I Am a Girl from Africa Page 4

  I don’t want to upset Big Sekuru. “Me, I don’t know, Sekuru. I can ask.” I look down, ashamed of my lie, then quickly change the subject. “Can I pray for you, Sekuru?” Here is my chance to begin my Mwana Wevhu prayers.

  “Eeee, us, we are in a hurry, my niece,” Big Sekuru responds.

  “Me, I will be quick-quick, Sekuru,” I say, leaning against the cart. I try to hold both of their hands as we always do when we pray for each other, but I am too short-short and I can’t reach inside the cart.

  “Why don’t you pray for us next time, my niece. Us, we have a long journey ahead,” Baby Sekuru suggests. He does not understand my new status and responsibilities, or that I have just made a big promise to God to pray for everyone.

  I must find a way to pray for the sekurus. I run to the front of the cart, place my hand on the side of one of the cows, and say, “Dear God. Please hear my prayer…” Suddenly, I feel my hand glide along the side of the cow as it begins to walk away. I stumble back, then steady myself and run after the cart, setting my hand back on the cow.

  “Eeee, this is dangerous! Iwe—You! Let go of the cow!” Big Sekuru screams.

  I ignore him. I must finish my prayer. I will not be a sin ever again. I run alongside the cow and, practically breathless, finish my prayer. “Dear God. Please hear my prayer. Please bless sekurus, and ambuyas, and their children, and their goats, and their cows, and this cow, and their crops. Thank you, sweet Jesus. Amen.” I wave goodbye to the sekurus, place my hands on my hips, and feel deeply pleased with myself. “I am Mwana Wevhu, you know,” I gleefully shout to the sky, then take off running again, this time home to Gogo’s hut.

  I find Gogo at the bottom of the yard, underneath a big tree that sits beside our round, grass-thatched hut. She is cleaning last night’s dirty dishes. Next to her bare feet are two white metal washbasins—one filled with soaking dirty plates and the other filled with clean water for rinsing.

  I announce myself. “I am back, Gogo.”

  “Okay, my dear child.”

  Gogo picks up a large water container and hands it to me, then places a big black clay pot of cooked pumpkins on her head, balancing it on top of the bright orange head scarf wrapped around her hair. She flings a metal hoe over her perfect, strong shoulders and says, “Aaaa, let’s go,” signaling it is time to head to the fields and to the river. Gogo leads us out of the yard, walking with purpose, her legs straight, her hips swaying sideways, her heels hitting the ground forcefully, as her toes propel her forward: left, right, left, right. I want to walk with purpose like Gogo. I mimic her feet and her hips, but my legs are small-small. Still, I try, holding on tightly to the empty water container resting on the top of my head.

  We walk down the hill through the village to Gogo’s field, weaving through the yards of the ambuyas, past their grass-thatched huts and tall maize bins, past their large sleeping houses covered with rusty tin roofs. The ambuyas rush around like buzzing bees in a hive, sweeping their yards, washing crying babies inside metal washbasins, and cooking white maize porridge with peanut butter over smoky fires. They work quick-quick so they can go to the river to fetch water. Then, like Gogo, they will spend the rest of the day working in their fields.

  Even though the ambuyas are busy when they see me and Gogo approach, they stop everything and say, “Mangwanani—Good morning, Gogo. How are you this morning?”

  Gogo responds with our proper Shona greeting, “Aaaa, tiripo kana makadiyiwo,” which literally means “We are well, as long as you are well.”

  Gogo says that our Shona greeting is important because it is a daily reminder that we all belong to one community, and that if one of us is unwell, then none of us is well. I don’t know what that means-means. All I know is that our Shona greeting is long-long, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

  The ambuyas respond, telling Gogo plenty-plenty things about their husbands and children, about their crops and goats and cows. One of their children is not well; a cow just had new calves; they found insects on the tomatoes, which they fear will destroy the crops; they had a specific dream last night which they can’t figure out.

  Gogo listens intently, nodding and shaking her head, saying “Aaaa,” when the news is pleasing; and “Eeee,” when the news is sad; “Uuuu,” when she is shocked; and “Huhhh,” when she is shocked for real-real.

  I normally get restless during these long greetings. But today I welcome them because of my Mwana Wevhu duties. As the ambuyas tell Gogo that they are well as long as Gogo and I are well, and then listen as Gogo responds, I grab the hands of each ambuya, loudly blessing them with my Mwana Wevhu prayer.

  When finally, Gogo says, “We wish you a blessed day, full of God’s love,” I say, “Yes, may God bless you, ambuyas,” and place the empty water container back on my head. “May God bless you too,” the ambuyas answer, finishing our goodbyes.

  We walk with purpose to Gogo’s field. “Okay, me, I will be back soon-soon, Gogo,” I say, leaving Gogo to work in her field of maize, as I take the narrow footpath into the Good Forest, headed to the river to fetch water.

  At the river I find plenty-plenty sisis and ambuyas. Some are kneeling, busy-busy washing dirty clothes inside large metal washbasins. Some stand upstream, collecting water in large plastic containers like mine. I walk along the riverbank and pray for each of them, one by one, placing my hand on their heads like the pastor at church and holding their hands whenever I can. It feels so wonderful to bless all of them with my Mwana Wevhu blessings. I am so happy that I am no longer a sin.

  I return to the river each day, praying for the ambuyas and sisis as I fetch water. They pay me no mind and get on with their work. When I drop off the water at home and head back to the field to join Gogo, I pace up and down the cow pastures with my arms neatly folded behind my back, just like the serious-serious sekurus do when they want to command attention and respect. One by one, I grab their hands with my hand and pray for the sekurus and hanzwadzis as they herd the cattle.

  I take being Mwana Wevhu very seriously and find great joy in praying for others. Then one day at the river, I hear a sisi call herself Mwana Wevhu. This upsets me, and when I ask Gogo about it and she says, “We are all Mwana Wevhu,” I feel totally confused. How can this be?

  It is nightfall, the hut is dimly lit, and Gogo is kneeling next to the fire cooking sadza. She scoops out ground maize powder from a small white container, stirring it into warm water inside a black clay pot balanced over the fire.

  I am furious and I startle her when I shout, “Gogo, you said I am Mwana Wevhu, remember? How can it be that we are all Mwana Wevhu!” If everyone is Mwana Wevhu, then how can I be special? And if I’m not special, does that mean I am a sin once again? This cannot be true. I cannot bear it. I close my eyes and mutter softly under my breath: “Dear God, please hear my prayer. Please don’t make me a sin again, God. Please, God. Please, I can’t be a sin.”

  I open my eyes, feeling my chest get hot and painful as angry, desperate tears gush down my face.

  “Shhhh, stop crying, my dear child,” Gogo says, placing a hand on my back.

  I flinch and slide away from her touch. I don’t want Gogo’s kindness, all I want is to not be a sin again. I feel as though the small walls of the hut are closing in on me, and my breath comes in quick, shallow bursts, as if I’ve swallowed too much smoke from the fire. My mind spins with plenty-plenty questions. Why did Gogo tell me that I am Mwana Wevhu if it is not true? Why is God breaking our promise? I promised to work hard, praying for all the people in our village, if I could remain Mwana Wevhu: special, set apart, no longer a sin. And I had worked hard: never complaining about the blisters on my feet, never complaining when the ambuyas and sekurus refused to stop for prayers. I burst into a loud cry and sob until my tears run dry.

  Gogo sits in silence, letting me empty out my pain. Finally, she says, “Mwana Wevhu means you are a child of the African soil.” Her voice is patient and kind, and I listen carefully, because I know when she speaks gent
ly and softly that she is telling me something important. “We are all Mwana Wevhu because each of us is like a single grain of sand, connected to our land and to each other.” Gogo reaches for my hand, looks into my eyes, and says, “You, my dear child, you are special. We all are. This is who we are as Africans—we are all children of the soil. Never forget that, never forget.” I wipe my face and take in Gogo’s words.

  Gradually my confusion and anger subside. I begin to understand that being Mwana Wevhu makes me special because it connects me to my land and to my community, deeply and forever; our connection is rooted in the rich African soil from which we grow our food, where we live our lives, and where our bodies rest when our souls are called back to the heavenly father. I understand that I am not a sin and still special, just in a different way. What makes me special is what makes all of us special. I am part of my community, connected to everyone I know and love, and I belong here, in this place, with all of Gogo’s relatives and all the other African people whom I have not yet and may never meet. To be Mwana Wevhu, I finally understand, is to be African.

  * * *

  Years later, I stand in a hallway of the youth hostel in Britain. When I open the door to my room, I am shocked to find three men sitting on two bunk beds. I realize that I have booked the cheapest room, which is apparently a mixed gender dorm. I am completely stunned. In my culture, young girls don’t sleep in a room with a man that they don’t know or are not related to. I feel a new panic that knocks away my fatigue for a moment. How can I share a room with three men I have never met before? How is this possible? What is going to happen to me? Will I get raped? Who am I going to tell if one of them tries to hurt me? I know nobody here except Tiny Nose, and I don’t even know her real name. Have I come all this way only to be attacked by a strange man?

  Tiny Nose made it clear that my payment is nonrefundable, but even if I could get the money back, I don’t have a phone or a computer to help me find a new place and I am sick of getting lost. What if I’m not as lucky next time and nobody will stop to help? I don’t know anything about this city or how to navigate it apart from buying and using a ticket on the train. I don’t know anyone I might call or turn to. I feel trapped and alone, my mouth bitter with emotions. I want to run away back home, or just will myself there, but I know that I cannot and will not. I can’t give up—not after all I’ve been through to get here.

  I take in the tiny room again, painted light blue, with two metal bunk beds pushed against opposite walls leaving only a narrow pathway between them. Backpacks clutter the floor, clothes are hanging off the beds, and the whole place smells of dirty feet. It feels like a far cry from home.

  One of the guys jumps up and greets me warmly. “Hello, my friend!” This is Val. With broad shoulders and dark hair combed forward, he looks like he could be a wrestler. He takes my suitcase and makes a space for it on the floor. “Welcome, my friend!” he says, his smile exposing a missing front tooth. We shake hands, and I nod to the other two guys sitting together on another bed. Val explains they are childhood friends of his visiting from Ukraine. Val seems nice enough, but I am already planning an escape route in my head. I ask for a bottom bunk; it will be easier to flee if necessary.

  “No problem, my friend!” Val says warmly, as if we are in fact old friends.

  When I sit down and remove my shoes, I see that my feet are covered in blisters that are about to burst. I rub them gently to ease the pain. I am still brimming with anxiety, but at least I am finally sitting down, and at least Val is friendly and does not appear to be dangerous. Instead, he is quite kind.

  “Long trip, my friend?” he asks.

  “Yes, from Zimbabwe.”

  “Where is that?” one of Val’s friends asks. Both guys have round faces, their thick jet-black hair combed forward like Val’s, and both wear red football fan T-shirts. When I say Africa, the guy asks me why I speak English.

  “Ignore him,” Val says, and asks if I’m on holiday.

  “No,” I say. “I am here to pursue my dream. I am here to work for the United Nations.” As I state this unequivocally, my anxiety subsides just a bit. I know what I’m here to do. I take a deep breath.

  “Ah, long shot! My friend, getting a job at United Nations not possible!” Val says.

  “I am going to their office tomorrow, and I am going to get a job,” I say with a confidence I do not feel, as panic hits me again; this is not helped by the fact that Val and his friends burst out laughing. I feel heat rising in my face.

  “Good luck, my friend,” Val says, not unkindly, but he keeps laughing.

  When night falls, I lie wide awake in my narrow bed, physically and emotionally exhausted. Still, I am afraid of falling asleep in this small room with these strange men. They seem nice enough, but who knows?

  I say a silent prayer, reminding myself again who I am: I am Mwana Wevhu, a child of the African soil with big ideas and big dreams. I am a girl from Africa. And I am, as of this moment, one step closer to my dream. For now, that is more than enough.

  You must act as if it is impossible to fail.

  —Ghanaian proverb

  4

  As soon as I see the logo on the wall, I run toward it, my heart thumping wildly. The last time I was this close to the iconic blue-and-white seal of the United Nations was on the blue uniform of the sisi who saved my life in Goromonzi during the terrible drought. That was the moment that sparked my dream; it is the reason I am here. I touch the seal with trembling fingers, the metal frame cool against my skin. This is really happening. I am finally here at the United Nations offices in London, so close to achieving my dream that I am actually touching it. I chuckle to myself in utter disbelief when I hear, “Excuse me, might I help you?”

  I blush with embarrassment, realizing that my laugh must have been audible and it is likely seen as quite odd to be tracing this seal with my fingers as if it is a priceless artifact. I turn around to see a neatly dressed British woman with eyes that match the color of her short brown hair. Her face is as warm and friendly as her pink-and-green floral dress. This is it. This is the moment, the opportunity to achieve my dream so that I can uplift the lives of others, just as my life was once uplifted. My excitement could fill this building and all the others on the block.

  “Yes, please. Madam, I am here for a job.” I hand her a copy of my CV that lists my previous work experience as a customer service representative—first in a large supermarket, then at a travel agency—as well as my work as a care assistant at several HIV/AIDS clinics in Zimbabwe. I can feel myself beaming with enthusiasm.

  She shakes her head and refuses to accept it. “I am afraid we aren’t hiring,” she says matter-of-factly, although not unkindly; and with that, she turns around and walks away, returning to the reception desk that I sprinted past when I entered the building.

  I follow her, still gleeful and hopeful. I’ve done the hardest part—I’ve gotten here. This next step must be easier. “When will you be hiring, madam?”

  “You can check our website for listings.” She lowers her head and begins typing on her computer. Her voice is no longer warm and friendly but dismissive, clearly inviting me to leave without saying so outright. I cannot leave. This is the job I have longed for since I was a child. This is my dream.

  I stand, CV in hand, and search for the right words to say. “Please, madam! Please! How might I be considered for a job?”

  The woman stops typing, sighs, and says sharply, “Tell you what, we will gladly keep your CV on file.”

  I hand her my CV and watch her scan it quickly. “I see that you don’t have a university degree,” she says without looking up. I knew that I would need a degree, but I was still hoping to get a junior position. When I explain this to the woman, her response is curt. “I’m afraid you still need a degree. The same is true for our unpaid internship program; one must be enrolled in university.”

  When she hands my CV back, I feel deeply ashamed, as if it is a truly worthless piece of paper. But I can
not miss this opportunity. I need to make her understand why I am here, and how important it is, and so I tell her how far I have traveled, the long journey I have taken, “just so I can work for the United Nations. I am…” I am practically breathless, trying so hard to make her see me, hear me, to give me a chance.

  “Did you say the United Nations?” She cuts me off. I nod yes.

  She explains to me that this is not the United Nations, but an entirely separate organization. I look at the UN seal on the wall, then at the woman, then back at the logo. “Yes, this is rather confusing to most people, our logo is the United Nations seal and our name is quite similar, but we are in fact a different nonprofit organization—the United Nations Association—and we simply work to promote the work of the UN, that’s all. I can help you with the UN address if you like,” she offers, softening a bit when she registers my distress.

  She scribbles on a piece of paper and hands it to me. I feel a rush of relief. I am still on track. I ask for help with directions, and a look of confusion crosses the woman’s face once again.

  “The address is in Geneva, in Switzerland. That’s the nearest UN office.”

  I ask for the local address of the United Nations—surely there must be one!

  “The United Nations doesn’t have an office in London,” she says.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. You must either go to Geneva in Switzerland or New York City in the United States.”

  I feel my heart drop into my feet. How is this possible? How have I made such a huge mistake coming to London? I feel incredibly stupid for having taken such a massive misstep. I was not aware of the distinction between the real United Nations and the United Nations Association, given the exact same logo and similar name. I spent hours at the library researching the United Nations before leaving Zimbabwe. I knew that the UN had more than sixty different entities, with different names like UNICEF, UNESCO and WHO, each focused on different issues. I assumed that UNA-UK, which is how the United Nations Association was typically referenced, must be one of them. Besides, how could they call themselves the United Nations anything and not be a part of the actual UN? Not only do I lack the financial resources to travel to Switzerland or the United States, but neither country is part of the Commonwealth, making it nearly impossible for me to obtain a visa.