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I had never been in a UN vehicle before, so when the driver who showed up was a woman, I didn’t think much of it. It was day 1 of my work trip to Zambia. We pulled over to a local restaurant to have lunch. I insisted Tenday join us and not just wait idly in the car. Apparently, that would have been okay. Over lunch, I pry – I’m curious, inquisitive, nosy, whatever you want to call it. It was sunny that day, but not too sunny, humid, but not too humid. “How long have you been a driver for UNHCR?” I asked, as I struggled with some nshima and chicken. I was still learning the intricacies of properly molding the maize paste in my hands and dipping it in my sauce and greens. “It’s my first day actually.” Tenday responded proudly. She was wearing a blue button down, dress pants, and flats. Tenday had worked as a driver for ILO for 11 years. For this job, she had to leave her family at her nephew’s in Lusaka, the capital, an hour away by plane from Solwezi in Northwestern province, where we were. Her daughter arrived over the weekend to help her unpack and get settled. She would have to go back to Lusaka soon. I learned later that Tenday is the only woman driver at UNHCR Zambia. “I’m used to it,” she says, almost nonchalantly, unfazed by the gender gap. Her dad was a driver, too. The next day, Tenday drove us two hours to Meheba settlement. The road through the bush was narrow and mostly flat, dotted with tomato vendors and homes with tin roofs. “Tomatoes aren’t in season,” Tenday observed. One day, we stopped so she could ask how much the tomatoes were. There was always background music in the car. Tenday had a CD of her favorite songs. I remember enjoying them. “It’s bigger than Singapore,” UNHCR staff will exclaim to you moments after your arrival to Meheba. Sprawled over four blocks, A, B, C, and D, with numbered roads and houses, it was easy to forget that we were entering and exiting an open prison. On the way back home, Tenday helped us digest what we had observed. And then the conversation in the car would trail off. “I will be open with you,” she said during one of the times I was asking her too many questions. “I had a daughter when I was 18.” “What did your family think? Weren’t you in school?” I had no filter that day. “I struggled.” Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. The road ahead was empty. We had to leave Meheba by 4 to return the car to the UN office before dark. Otherwise, Tenday would get in trouble. She was kind and did her best not to rush us. On our last day, we still had not had any grilled corn. Every day, on our way out of the settlement, we passed a group of women selling some off the highway. Tenday pulled over, got out of the car, and haggled for some fresh ones. They competed for her business. The corn was warm and toasty with many burnt bits, reminding me of home. We were late to get back to the office that day. “People would say to me ‘oh, you’re pregnant, so school is no longer for you – go make babies.'” She said that last part with disdain, and a hint of comic relief. Even back then, she understood she had made a mistake and was lucky to have her family’s support. After high school, Tenday studied sociology in college and is now completing her master’s degree through a distance learning program. Her own daughter is in college now. “I’m very proud of her,” she beamed. One day, Tenday wants to become a program officer at a UN office in Zambia. By the end of the trip, I think we had gone through the CD at least 4 times. I would sing along with Tenday, our windows rolled down as we drove under the overcast sky. I should have asked her what those songs were called. I should have written it all down.