“You simply don’t have the relevant experience,” she says. “I need someone with solid research experience, as the job posting indicates.” Dr. Cleeves pauses. “But I very much admire your tenacity.” This last bit refers to my weekly calls, every Friday afternoon, to her office over the past seventeen weeks, which eventually resulted in this meeting. I know this is a pity interview, and that Dr. Cleeves has no intention to hire me, calling me here simply to find relief from my relentless phone calls. Gogo says we should never allow people to pity us, that we should never be seen as helpless, but this time, I am willing to accept the pity of Dr. Cleeves because it comes with a chance to achieve my dream, and right on the heels of the miracle of the United Nations coming to me. After all, a pity interview is still an interview. I feel like I’m standing on the threshold of an open door: all I need to do now is walk through.
“Given that this is an African project,” I begin, “my practical experience is truly unique and invaluable, Dr. Cleeves.” She looks irritated, but she is still paying attention, so I continue. “I grew up in communities devastated by HIV and AIDS, I worked with countless patients in several clinics, and I know firsthand how it feels to lose loved ones to AIDS. I lost so many of my relatives to the disease in Zimbabwe.” Even as I speak, I feel the loss of those who suffered and died.
I tell Dr. Cleeves that I bring a perspective to the project that is representative of the Africa I know, which is about Africans uplifting each other—people like Aunt Jane who are always endeavoring to do more for their people. I am familiar with and have lived an African narrative that is not a simple story of poverty and despair, but one of hope and perseverance in the face of any challenge, coupled with a dogged determination to make life better for everyone.
Dr. Cleeves listens impatiently; she is clearly a very busy woman. Finally, she says, “Impressive, but it simply isn’t enough.” Her eyes subtly direct me toward the door, as if to say, This interview is over.
In a clear and confident voice I say, “Dr. Cleeves, I know all about patient care. I know how to test for HIV/AIDS. I know how to administer treatment and speak to patients with compassion. I have washed the seeping sores of AIDS patients with my own hands. I have watched babies die and held their wailing mothers in my arms.” As I speak, these heartbreaking scenes float through my mind: the broken families; the many funerals; the grieving relatives and friends; the orphans; Nyari’s innocent baby; the hollow eyes of sick ambuyas and sekurus waiting in the clinics for treatment or a diagnosis.
Anxiety ripples through me. I haven’t struggled in London for these three long years, refusing to give up on my dream, doing any kind of work I could get, saving every pence and pound for university, to walk away now when I’m so close, with one foot already in the door. I stop short of shouting, I can do this! Just give me a chance! Instead I say to myself, Shinga.
But even as the stories spill from me, I feel doubt spreading. Who do I think I am? I am just a girl from Africa. Maybe my dream is too ambitious, as so many people have told me so many times. Once again, I feel less than, unequal—just as I had at my British primary school. There, I experienced three levels of inequality all at once: racial inequality, because of the color of my skin; social inequality, because of my humble upbringing; and gender inequality, because I was born a girl, and like so many other girls in my village, my education was never prioritized and I lagged behind in my learning and knowledge. Now here in London, I can see that Dr. Cleeves doesn’t believe that I have what it takes.
She looks at her watch. My time is running out. And yet I have made it this far, and now stand face-to-face with the woman who can help me achieve my dream. I tell Dr. Cleeves the story of Zimbabwe’s terrible drought and the girl in the blue uniform who saved my life. I tell her how this encounter has helped define my dream, which acts as the engine for everything I do.
Dr. Cleeves’s serious face softens suddenly, and she looks thoughtful, as if she understands everything. I hold my breath. She thanks me again for my time, and begins to shuffle files and papers on her desk. I turn and begin walking toward the door, but I feel as though I’m moving through water, about to sink. I know that if I walk through the door, I will never walk back through it again, and my dream will never come true. I put my hand on the doorknob and feel as though I’m drowning. This is my last chance; there will not be another one. Shinga! I say to myself, and then I turn and ask, “Would your senior researcher perhaps need a research assistant?”
Surprisingly, a bemused smile crosses her face. She sets down her files. “I’ve never thought about that before, but yes, perhaps. I don’t have money to pay you, so it would be an unpaid volunteer position.”
I am deeply disappointed that I will not be paid, as I need to make money in order to keep up with my university fees and living expenses, but of course I do not refuse. “Yes! I will do it! Thank you, Dr. Cleeves.”
“Welcome to the team, Elizabeth,” Dr. Cleeves says, this time with an inviting smile on her face. And with that, I step through the door to stand in the room that I always believed was waiting for me.
I grip her hand in mine, and feel a surge of gratitude wash over me with such force that it takes my breath away. This is it. I have done it. After all these years, my dream, that I have held for myself and for all the people who have supported and believed in me, has finally come true.
I breathe out. The voices of self-doubt and insecurity fall silent. In this moment, I accept myself for who I am. I feel the pride of my identity fill me from head to toe. Yes, I am a girl from Africa. Yes, I am good enough. Yes, I am!
If you pick up one end of the stick, you also pick up the other.
—Ethiopian proverb
8
The sharp smell of antiseptic cleaning solution lingers in the air like a strange perfume. The antiseptic and the sickly sweet scent of illness worsen my nausea, which Dr. Cleeves, whom I now know as Julia, warned me I might experience in Ethiopia, ten thousand feet above sea level. “Women and their children are dying here every day. Our hospitals are operating at maximum capacity and we simply can’t cope: we don’t have enough beds. We don’t have enough staff to care for our patients.” Standing in the dimly lit corridor outside the HIV/AIDS ward at Zewditu Memorial Hospital in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, the doctor looks exhausted, her face drawn, as she describes the situation to Julia and me. Although the ward in Harare where I worked with Aunt Jane was often crowded, this one is overflowing with female patients. Some lie on thin, shiny metal beds lined up on either side of the hall; some curl up next to their wailing babies on the concrete floor; others lean their frail bodies against the wall wherever they can find space.
The doctor goes on to explain that women and girls are disproportionately impacted by the disease: housewives alone constitute over a quarter of all the admitted cases. And with that, I sweep the nausea away; altitude sickness is nothing compared to the suffering of the women here. My heart aches to see the pain etched on their faces. I am reminded of the huge responsibility that comes with my new job, making me more determined than ever to play my part in bringing much needed healing to the women here and in other communities across Africa.
* * *
During my first few weeks as an unpaid researcher, the learning curve was massive, and I struggled to keep up. My first research assignment, to map the prevalence of HIV/AIDS across all fifty-five African countries, challenged my perspective and many of the things I thought I knew about my home, revealing a continent with rich ethnic, religious, and linguistic diversity. Even the HIV/AIDS infection rates differed from country to country, as did the unique approaches taken by governments and communities to address the epidemic. I felt anxious that I might fail at the task and so I bravely asked Dr. Cleeves if I might join her during lunch to learn as much as possible from her directly. Over steaming plates of fish and chips and mushy peas in the bustling cafeteria, I learned more about the project, her methods, and even her character.
For the first
time ever, our innovative project seeks to address the HIV/AIDS epidemic in Africa using “scenarios,” an extremely efficacious decision-making tool used in the private sector to inform needed action in the future. “When everyone is involved, everyone will be invested,” Dr. Cleeves said one afternoon, explaining that this new approach to combating the illness will bring together more than 120 stakeholders across Africa—including governments, communities, civil society, international donors, and the private sector—to collectively design policies to address the HIV/AIDS epidemic on the continent. “Real and lasting change is only possible when Africans lead and inform change in their own communities,” she continued. I enthusiastically agreed. After a few of these amiable, chatty lunches, Dr. Cleeves turned to me and said, “You know you can call me Julia, right?”
Soon after, Julia invited me to accompany her on this latest mission, and now I am thrilled to be in Ethiopia, back on the African continent for the first time since I moved to London. This is the first time I have ever been to this part of the continent, commonly known as the “horn of Africa.” This is one of the world’s oldest countries, home to “Lucy”—arguably the most famous of human skeletal remains, more than 3.2 million years old. When Julia and I arrived in Ethiopia last night, the hospitality from those we encountered was nothing short of the warm and inviting African hospitality to which I am accustomed. Yet everything else felt different: the weather, the language, the food, the culture. Here the weather is tropical, and the official language is called Amharic, a Semitic language with its own fascinating alphabet that I have never seen before. Here the women do not have coarse hair like mine, but rather naturally soft and flowy curls that perfectly frame their long and slender faces. Here we are not served sadza for dinner, a staple meal for most Sub-Saharan Africa countries, but rather one of Ethiopia’s national foods, injera, a sour, fermented flatbread paired with different meat and vegetable stews and plated in a colorfully woven basket large enough for everyone to eat from. The differences I observe fascinate me as much as the beautifully embroidered white dresses worn by some of the patients in the ward.
“We have an Ethiopian saying, ‘If you pick up one end of the stick, you also pick up the other,’ so we are explaining to communities that it takes all of us working together to end the suffering,” the doctor at the Zewditu hospital says, echoing the community values that Gogo always talks about. I smile at the thought. “We are so overwhelmed that we have started to advocate for community involvement and engagement,” the doctor continues, “by asking people to help take care of HIV/AIDS patients in their own homes.”
I take detailed notes about how we can advocate for funding and resources with our partners to support the hospital’s vital work as this battle-worn doctor describes the need for more equipment and resources and staff. Then I share with the doctor some of my front-line experience caring for patients at the clinics in Zimbabwe, and the methods and practices that were most effective in that particular context. As I’m talking, I think about all three of Gogo’s sons in Goromonzi, who contracted HIV/AIDS and then passed it on to their wives and some of their youngest children. In our village alone, we buried at least ten of Gogo’s relatives and cousins while I was growing up, including Sekuru Chop-Chop, Gogo’s middle son and my favorite sekuru.
* * *
When I am fifteen years old and arrive in Goromonzi during a school holiday, Gogo says, “Eeee, you must go see your Sekuru Henzi; Satan’s illness has visited him,” referring to my favorite sekuru; there was no one quite like him, and as a child he was my hero. He called himself “Muramba Tsvina” (“one who refuses filth”), which was not his real name. His real name was Sekuru Henzi, which is what Gogo called him. But I called him Sekuru Chop-Chop inside my head because of his behavior. Gogo said that when he was young, Sekuru Chop-Chop always got into too-much-too-much trouble, and he continued to do so as an adult. In my memory, he was always sharply dressed and happy-happy until he was no longer happy-happy. That’s when he would say “Chop-chop!” and grab his clothes from his wife, Ambuya Chop-Chop, pack a bag, sling it over his shoulder, and disappear to Harare without saying another word to my ambuya, and without hugging his crying children or saying goodbye to Gogo.
Gogo would comfort Ambuya Chop-Chop and apologize for her son’s bad behavior, telling people that she had lost her son to Harare, except Sekuru Chop-Chop was not lost for real-real, he just went back and forth to Harare looking for money, and bringing back nice things for Ambuya Chop-Chop, enough of them for her to forgive him, until the next time he said “Chop-chop!” and packed his bag, to disappear again without an explanation. One day he was no longer able to travel, because he fell ill.
As soon as Gogo tells me the news, I drop my bag inside the hut and run to Sekuru Chop-Chop’s house. When I arrive, I find a small boy sitting on a grass mat in the yard, propped up against a tree next to the sleeping house. I don’t recognize the small boy, so I announce myself. “I come in God’s name, hanzwadzi,” I say. “We welcome you,” the small boy answers faintly, and his voice sounds familiar.
I keep walking toward the small boy, until I suddenly realize that it is Sekuru Chop-Chop, except he looks nothing like my sekuru. His body has shriveled to almost half its size, leaving him drowning inside his favorite brown trousers, now faded and full of holes. He was always so fastidious about his appearance, but his once crisp white shirt is worn and dingy. His face is an image of a startled ghost, with shiny, dark skin, stretched tightly over sunken cheeks, and bulging owl eyes. His lips look bright red and raw, his hair is soft and curly, and his feet are bare and cracked. I have never seen Sekuru Chop-Chop without his shiny shoes, and now he is barefoot. I am startled by how lost and shrunken he looks, as if he is disappearing before my eyes.
I notice that he hasn’t recognized me yet, so I say, “It’s me, Sekuru,” and approach the mat. I want so badly to throw my arms around him, to show him how much I love him, but I am afraid of hurting his frail body. He looks practically breakable. Instead, I sit next to him on the mat and place my hand inside his bony hand.
“Aaaa, is it really you, my niece?” Sekuru asks, looking down at our locked hands.
“I am so happy to see you, Sekuru,” I respond, looking away from his face, overwhelmed by the situation and his appearance. I have never seen Sekuru Chop-Chop this weak and sick before. I have never seen him look so helpless, as helpless as a young child. He was never afraid of anything. Now he is clearly too weak to move.
“How are you feeling, Sekuru?” I ask.
Sekuru starts coughing uncontrollably. Finally, he stops, clears his throat, spits out a string of slimy saliva, and says in a pained voice, “Eeee, me, I am sick, my niece,” admitting to things he has never admitted to before, emotions he would have labeled weakness when I was young.
“Are you taking medicine, Sekuru?” My question startles him because here in Goromonzi we are never to talk about HIV/AIDS. I don’t want to make things uncomfortable, so I quickly explain that I now help Aunt Jane at the clinics in Harare and that I have seen her patients recover after receiving treatment.
Sekuru Chop-Chop remains silent and still refuses to meet my gaze. I remember how Aunt Jane cares for her patients, so I place my hand on Sekuru Chop-Chop’s back and repeat my question in a low, comforting voice, “Are you taking medicine, Sekuru?”
I watch Sekuru hang his head with shame: the shame of being offered help by a child, and the shame of suffering from AIDS, or “Satan’s illness,” as it is called here in Goromonzi. Even in the city, in Harare, people call HIV/AIDS chirwere, which simply means “disease.” This is particularly odd because in our Shona language we call every other disease by its true name.
“Eeee, medicine is too expensive, my niece. But also you, you are a junior-junior, I should be the one taking care of you,” Sekuru says sadly. I want to help so badly, but I know that I don’t have a job or any money to buy Sekuru Chop-Chop medicine.
“We need a deal, Sekuru; you can’t go
to heaven yet,” I respond, tears stinging at the back of my eyes. “Deal?”
I watch fear fall over Sekuru’s face like a blanket, his eyes saying everything that he does not or cannot say: I am fearful of not living up to the deal. I am afraid I will let you down. I see this, but I need Sekuru to agree to our deal and do this for us. I keep staring at him, pleading silently with my eyes, until he clears his throat, smiles faintly, and says, “Okay, deal.”
Only a few years later, Sekuru Chop-Chop breaks our promise and his soul is called back to the heavenly father.
* * *
I refocus my attention on Julia and the doctor and explain my experience building trust within communities. I share how I once traveled with Gogo and the ambuyas to the village next to Goromonzi to pray for a sick ambuya, but when we arrived the sick ambuya wasn’t there. A young girl led us down a hill, deep into the forest. There we found the sick ambuya shackled to a tree in order to prevent her from spreading “Satan’s illness” to the rest of the village. Gogo explained to the village elders that there was no risk of getting the disease through regular social contact, and that isolating a sick person was punishing and harmful. The village elders set the sick ambuya free, and she returned to her home, where she received care from her community. “It is important that community elders—in particular traditional and religious leaders—are effectively engaged as a way to successfully address the taboos and stigma that are associated with HIV/AIDS, and to stop misinformation that leads to unnecessary suffering and increased infection rates,” I say.
I Am a Girl from Africa Page 10