One of my favorite people in Senanga is a young man of gantry-like proportions named N'genda. Each time I see him, his face breaks into a wide smile; he says (with a distinct intonation) "mukuwa!" [white man], and winds up to deliver a stinging handshake. He then hugs me, at which point I'm hauled full force into his chest. With his arm about my shoulders, the smile falls off his face, he squints his eyes, and says in a low voice, "Mukuwa, fiba yaka" [white man, my five hundred]. I refuse, and he proceeds with "Mukuwa, pinny yaka" [white man, my one thousand]. After some back-and-forth, I hand him a K500 note and he arrows away from me.
I don't mind giving N'genda 500 kwacha [$0.15]; number one, he usually takes whatever he can beg off of people to the bakery to purchase bread rolls; number two, he is severely mentally handicapped ... in one of the poorer countries in the world, you can imagine what facilities exist for them. It's pity, a handout, a charity, etc., etc. but if I get too hard to give a few pence to the infirm, the elderly, or what have you, please drag me behind the woodshed and let me have it.
On the other hand, being the only white who is visible in Senanga gives me something of a magnetic attraction. Senanga has something of a transitory nature, given all the traffic coming up and down the river, from Shan'gombo in the West, Mongu up north, Sesheke to the south, and from the hinterlands in the east of Senanga District. People mostly greet me; most times, they met me once and remember my name, whereas one of my great faults is forgetting names. Others, such as older men, regard me with a raised eyebrow (Barotseland was never colonized) ... I always tip my hat and initiate the greeting, as those men carry a bit of weight.
Where it starts getting tiring is the times when you are constantly treated like a tourist by a Zambian who's from out-of-town and has never met you; this happens on a daily basis when I eat buhobe [nshima / porridge made from ground white corn]. The statement always begins with "You eat nshima??" and evolves into broad statements such as "Here in Zambia ..." Most of these conversations are one-sided; during a workday lunch, I usually keep to myself and bolt my buhobe and village [rubber] chicken as fast as I can.
Where it gets really tiring is the constant requests for money. Hand-grabbing by men who reek of tujillyjilly, begging a pin [K1,000] or two to continue feeding their buzz. Men who approach and greet very cordially, then begin a narrative about their hard luck. It can involve a theft, a funeral, a broken oar, cattle disease, school fees ... you name it. It does say something for a culture when you can approach a total stranger and ask for financial help; however, by the fifteenth time, you start wishing for anonymity.
Where it is the most tiring is when friends you know well hit you up for money. It's mostly because you know their hard-luck stories more intimately than the guys who hit you up on the street. "No money for the rent ..."; "They are going to switch off the power and I've got my brother's family with me ..."; "My girlfriend's family is demanding money."; "The family has a funeral to arrange and I'm the eldest brother ..."; that's what I've heard in the last month alone from close friends. Maybe they figure that I blow a whopping three dollars at the bar every three or four days (it equals two beers), or that I buy nshima every day at the astounding price of a buck-fifty. Or maybe it's because I'm white (ding-ding!) and loaded; we all are. Or maybe because I rarely turn people down and I'm like the First Republic in my loan collection. Or maybe all of them together.
Someone very close to me told me recently that truly fitting in is an impossibility in this society. Your skin, your bearing, your speech sets you apart in enumerated ways that are obvious or in infinite ways that are imperceptible. I can walk the walk; I can talk the talk; however, to quote Popeye, "I yam what I yam.", and here, escaping yourself is tricky.
This sounds much worse than it is; I've found that once you accept your place, roll with the punches, this things don't get better per se; but they get far more tolerable. Tarnished, yes, but functional.
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