expect you to rush into anything." I assured him that my pace had not been thunderous and wished him well on his return to the city.

At some point, midway between the District Commissioner’s chambo mousse and his beef Wellington, the giggles erupted; by the mango crepes they had crescendoed to the point that I feared loss of bladder control.

I kept picturing an advertising agency, with cameras, lights and sound crew, capturing a typical day in the "Life of a Peace Corps Volunteer"— a documentary to be used to inspire thousands more to leave their inane and self-centered endeavors to join the Corps...to sacrifice, to serve and ultimately to make this world a better place for all.

However, in my mind the plot kept altering itself to read more like a Graham Greene novel. A scene filled with elegant paradox, interwoven with metaphors of good and evil and a leit motif of how quickly one could come to resemble the other.

My choice of apparel had been easier this time. The D.C. had made it eminently clear—by word, act and innuendo—that informality was not his strong card. When I packed, I had debated whether to bring it or not, but there I was, looking at myself in the mirror, in the same light blue A-line I had worn to the spring formal with Jeff Killian. With a string of pearls and matching earrings and a white cardigan tossed over my shoulder to protect from the evening chill, it didn't look bad.

Ali gave his final inspection, aware of the importance of the event. "It is very beautiful, Miss Susan, but you must let me iron it for you because it has some wrinkles in the back," he insisted critically.

I soon realized I had not over-dressed. The first couple I met was the Oglethorpes: she in a shimmering black silk dress with a fur stole draping her shoulders, long silver earrings dangling elegantly and he in a haute couture bush outfit. The theme for men’s apparel remained khaki—all the subtle ranges of shades from slightly greenish to pure tan—long trousers substituted for shorts as part of the evening’s formality. The elegance of the occasion was further emphasized by the mandatory ascot in a staggering array of monotones.

Oglethorpe, the khaki one of the pair, quickly reminded me that he had met me at the club, adding a gratuitous comment concerning my disheveled state at the time of my arrival.

The D.C. greeted us as we ascended the stairs to his khonde. "Oh, you folks have already caught up with each other. Jolly good. It saves me an introduction."

I still was lacking an introduction to the black-silked Oglethorpe who spoke with an accent unfamiliar to my ear. She informed me that her name was Eleni and that she was Greek. "I met Oglethorpe when he was on assignment in Athens," she explained, "and I've been following him around to all these crazy places ever since."

I wondered to myself how much longer she would have to pursue him before she learned his first name.

The other guests had already arrived. The D.C. introduced the previously-met Mr. Austin, aka Public Works, and his rather mousy wife, Sarah. He, of course, did not miss his cue, "Well, Miss Jarrett, you look a shade bit better than when we first met at the club."

I praised his keen observation and pulled my cardigan over my shoulders to fend off the coolness of the evening.

The D.C. lost no time letting me know that the Police Chief, John Burden, was unmarried and without a doubt the most desirable catch in the Fort, if not the entire District. He adorned himself in much more uniform shades of khaki, perhaps, I reasoned, a by-product of his quasi-military background. His ascot was blue, which I felt might foreshadow a hint of creativity, until he commented, "You certainly look a bit more refreshed than the last time we met."

Next, the D.C. introduced two couples as his weekend guests. The first was the Nathan Broadburys, he being a Senior Magistrate in Zomba and she an organizer of the Garden Club of Zomba which, I was soon informed, had grown to over fifty members in its mere five years of existence!

Next, the Robert Kavanaughs, he a Colonel in the King's African Rifles and she a teacher at the European School in Zomba. Neither couple had been witness to my memorable arrival at the club, so were required to limit their comments to such banalities as "hello" and "it is a pleasure to meet you."

Soon, I was aware of the others in the room. White-coated, red-fezzed bombos filtered in and out with practiced unobtrusiveness. I counted at least six and wondered whether the D.C. had left any of his native troops behind to guard the Boma. A tray appeared before me. "Would the Memsab like a shandy or a gin-and-tonic?" a voice asked. By now, I was aware that these were the official drinks of the Colonies and chose the gin-and-tonic, hoping for the advantage of liquor's more rapid onset.

The D.C. appeared not to have a female companion for the evening and I wondered whether his elegant introduction to our bachelor police chief had been a ploy, for he seemed to demonstrate an unusual attentiveness to my well being.

"Now, Susan, if you don't like what we are drinking, I can have the boys fix you something else. Scotch, Vodka or even some of that American stuff, what do you call it, Jack Daniels?"..."I hope your accommodations are working out. If you have any problems don't hesitate to call on me."... "If your boy isn't top notch let me know; there are plenty of others around," adding "sometimes these Yao can be very temperamental." I assured him that everything was working out wonderfully 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.

From what I recall of the rest of the evening, it was a therapeutic session in which each of the white faces tried to convince each of the others that the new Government would not be so stupid as to ever think of getting rid of them, lest the nation throw itself precipitously into chaos and annihilation.

The next morning, I felt a touch of guilt. Perhaps, I should have been more appreciative of the D.C.'s kindness, but all I could think of was the women in the village, sitting around doing their daily chores with mirth and laughter, oblivious of their dependence on the Mzungus for their wellbeing.