If there is cause to hate someone, the cause to love has just begun.
—Senegalese proverb
3
I climb up the steep stairs out of the hot and stuffy London Underground, emerging onto a busy street in Bayswater. Commuters flow in and out of the Tube station’s entrance like ants rushing in and out of a hive. Cyclists weave carefully through the chaos, while clusters of people wait at stoplights. I am surrounded by noise: horns honk nonstop, and traffic moves so quickly it makes a rushing sound like water in a river, making me feel dizzy. For just a moment, I forget that my fingers have gone numb after clutching the plastic handle of my small green suitcase so tightly for so long. I forget about the throbbing blisters inside my tight new shoes, and about my damp yellow dress clinging to my back beneath a heavy satchel strapped to my aching shoulders.
I look up to the heavens and fill my lungs with brisk air. The sky is gloomy, and certainly not the springtime weather I was expecting. Still, I let the misty drizzle falling from the gray sky cool my face, ignoring the strange looks cast in my direction. Let them look, I think. I have arrived, and I will take the time to revel in this moment.
I weave my way through the crowded sidewalk, which heaves with people walking as if headed somewhere in a great hurry. People rush around me as if I am a stone in a river, so busy and lost in their own thoughts that their umbrellas occasionally crash together over their heads. I try to take it all in, noticing everything. Nobody stops to greet another person; nobody makes eye contact with me or with anyone else; everyone seems to be moving in their own private bubble, afraid to touch or speak to anyone else for fear it might pop. This is strange to me. On the foot paths of Goromonzi, in the fields and at the river, we always greet each other, a stranger or a friend, with blessings and inquiries about each other’s health and family. Not doing so would be considered deeply impolite, even a sign of disrespect.
I quickly learn how to move through the flow of fast-moving people and begin to take in all the sights I have been so curious to see for so long. And there is much to see. As I make my way toward the youth hostel where I will be staying, I stare at the perfectly manicured garden squares surrounded by Victorian stucco terrace homes, the likes of which I have only ever seen on television, in British sitcoms and news stories. I almost pinch myself—yes, you are actually here!—when the red double-decker buses and black cabs roar past me, so quickly that I cannot even get a good look at the passengers inside. Through the spotless windows of fancy-looking shops I see mannequins in nicely tailored gray suits and black dresses. I stop and look for a few long moments at the breathtaking Kensington Gardens blooming with flowers in pink, yellow, and blue—colors as vivid as the African prints we wear in Goromonzi.
How I wish my Gogo could experience everything alongside me. When I pass a red phone booth, I wish she had a phone and that I had the money to call her. Gogo, I made it! Gogo, I’m here! I imagine saying to her. When I think about how proud she would be, seeing me here, I feel as joyous as a child. Then I realize I am lost, and not for the first time today. On the Tube from Heathrow Airport, I missed my exchange stop at Gloucester Road Station, and then I took the train in the wrong direction from the South Kensington Tube station, forcing me to backtrack. Now I can’t find the street I’m looking for. No problem, I think. I’ll just ask for directions.
“Good morning, sir,” I say as cheerfully as possible and in my most polished British accent as I approach a well-dressed British man walking toward me. “Might you please—” He avoids making eye contact, steps out of the way, and says, “Sorry,” zooming past me. I try again when I see a woman walking in my direction: “Excuse me, madam.” I’m grinning from ear to ear. “I am trying to find—” The British woman cuts me off. “I am terribly sorry,” she says, and walks briskly away.
I am as stunned by these encounters as if I’ve been slapped. I start to feel self-conscious and even a touch frightened. What did I do to prompt such a dismissive reaction? Why wouldn’t they try to help me or even let me finish asking a question? I am mystified, and my confusion triggers insecurity. Maybe it’s the way I look, or sound. Is it because I’m wearing a sundress in the rain? Can they not understand my African accent? My yellow dress is now soaking wet and I still can’t find the street I’m looking for. Suddenly, tears sting my eyes.
* * *
Seconds ago, I was full of curiosity and excitement, but now I am in a mood as grim as the weather. The rain, no longer a light mist, falls relentlessly from a sky the color of concrete. This greatly anticipated moment of arrival is beginning to lose its magic. Each step in my tight shoes is painful; the cold clings to me like Velcro.
As my excitement fades, doubt and fatigue fall on me as heavily as the rain. How will I survive in London long enough to work for the United Nations if nobody will even stop for three seconds to help me find my way? I miss home. I miss being surrounded by friendly people who are always willing to stop and help, even if they are busy or have somewhere important to be. I feel a fierce longing for my community. I also know that Gogo would tell me to never give up, to try again, and so when I see a friendly woman approaching and she meets my gaze, I force a smile on my face and try again. “Excuse me, madam, might you help me with directions?” I say, showing her the hostel’s address scribbled on a piece of paper that is now damp and crumpled in my hand.
“Right,” the woman says, and holds her umbrella over the two of us as I repeat the address of the hostel. “You’re about five blocks away,” she says, and gives me detailed directions. I thank her again and again; at first, she seems put off by my effusiveness, but she finally smiles and says, “Good luck to you,” before walking quickly away in her high-heeled shoes. Perhaps, I think, this city will be friendlier than I thought.
I weave through the streets in the direction I’ve been pointed, and now I feel the exhaustion setting in: the travel, the adrenaline, the fear, all the walking in the rain, and feeling lost and out of place. When I finally reach the youth hostel, I am overcome with relief. I set down my green suitcase on the squeaky wooden floors, look around the tiny lobby, and feel my heart sink. The room is crummy and as narrow as a corridor, bearing absolutely no resemblance to the glossy images I saw in the travel agency brochure. The entire eleven-room hostel looks much smaller and dirtier than it did in the pictures. The walls in the lobby are bare save for a broken black-and-white clock that hangs above the reception counter. A freckled girl with a tiny nose and bright orange hair sits at the desk.
As I approach her, trying to look friendly and upbeat, I see her lips moving and hear sounds emerge, but I do not understand a single word, so I stay silent. She shakes her head and speaks louder, but her words still sound like gibberish, no matter how loudly she speaks or how often she repeats herself. I can see by the look on her face that she thinks I am stupid. This makes me nervous. I assume that she is asking me where I am from, so I panic and blurt out, “I am from Africa!”
The girl laughs at my response and says, “Aye, so do you speak English, huh?” She speaks very slowly this time, and the words do not roll over each other so much, and I understand her. This is a great relief, because I worry that if I close my eyes, I might fall asleep on my aching feet.
As I hand the girl my passport, I say, “Sorry. I didn’t understand your accent.”
“Aye, something wrong with my Irish accent?” she asks with a cheeky smile.
I know where Ireland is on the world map, but I have never met an Irish person before, and the accent is totally new to me; the vowels are very round, and she speaks very quickly. She has not told me her name, so I decide to call her Tiny Nose in my mind.
Tiny Nose returns my passport and runs her finger down a list of rooms in a book. “Right. You’re staying with us for…?”
“One month,” I say, and as I hand over ninety pounds, I feel a jolt of panic. I have just one month to find a job.
“You know the rent is nonrefundable once you hand it over, yeah?”
I nod.
“Well then. Welcome to London, girl from Africa,” she says, and hands me a room key. I understand now that she must have been asking for my name when I walked in. I almost try to tell her, “my name is Elizabeth,” but I am worried that I will not be able to understand her again and I quite simply do not have the energy. I’ve had enough newness today.
Besides, it’s fine with me if Tiny Nose calls me “Girl from Africa.” I could not want to be anyone or anything else. The fact that I’m African is all that matters, and that is enough. I am after all Mwana Wevhu—a child of the African soil.
* * *
It’s dawn and I am in the middle of the African bush staring at the brightest and prettiest of all yellow skies, a sky more beautiful than yesterday’s yellow sky. Our country is finally free, and Gogo has said that I am now Mwana Wevhu. I assume this must be an important and special distinction. Gogo has said so! And so, as Mwana Wevhu, I decide I will do everything that I think Mwana Wevhu, a child of the soil, should do. I think about this latest development as I tie up Gogo’s goats in the bush. The tall meadow grass cuts into my skinny legs. It is wet and itchy, and I don’t like it. Now that I am Mwana Wevhu, I decide I will be able to do something about that. Now that I am Mwana Wevhu, I decide that I will be able to do something about so many things.
Gogo always says that “to be African is to be blessed,” and that we should always share our blessings with others. I pray with Gogo every day, and I decide that I will pray for everyone, giving them my special blessings, as part of my important Mwana Wevhu duties. But first, I must tell Gogo’s goats. “I am now Mwana Wevhu, you know!” I shout, startling them.
I chase after the goats as they scatter, weaving under and around the trees and shrubs and pointy termite hills full of biting ants, following the blue ropes around their necks that slither like small, happy snakes through the grass. I run and run, wrangling each stubborn animal, one at a time, until my nose refuses my lungs the gift of air, and until they are all tied to a tree. Finally, when I am done, I breathe in the crisp morning air and look up to the heavens, pleased with myself. My eyes wander past cheerful little yellow and red birds sitting on the tree branches, then up again to the bright yellow sky. Its color fills me with so much happiness, and I suddenly realize—now that I am Mwana Wevhu, I have the answer to a confusing situation that has troubled me for so long. Now that I am Mwana Wevhu, I am no longer a sin.
* * *
When I was five years old, busy-busy tying up Gogo’s goats, I saw a skinny boy with a big head from the next village walking through the bush with a catapult in his hand. I ran to him, happy to see another child to talk to.
He pointed at me, laughed, and said, “What’s up, nherera—orphan,” and kept walking. He is wrong, I thought. I had my mother, whom everyone in the village called Gogo.
That night I told Gogo what happened. She was so upset that she said a prayer and went to sleep without eating her supper, which Gogo never did. I asked again in the morning what the boy meant by calling me nherera, and I asked the next day and the next. I kept asking until she finally said, “The boy is wrong.”
We were in the middle of Gogo’s field, taking a short break from plowing and plucking weeds from our maize, sitting under the big useless tree. Unlike the guava and mango trees in our yard, this tree never bore any fruit. In that moment, I conclusively decided that it was a useless tree and I would call it by that name in my head.
“So why did he lie?” I asked, leaning my tired back against the tree’s thick trunk. I knew that lying was bad.
Gogo looked down, refusing to meet my gaze. “Eeee, he didn’t fully lie.” This did not make sense, as Gogo had taught me that people either lie or tell the truth. A half lie is not a thing.
“What does that mean-mean?”
“Eeee, my dear child, I am not really your mother.”
I was shocked. Gogo had been my mother since I was a baby. I had called her Mother all my life, and she called me her dear child. Maybe her old mind was starting to forget things. I gently placed my hand on her knee and said, “Of course you are my mother, remember?”
“I raised you since you were a baby, my dear child,” Gogo began as I listened intently, “but I am your gogo.” I did not understand her, and this time, I did not nod. I needed more answers. I kept staring at her, willing her to say more.
“Huhhh, your mother brought too-much-too-much shame to our family. We are never to talk about her again.” But I kept pushing, asking my many-many questions, searching for plenty-plenty answers.
It was too painful to hear what Gogo said, but I finally understood that my real mother was Gogo’s middle daughter, and that years ago, when she was a teenager, she fell pregnant and ran off to have a child with an irresponsible rombe—useless boy from another village—and that boy was my father. I understood that having a child before marriage was a sin in God’s eyes. I was that child, born a sin.
I thought a sin was something a person did, a sin was an act you committed, and I had done nothing wrong. But if I am a sin myself, can God forgive me? Can my mother ever love me? Is that why she left me, because I am a sin? I needed to see her. I longed to know her, to hear her voice, to touch her face, to be held in her arms.
But this father person confused me the most; I had no idea what to do with him. What was his purpose? A mother had a purpose, I knew that all too well. When I was sick, a mother boiled chicken feet and fresh leaves from the Good Forest to chase away my fever. When there was not enough food in the house, a mother pretended not to be hungry so there was more for me to eat. She didn’t think I noticed, but I did. A mother taught me how to pray and look after myself and the goats. A mother had a purpose and I needed her. But this father person—where would he sleep? There was only room for me and Gogo in our tiny hut. We could squeeze in an extra mother if we tried, and I really-really wanted to, but the thought of this father person made me very sad. Like Gogo, I decided to forget about this rombe father person.
I stopped asking Gogo questions, but I never stopped praying. I never stopped waiting for God to bring my mother back to me. When God did not bring her back, I decided to pray for God’s will to be done, and now my prayers had been answered. God’s will had been done, I was Mwana Wevhu, which meant I was special: I was no longer a sin.
“God’s will has been done!” I shout to the goats.
Suddenly, I burst into tears. I turn my face to the sky once more, eyes wide open, staring right up at God so he can see how grateful I am to be a sin no longer. I say aloud, with passion in my trembling voice: “Dear God: Thank you, thank you for making me Mwana Wevhu. I promise to pray every day for Gogo, and for all the ambuyas and sekurus and their children. I promise, God. Please don’t make me a sin again. Please! Amen.”
When I finish praying, I keep my eyes on the yellow sky and think, I am Mwana Wevhu, and someday I will have a yellow dress and I will be as pretty as the African sky. But first I must come up with a short-short Mwana Wevhu prayer so I can pray quick-quick for everyone in our village and I will never be a sin again. Dear God. Please hear my prayer. Please bless ambuyas, and sekurus, and their children, and their goats, and their cows, and their crops. Thank you, sweet Jesus. Amen. As Mwana Wevhu I now have special duties. I have work to do!
I wave goodbye to the goats and take off running back down the hill to the village, until I reach the wide tarmac road that separates the bush from our village. Gogo calls it the Township Center road, because it goes all the way to a faraway place with lots of shops that sell nice-nice food and where serious men in white coats buy Gogo’s maize and crops after each harvest. I call it the Danger-Danger road because it has fast-fast cars that kill wandering small children and their goats if they do not pay attention. I don’t want to be like the small children that wander straight to their deaths, so I stop at the edge of the road and carefully look both ways, just as Gogo taught me.
There are no cars coming, only two cows pulling a large ca
rt stacked with white bags of maize. Two sekurus sit quietly inside the cart, their faces dark against the bright sky. When they get closer, I recognize Sekuru Widzi, Gogo’s second eldest son, whom I call Big Sekuru inside my head; and Sekuru Oweni, Gogo’s youngest son, whom I call Baby Sekuru, even though he is not a baby or even young-young. I call him Baby Sekuru inside my head so as not to confuse him with Big Sekuru or Sekuru Henzi, Gogo’s middle son. All three of them live with us in the village with their wives and plenty-plenty children. Gogo has another big-big son, her firstborn child, who lives in a faraway place—a city called Harare. I haven’t met this big-big Sekuru, so I don’t have a name for him inside my head. Gogo’s three daughters also live in Harare, and I have never met them either. Gogo says she used to have a husband, whose soul was called back to the heavenly father when I was a baby. I don’t remember this man who left Gogo for God, but her face looks very sad anytime he is mentioned.
Big Sekuru and Baby Sekuru both hold whips made from the tails of dead cows, and they use these to keep the living cows drawing the cart forward. I chuckle inside my head at the picture, and shout, “Good morning, sekurus. I greet you in God’s name.”
“Good morning, my niece,” Big Sekuru answers. He stops the cows, and the cart grinds to a halt. “Does Gogo need help selling her maize at the Township Center?” he asks, honoring his duties as a son. In our Shona culture, it is sons who are supposed to take care of their parents, which is why Gogo’s three sons, my sekurus, stay with us in the village so that they can take care of Gogo. Except Gogo is stubborn like her goats and doesn’t want anyone fussing over her. She says she is more than capable of looking after herself and prefers to sell her own maize, even though it takes us a whole day to get there, because she says the sekurus will drink away her money.
I Am a Girl from Africa Page 3