I made her a promise...

by Ari Injeyan (United States of America)

Making a local connection Zambia

In rural areas of Southern Province Zambia, a great kindness is visiting someone unannounced. It means you were inexplicably thinking about them, curious about their well being, and willing to make the oft long journey over to see them. The host is then undoubtedly elated to see you, pours some delicious white cibwantu into your cup and hours are spent sitting on stools discussing politics, family, and the scandalous gossip that often surrounds small villages… We, however, were American, and so this visit was scheduled months in advance with an agenda, itinerary, and shopping list neatly written out. The plan was set. I would leave Jembo village Friday morning with 20 or so individuals on the back of an open-back green truck. After an hour or so driving down that bumpy dirt road, I’d get dropped off once we reached the tarmac. I’d then seek transport due South by waiving my limp hand up and down whereby the color of my white skin would garner enough curiosity to stop a passing vehicle. After a brief chat where I show off my extremely limited Citonga, we’d drive two hours or so down towards the township of Choma. I would then gather groceries, hitch a ride due East, and trek another hour or so towards Nalube. She would then greet me with her friend and we’d take his vehicle for an easy ride home. Simple. In my heart, I knew this would never be. I’d been in Zambia too long to assume plans often played out as intended, but we had spent two years in our respective villages and time was coming to an end. She had come to see me and I would be terribly haunted if I never did the same. So Friday came, I had no class, and headed spritely towards that lime green truck. I was hopping in the back when I was told a Sibuku meeting would take be taking place at school... This was a big deal. The leaders of ten surrounding villages were going to meet together and this was akin to being struck by lightning during a solar eclipse while being dealt a royal flush and winning the SuperLottoPlus… twice. I had to be there. The meeting was at 12:00, which obviously meant 14:00, which meant there were trickles at 15:30, which meant it ended at 19:30 and it was nearly dark. There was no transport out by then, my journey hadn’t started and I was deeply bummed. There would be no transport tomorrow, no transport out of her village Sunday, and I had to be at school on Monday. I wore it on my face when I got home and found my 16-year-old host-brother. He inquired, I explained, and Mandela’s eyes lit up. A teacher would be attending a church conference in the capital that evening. All he needed was my bike to go ask for a ride…. “AMUTANTE MANDELA! GO!” He rode like the wind, they came and grabbed me, and alongside two Sibukus in the back seat, we laughed and banged our heads atop the roof of that tiny blue car until we got off the dirt road and reached the tarmac. Our journey together ended when they left me on the roadside in the dead of night and headed north through the darkness. I flailed my limp wrist frantically for the next two hours trying to get any scarce driver heading South to stop, but a disheveled white man hitching at night garnered more suspicion than curiosity. It would be a Tonga man with genuine concern on his face that finally slowed, and we laughed for two hours heading south until he dropped me by the roadside once more. I made one last call before my phone died, and I gazed up into that starry night sky to let the chips fall where they may. The air was warm and only the grass stirred when two headlights appeared in that dark, cozy night. We drove to Nalube, showed up unannounced and slept. The following day we woke up elated, sat on our stools, and drank from our cups discussing politics, family, and the scandalous gossip that often surrounds small villages…