I Am a Girl from Africa Page 20

  * * *

  A few months after our visit, Iceland manages to complete the pilot phase of their pay parity commitment—certifying seven companies after each met the equal pay standard and reaching an important milestone.

  What I don’t know in this moment is that in 2018, the world will wake up to the breaking news that Iceland is the first country to make it illegal to pay men more than women. A huge weight having then lifted from my shoulders, I collapse onto my desk with relief and thank God for everything. All those years of hard work—all the travel and listening and diplomacy and determination—all of it will pay off, making me feel part of something very important. On January 2, 2018, the government publicly declares that Icelandic women are now guaranteed, by law, to receive equal pay for equal work, the legislation requiring that women be valued and treated as equal to their male colleagues. This historic milestone is literally world-changing, and I feel honored to be both a facilitator and a witness to this seismic shift.

  As my colleagues and I pause to celebrate in New York City and around the world, I am overcome with gratitude. I think of all the communities and individuals who stood together to create a bold and unified force for gender equality as part of the HeForShe movement. I am humbled by the commitments and actions of so many that have created so much change. I think of Lupita, and what she said about the power of an individual to create impact, and how her father was her first role model, a man who instilled in her the belief that she had both the right and the ability to pursue her dreams and goals in order to build a life of meaning and purpose. Her story resonates so deeply because it reflects my own. When I began the HeForShe movement, I was inspired by the many men who had encouraged and supported me, but none did so as profoundly and powerfully as my uncle Sam.

  * * *

  I am eighteen years old, chatting with Uncle Sam in his office. He has just returned after months of traveling across Africa for his work. Whenever I spend time with him, I’m reminded of how deeply he has shaped my life: he has modeled for me the integrity, perseverance, and kindness that I seek to emulate. He is just the kind of person I aspire to be, and I am excited to be here, with him, now that I live full-time in Epworth where I help take care of my siblings. His office is a cozy and familiar place; it feels like home, for him to be on one side of the desk and me on the other, talking about anything and everything.

  Uncle Sam has been asking me about work. I’m embarrassed about the supermarket job I have held for almost a year now. Moments before, I apologized for letting him down and disappointing him, for wasting the mukana of a great education that he and Aunt Jane supported me with. He seems surprised by my reaction and reminds me that he and Aunt Jane are still very proud of me. Still, I know that they wanted me to go to university, even expected it. I have not and am not sure if I will ever be able to. When I tell him this, I cannot bear to look him in the eyes.

  “Yes, that would have been lovely,” Uncle Sam says. “But you should not let your situation get you down. You should still be proud of yourself for continuing to fight, even when things seem impossible.”

  I look up at Uncle Sam’s kind face and nearly burst into tears. All this time, I have been carrying so much guilt for not going to university as I promised him, and this feeling of failing him has haunted me, tortured me with disappointment, keeping me up at night.

  “Promise me something, Elizabeth. Never let your current circumstances limit your potential. Never let anything diminish your dreams. Okay?”

  I look into his eyes, continuing to blink back tears. “Okay, Uncle Sam. I promise.”

  Uncle Sam stands up and walks around the desk to place his hand on my shoulder. I feel the weight of his love for me, and his confidence in my abilities. His absolute support is just the motivation I need. I leave his office feeling uplifted, committed to my new promise to him and reassured by his wise words of guidance, reminding me that I must keep working hard, that I must remain focused, and that I must never, ever give up on my dream.

  * * *

  A few months pass, and I am in the supermarket helping a customer when I hear my name over the intercom. Aunt Jane is on the phone for me, and not with good news.

  “Your uncle has been admitted to Parirenyatwa Hospital.” Her voice is spiked with panic, which is unlike her; she explains that Uncle Sam has been sick since he returned home from a business trip to Ghana several days ago.

  I quickly leave work to meet Aunt Jane at the hospital and follow her down the narrow corridor toward the patients’ ward. “He said he felt ill during the conference. He thinks a doctor accidentally gave him penicillin,” Aunt Jane tells me in a rush. Uncle Sam is highly allergic to penicillin; ingesting it could kill him.

  I say a quick prayer to God as I run ahead of Aunt Jane into his hospital room, but what I find there stops me in my tracks. Uncle Sam is lying on the bed, looking as helpless as a child, with a complicated network of tubes connected to different parts of his body. His eyes are closed, so I sit on the edge of his bed, place my hand on his cheek, and whisper, “Wake up, Uncle Sam. It’s me. Can you hear me?”

  “He is unconscious,” Aunt Jane says, standing in the doorway. She looks terrified and refuses to enter the room. I have never seen her like this before, which only increases my worry. I say another fervent prayer, this time with my hand on Uncle Sam’s shoulder.

  I stay in the hospital while Aunt Jane returns to her patients, pulling a chair from the corner of the room so I can sit next to Uncle Sam and continue holding his shoulder, praying again to God for a miracle as terror sprints through my body.

  I can’t lose Uncle Sam! “Shiri yakanaka unoendepi? Huya, huya, huya titambe,” I sing softly, leaning closer to him, my grip tightening around his shoulder. I wait for Uncle Sam to sing back, “Ndiri kuenda kumakore. Kuti ndifanane nemakore.”

  In my early days of living in Harare, Uncle Sam nicknamed me Pretty Bird, because I chirped to the birds anytime I saw them, just as I had done in the Good Forest. He then taught me to sing “Pretty Bird,” a classic Shona lullaby, which immediately became our favorite song; I wanted it anytime I felt down or missed Gogo, and he sang along with me. I liked being called Pretty Bird; I imagined myself free, flying through fluffy white clouds, moving through time and space, making my way back home to Goromonzi, back to a simpler time when I was just Gogo’s dear child. “Shiri yakanaka unoendepi? Huya, huya, huya titambe—Pretty bird, where are you going? Come, come, come, let’s play,” Uncle Sam would sing. “Ndiri kuenda kumakore. Kuti ndifanane nemakore—I am going to the clouds. So I too can be just like the clouds,” I would respond.

  When I was fifteen and contracted the mumps virus, Uncle Sam nursed me back to health, taking a week off from work so that he could be home with me. Since there is no treatment for mumps, apart from a preventative vaccination which I should have received when I was a baby but hadn’t because Gogo couldn’t afford to pay for one, Aunt Jane ordered bed rest until I recovered. My face and jaw puffed up like a balloon, which made it difficult to swallow or chew. Uncle Sam made me carrot soup and attended to me, making sure that I stayed hydrated. He decorated my bedroom with colorful blue, white, and orange balloons and bright yellow African daisies. He sat for hours by my bedside reading me novels from some of his favorite African authors—Chinua Achebe, Buchi Emecheta, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o—until my eyes became heavy with sleep. Then he would stop reading, place his hand on my shoulder. “Pretty bird, where are you going? Come, come, come, let’s play,” he whispered, his voice soothing and healing as I slowly drifted off. This was one of many times when Uncle Sam nursed me back to health or took care of me. And now I long for my voice to do the same for Uncle Sam, only he is unconscious and unable to hear me. Still I keep singing “Pretty Bird” quietly until visiting hours are over and I am asked to leave.

  The next day, when I return to the hospital with Amai, I am shocked to find Uncle Sam sitting up in his bed, reading a newspaper as if nothing has happened. Amai is so startled when she
sees him that she immediately begins to wail.

  “Who died?” Uncle Sam says, smiling, teasing Amai.

  “Eeee you, you scared us. Lizzy said you were unconscious,” Amai says, and sits down next to the bed.

  “Uncle Sam, don’t ever scare us like that again,” I say, light-headed with relief, wrapping my arms around him so tightly that I crumple his newspaper. He assures me that he is okay and set to be released the day after tomorrow. He tells us that it was indeed penicillin he was given that made him so sick. I tell him that I have to work the next day, but will arrange to pick him up the day after that.

  “Deal,” Uncle Sam says, getting out of bed and tightening his green hospital robe around his waist. He insists on walking with us to the top of the stairs, where I hug him goodbye.

  * * *

  Late afternoon the following day, I am in the back of the supermarket restocking the shelves when I look up and see Amai, which startles me.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Eeee, Lizzy, me, I don’t know,” Amai says. “Your Uncle Sam is worse again.”

  “I will go after work,” I say, knowing from experience that Amai has a tendency to overreact, and I cannot simply leave work in the middle of the day again. But when Amai reaches for my hand and says, “Lizzy, us, we have to go now,” I understand that this is serious and we quickly leave.

  When we arrive at the hospital, we immediately run to Uncle Sam’s room, but he isn’t there.

  “Where did you move my uncle?” I ask the nurse.

  “Follow me this way,” she says. Amai and I follow her down a long corridor. I have a bad feeling. Where is she taking us? Where is Uncle Sam?

  “Wait here,” she says, opening a door and leading us into an empty room.

  Amai and I sit next to each other on two chairs facing a doctor’s desk. We sit in silence, lost in our thoughts, heavy with dread.

  Finally, a male doctor in a white coat enters, sits down behind the desk, looks at us, and says, “I’m sorry.”

  I am completely confused. What is he talking about? “Where is Uncle Sam?”

  “I am so sorry,” he repeats. “Your uncle has just passed away. I am so sorry for your loss.”

  It feels as though my body is drifting slowly away from me, floating untethered through space like a tiny feather. This cannot be happening. This cannot be true. But there is the doctor in his white coat, telling us that Uncle Sam is gone. There is Amai, speechless and shocked. I collapse on the cold, hard floor of the hospital and curl myself into a ball; no sounds come, but I feel an utter and total despair unlike anything I have yet to experience in my life. It’s as if the ground has fallen out beneath me and with it, all of my plans for the future. I am utterly bereft. My uncle Sam has just died. Nothing will ever be the same.

  However long the night, dawn always breaks.

  —Congolese proverb

  15

  “Shhh, shhh,” I say softly. Kneeling next to the large orange metal basin, I gently lift one of the wailing babies from the soapy water, leaving the other baby in the safe hands of the woman next to me. I place the baby on my chest, wrap my hands around her tiny wet body, and feel my white shirt dampen and cling to me. “Shhh, shhh, chinyarara—don’t cry. God is going to take care of you,” I say, and then begin to cry myself. I bend my knees and lower my body to the dusty ground, tightening my arms to cradle the distressed baby; she feels so small and helpless in my arms.

  “Shhh, Shhh, it is okay,” the woman says, and I’m not sure if she is talking to me or to the baby, but both of us are crying now—the baby’s loud sobs mixing with my softer weeping as I try to collect myself. “I am so sorry, Ambuya Rufa,” I tell the woman, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. She nods, lifts the other baby out of the orange basin, wraps her in a colorful sarong, and hands me a matching one. I wrap the wet baby in the sarong; she whimpers, and I feel her warm breath against my chest.

  It is late 2015, and I am back home in Goromonzi visiting my family. Even though Gogo is gone, I still return home as often as possible to see all the ambuyas and sekurus and their children. Yesterday, when I arrived in the village, Ambuya Chop-Chop told me the devastating news about a woman—Ambuya Rufa—whom she knows from church. Two weeks ago, Ambuya Rufa buried her daughter after she took her own life, leaving behind her two-week-old twin daughters. Ambuya Rufa’s village is located past the Township Center where Gogo and I once sold our maize each harvest, and I have traveled here to extend my condolences.

  Ambuya Rufa and I sit together in her yard, under a large tree with patchy leaves that do little to protect us from the sun, which is just now beginning to set. To our right is a round thatched hut with a small wooden door that looks exactly like Gogo’s. To our left is a plastered rectangular sleeping house covered with weathered tin. Unlike Gogo, Ambuya Rufa does not have a storage hut for her crops; she doesn’t have a goat shed or a chicken coop in her yard, she doesn’t have much. Apart from the hut and the sleeping house, the yard looks barren, save for the tomatoes, pumpkins, and green beans that grow in a small garden patch behind the large tree. I calm myself down and force myself to smile at the woman who sits next to me, the baby resting in her arms. Ambuya Rufa, in her late fifties, has a long, slender face like Amai’s, with a slim nose, small black eyes, and sharply defined cheekbones. She wears a brown cotton dress, with short sleeves, and matching brown canvas shoes. Her hair is styled in cornrows, accentuating her high forehead. I have just met Ambuya Rufa and this is the first time I have been to her home. I only wish my visit was taking place under different conditions and better circumstances.

  “Ambuya Rufa, I am so sorry—again—for everything that has happened,” I say and once more begin to cry.

  “Eeee, it is tough, my grandchild. Me, I leave everything in God’s hands,” she says with conviction, her voice laced with sadness.

  “What happened, Ambuya?” I speak softly so as to not disturb the babies resting peacefully in our arms, these sweet babies who will never know or remember their mother, and who will someday have to learn the story of how and why she died.

  Ambuya responds in a hushed voice, “Huhhh, me, I blame myself. My daughter Tanaka would still be here if I had stood up to my husband.” I nod, and she continues. “Tanaka wanted to go to school so she could become a teacher, but eeee, my husband refused and married Tanaka to an old man when she was just fourteen years old. Tanaka was very unhappy in the marriage; her husband was beating her up too-much-too-much. She tried to come back home so many times, but we kept sending her back to her husband because, us, we did not have enough food to feed her and her twin girls. We had to turn her away.” Her eyes fill with tears, and she stops talking for a moment and swallows hard before continuing. “Three weeks ago, I woke up and found Tanaka, my sweet angel, right here, hanging from a thick rope from this tree. Huhhh, she had taken her own life to end her suffering. Sometimes I wish it is a nightmare and I will wake up,” Ambuya Rufa says. She looks up at the tree branch and her face looks startled, as if she’s just seen a ghost. I feel shivers run down my spine. Then Ambuya Rufa opens her mouth and wails with the kind of raw emotion that I have only heard from a woman who has lost her child and survived that ragged and bottomless grief. Her weeping frightens the babies and we all cry with her—wrenching, hopeless sobs that are the only response to such a devastating and unspeakable loss.

  This time I don’t say “I am so sorry for your loss” to Ambuya Rufa, because this time I am wildly upset. I am upset with Tanaka’s father and husband for taking away her chance to live a life she wanted; for marrying her off when she was still a child; for condoning abuse; and for making this girl who had hopes and dreams feel as though death was preferable to living a life of such misery and sadness. I am heartbroken to know that the majority of child marriages happen in my home continent of Africa as a result of poverty. Every year, fifteen million girls are forced into child marriage before the age of eighteen: the equivalent of twenty-eight girls every minute, or
one girl every two seconds. I have met some of those girls, and their stories weigh heavily on my heart as I think about Tanaka’s death.

  * * *

  I recall meeting Nira, a fourteen-year-old child marriage survivor, in India. As the driver of the yellow tuk-tuk I was in navigated traffic in the crowded streets of New Delhi, a young girl leapt in front of him, as if out of nowhere, and was nearly hit and killed. A bright green chiffon scarf covered all of her hair and half of her face. The sleeves of her bright red dress flapped in the wind and were so long it looked as if she had no hands. She stumbled along in blue flip-flops, her dress billowing like a parachute behind her. I panicked, jumped out of the tuk-tuk, and ran to her. “Are you okay?” I asked, and pulled her out of the road and onto a dusty sidewalk. She said she was fine, and introduced herself as Nira. She was in a hurry, trying to get to the temple, and hadn’t seen the tuk-tuk coming. I offered to drop her off, and when she sat next to me in the tuk-tuk, I noticed that half of her face was badly scarred and one eye was sealed shut.