I Am a Girl from Africa Read online

  Julia nods. “You are absolutely right, Elizabeth, we need a holistic approach if we are to be successful. Most of the HIV prevention programs are primarily focused on preventing transmission through behavior change. This alone is not enough. Behavior influences health, but culture influences behavior. One must take into account underlying social and cultural norms, especially here in Africa, where culture and tradition are so important. These things really matter.”

  I feel proud to have Julia validate my experience and contributions, so I smile and nod. I am impressed by how deeply she, a Western scientist, understands and acknowledges the critical role played by social and cultural norms in determining how a community will respond and behave. I think of Aunt Jane, telling her patients in the clinics and the listeners on the radio to “call a spade a spade,” and calling HIV/AIDS by its real name, not “Satan’s illness” or chirwere. The more Julia and I work together, the more my respect for her grows.

  Back in London, I am promoted to the paid position of events organizer, in charge of organizing all the consultative workshops and meetings with the project stakeholders across Africa, seeking their input and expertise to inform the scenarios project and help stem the tide of the epidemic ravaging my continent. I think to myself that I have never done more difficult but important work—which I am also finding to be well suited to my abilities and on-the-ground experience.

  I continue my work in London, but after I’ve been in Africa, however briefly, I am homesick for its familiar sights and sounds. I am twenty-eight and it has been a little over three years since I’ve seen my family, but it feels much longer. As soon as I can afford a plane ticket, I fly home for a visit.

  I arrive to a Zimbabwe that has changed a great deal since I left. My country is experiencing a critical food shortage due to political turmoil and erratic rains. As we drive through Harare’s city center, I notice flocks of young boys and girls milling on the streets, begging for money and food. Aunt Jane explains that according to official statistics, at least ten thousand Zimbabweans died the previous year from hunger, and that six million people, roughly half of our country’s population, will need food assistance in the upcoming year. The food insecurity is astonishing, and its devastating impact is only beginning.

  It is heartbreaking and disheartening to hear and see these troubling realities, so I feel thankful to spend time with my siblings as we catch up on life at Amai’s home. Osi now works in the city fixing computers, and Memo is a hairdresser; both are married and living with their families in Harare. Chio, my baby sister, is now twenty-two years old, still living with Amai and still looking for a job.

  When I tell my brother and sisters about my life in London and the constantly rainy weather, Memo teases me: “Lizzy, me you can’t pay me a thousand cows to live in a place that is lacking sunshine.”

  “Memo is right,” Osi agrees. He cannot imagine living as I do, in a small apartment that is nowhere near a park. “You live like a small-small chicken in a small-small coop, Lizzy. But eeee, me I think a chicken has it better than you; at least it can go outside and eat fresh grass! Me, I will stay here in Africa,” he adds, leaning into me, chuckling—making us erupt with laughter.

  Our conversation reminds me of how precious life is here in Africa, where I am always surrounded by my family’s love, open space, and the beautiful African sun. Chio chimes in with her own tease: “Me, I hear you guys over there in London eat fish and chips every day. That is not food, Lizzy. Sadza—now that is food,” she says, and we all burst out laughing again, and just for a moment we are able to forget our country’s food shortage, and Amai’s own struggles.

  The price of rabbit and chicken feed has more than doubled due to the food crisis, and Amai is having trouble searching for money because she cannot afford the food to raise the animals and sell them. Still, we get down on our knees on the concrete floor after dinner and pray to God in gratitude for our blessings, thanking him for Baba’s new job at a local tavern in Epworth, which pays slightly more than his old supermarket job. We thank God especially for my new paid job with the United Nations, which will make it possible for me to send money back home to Amai so she can buy food. I am so grateful for the mukana that my family has given me, and proud that my job will make life better for my family in return.

  Back in Goromonzi, Gogo slaughters one of her goats to feed the ambuyas and sekurus and their children who all gather in her yard, bearing small baskets of whatever food they have to celebrate my return home, however brief. When I remind Gogo of the food crisis and suggest that they save their food, she says I should never speak like that again.

  “You, my dear child, you are a child of this soil. You have brought us all immense pride.” Gogo stares into my eyes, gently folding my hand into a fist between her palms, and says, “I always wondered why a child is born with their hands clenched into a fist.” She pauses and continues, her eyes never leaving my eyes. “Now I know, my dear child. Now I know. You, you were born clenching your blessings,” she says. Her words fill me with happiness.

  The sekurus chop wood next to Gogo’s goat shed as the ambuyas slice cabbages under the big tree next to the hut. The children shell dried beans into a large woven basket. I help Gogo build a large cooking fire in the yard. She is still the same Gogo, but she looks frail to me, and it pains me to see it. Still, I am happy to be side by side with her again, cooking food and sharing laughter.

  At dusk, the sky is bright orange, and by the time we sit down to eat, it is nightfall, and our beautiful, seemingly endless African sky is teeming with so many shining stars it would be impossible to count them all. We sit around the big fire, sharing sadza soaking in fresh goat stew. On one side of the fire, the sekurus sit on empty water containers and wooden stools. On the other side, the ambuyas and Gogo sit on colorful sarongs spread out over the ground. I sit on the dusty ground with the children, and I am happy there, remembering my childhood years in the village. The flames of the fire rise into the sky, illuminating the faces of the people I have known all my life. We sing songs of praise as we dance around the fire, thanking God for bringing me safely home to Goromonzi.

  On my last night in my village, I am teary as I say goodbye to my beloved Gogo. She is getting older, and every moment with her becomes that much more precious. I know she will not be around forever, but I can’t bear to think about losing her—not yet. I commit to coming home every year to see Gogo and my family. I am grateful for my new life and job in London, but I know without a single doubt that no matter where I am in the world, Africa will always be my home. It is here on the African soil where I truly belong, here with Gogo, where my heart and soul feel nourished and rejuvenated. Gogo takes my hand in her palm and places it on my heart, just like she did when I was young. I feel the warmth of her hand, both its gentleness and strength, when she says, “Whenever you need me, I will always be right here with you, inside your heart, my dear child. Never forget that, never forget.” I hug her as tightly as possible; I wish I never had to let go.

  * * *

  When I return to London, I place my hand on my heart and speak to Gogo whenever I miss her, which is every day, even as I continue to love the work I do, traveling with Julia to more African communities impacted by HIV/AIDS and deepening my knowledge of the crisis and of the African continent. In Egypt, an Arabic-speaking country in North Africa, I am encouraged to learn that the country has a less than 1 percent HIV/AIDS prevalence rate, and I ask policymakers to share any lessons they’ve learned that could prove effective if deployed in other parts of the continent. In Nigeria, a vibrant West African nation that is Africa’s most populous country—a place where hundreds of languages are spoken—community leaders teach us how to speak to people accurately and effectively about the epidemic within their diverse communities. In East Africa, a region populated by more than 160 different ethnic groups, patients in Kenya share their agonizing experiences in accessing treatment due to stigma and discrimination. The crisis is different in each un
ique place, and therefore requires unique approaches to prevention and care.

  I witness the way Julia manages high-level meetings with African government officials across the continent, advocating for the rights of communities to access healthcare services. Like Aunt Jane, Julia is a force, a formidable mentor, and a woman who is always ready to “do more.” She works patiently and tirelessly to help people change and better their lives, and the more I watch her, the more I learn. I watch in awe as she refuses to take no for an answer: Your Excellency, we firmly believe that your country can be a role model for many on and off the continent. She chooses her words carefully and delivers them calmly until she gets a yes. As we grow closer, I spend weekends with her family—her husband Andrew and sons Jacob and Oliver. She gives me a second home in London, for which I am deeply grateful. It is amazing to think that in these few years this city that for me was once so unfamiliar and cold has become a place of community and connection and professional fulfillment.

  One afternoon Julia calls me into her office and tells me she’s been asked to send someone to the UNAIDS head office in Geneva to support the second phase of the HIV/AIDS scenarios project. After twelve months of intense work, the African stakeholders have now developed a report with clear, actionable policy recommendations that will empower African governments to combat HIV/AIDS in their respective countries. Solutions by Africans for Africans—this is a huge accomplishment, and once again I feel truly humbled to be part of the project.

  “I would like to send you to Geneva,” Julia says.

  I know just how significant this next phase will be; it will require someone with astute communication and diplomacy skills to support African governments as they begin to implement the policy recommendations. Such a position was, not so long ago, beyond my wildest dreams. I start to panic. I have never done this work alone. Julia reassures me that I have grown in confidence in my ability to engage with African governments and communities. She has faith in me, but although I am grateful, I cannot imagine my work without her as an integral part of it. She has been my mentor, my guide. “Will you be moving too?” I ask, praying silently for her to say yes.

  “I need to stay in the UK now,” she says.

  My head starts to spin, thinking of all I will need to learn and do. And without Julia? Impossible. I can’t do this work by myself. I can’t be the only person at the head office in Geneva with intimate knowledge of this project. It’s too much responsibility, and I am terrified that I will fail at the job and disappoint this woman I respect so deeply and who has taught me so much. I put my hands on her desk and clear my throat.

  Julia, sensing my hesitation, reaches across and puts her hand over mine. “Elizabeth. I have complete trust that you will do a brilliant job.”

  I feel as though my heart might burst. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you, Julia, for the opportunity and your trust,” I finally manage to say, my eyes full of tears, and my voice thick with emotion, as I think of the weight of this next opportunity: to be part of supporting the efforts of my continent—what an honor!

  I quickly find a furnished apartment in Geneva, at the top of a small hill in the center of Vieille Ville (Old Town), a maze of charming cobbled streets and picturesque squares with quaint water fountains, cafés, restaurants, souvenir stores, galleries, newspaper stands, and the famous St. Pierre Cathedral, which overlooks my apartment. The church bell keeps the time, chiming every hour on the hour. The apartment is clean but basic, and it is also eerily quiet. The minute I set down my bags, I miss the familiarity of my life in London and my home in Africa, but I also think about this girl from Africa who, just a few short years ago, believed that making it to the “nearest” UN office in Switzerland was utterly impossible. Now here I am, living in the shadow of the Swiss Alps, working for the United Nations. I push open the small window to let in the crisp mountain air. I hear birds chirping in the trees outside my window, reminding me of the colorful birds in the Good Forest in Goromonzi. I hum along with the birds’ songs in an effort to cast away my loneliness as I slowly unpack my suitcase and settle into my new home.

  Over the coming weeks, I mobilize all the skills I’ve learned from Julia, explaining our scenarios project as an innovative case study, arguing that the lessons we learn from a successful implementation of this strategy to address HIV/AIDS will provide tactics to approach other developmental challenges—like entrenched poverty, food insecurity and hunger, and gender inequality.

  I travel across Africa, engaging with African governments and their communities, encouraging them to implement the policy recommendations, determined to create lasting change from the inside out. “While there are enormous odds to overcome, there is much that African countries can do with their collective strength to overcome the disease and grow economies,” I tell the ministers of health. I emphasize the need for unity and integration between individuals and their communities, and between African countries. My goal is to ensure that our scenarios project alleviates infection rates in order to support the ambitious goal of UNAIDS that by 2020, at least 90 percent of all people living with HIV/AIDS will know their status and have access to treatment.

  In communities, I work with religious and traditional leaders as I did with Aunt Jane in Zimbabwe, to evolve beliefs and values so that HIV/AIDS is no longer seen as a sin, or a punishment, or a risk or a curse—and mobilizing entire communities to seek testing or treatment. I am thrilled with our accomplishments, which reenergizes me to do more. And when I learn that one in five new HIV infections happen among adolescent girls, who constitute just 10 percent of the population in Sub-Saharan Africa, due to cultural, social, and economic inequalities, I work tirelessly with healthcare providers, advocating for the creation of youth-friendly sexual and reproductive health services.

  * * *

  I am ecstatic and truly grateful when I join the head of the organization, Dr. Peter Piot, executive director of UNAIDS, on a trip to the United Nations headquarters in New York City to present our HIV/AIDS scenarios project to the UN secretary-general, Mr. Kofi Annan.

  When we pull up to the UN headquarters, an imposing, modern glass building surrounded by the flags of every nation in the world, I feel a jolt of excitement and also disbelief. Here I am! Finally! I think back to my first full day in London, when I went to what I thought was the United Nations and was told it was in the United States in New York City, the very place I am now standing. If only I could go back in time and tell that girl, who thought her dream was crumbling, that a few years later she’d have made it to both offices, doing the work she was inspired to do all those years ago by the girl in the blue uniform. A smile spreads over my face, one of joy and pride and deep gratitude. I think of all the times I told myself “shinga,” reminding myself not to give up and to find a way, no matter the sacrifice or amount of work, and no matter how many times it felt like this dream was, as so many told me, far too audacious for a girl from Africa. And yet, here I am. I am working for the UN in Switzerland and am now moments away from presenting this important work to the secretary-general of the United Nations in New York City.

  It is difficult to digest the fulfillment of this lifelong dream, so along with excitement I also feel a tightness in my chest and a nervousness that makes me tremble. As we cross the shiny lobby full of people from all over the world, and then travel up to the executive suite on the top floor, I manage to calm down. I am about to meet the very first United Nations secretary-general from Africa. I need to gather myself together in order to be truly present for this remarkable moment. When I finally shake hands with Mr. Kofi Annan, I think of how astonishingly powerful a dream can be; to think that my dream has come full circle, that the words that once inspired my dream—“As Africans we must uplift each other”—constitute what I am doing and what I have done.

  * * *

  After I have known Julia for a few years, she is diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I visit her in a London hospital, where she lies in a narrow bed with a thick tube in he
r nose and a skinny one in her arm attached to a drip. We have walked through so many hospital wards together and witnessed so much suffering, always trying to find ways to better help sick patients. I long to do more for her now.

  “You are going to be fine, Julia,” I say, squeezing her hand and trying not to panic. I know that ovarian cancer is not always fatal if detected early. Julia can’t die, I think.

  I pray silently to God to take care of her, and for a time it seems my prayers are heard and answered, and Julia returns to work—but not for long. Nine months later, I visit her in her London home. Lying in bed, she looks small and frail, a breathing tube in her nose. As soon as I enter the room, she reaches for me.

  “Elizabeth, I don’t want to die,” she says. I sit on the edge of her bed, hold her hand, and see in her eyes a terror I have never seen before. I long to lift her pain, to take it all away, but of course I cannot. This amazing, strong, and compassionate woman who fought the good fight for so many—how could it be that her light would no longer shine in the world? My heart is breaking.

  “How long?” I start to cry.

  In a trembling voice, without letting go of my hand, she says, “A month. Two months maximum.”

  A week later, back in Geneva, I receive a call from Julia’s husband, Andrew. “Elizabeth, Julia has just passed.”

  I sit in my apartment, stunned and devastated. I can hear people chatting and laughing in the street, and the buttery smell of croissants drifts in through the window from the bakery next door. How can it be that Julia is no longer here? What am I going to do without her? The woman who taught me how to do this work in the world; the woman who believed in me wholeheartedly and treated me like family; the woman who gave me the once in a lifetime opportunity to fulfill my greatest dream. She was my ally, my colleague, my mentor, my friend, my family. Now she is gone, and the world seems smaller, narrowed to a point, and less friendly, as if a light has truly gone out. I put my head in my hands and sob, overcome with a sense of loss that is overwhelming and far too familiar.