A Path into the Past

The man’s chest is bulging to one side abnormally. Walking on the outside of his feet, he hobbles up the path towards us as he slurs out a greeting. I look at Marie and Amanda to see their reaction; my first thought is drunk or maybe touched, but then I see Joseph our host smiling kindly at the man. Joseph brings out a chair for the man to sit in, signifying respect and care for the man. Rapson, our friend and interpreter, hurry’s to introduce the man, “He is one of our members.” The man adds, “I saw you at church this morning but I had to leave before the sermon because I was sick.” Each word is heavily slurred and takes effort. This man’s clothes are a little more tattered and worn than most of the people in Singa Village but through the heavy slurring I can piece together a sketch of this man’s rich life. His crippled body has obviously seen better days, as he speaks to us he wants to know what continent we are from, then what region, then what country and what state. This man seems quite knowledgeable; He speaks highly of his many international grade school teachers. They were from Canada, Ireland, England etc. “Canada is in North America,” he proclaims with a wide smile. “Mathematics was my favorite topic, I loved my mathematics teacher, he was from Canada.” In 1963, the British colonized Rhodesia, which encompassed what is now Zambia and Zimbabwe, dissolved and allowed self-government of the two states. This older man received the benefit of these international teachers while under the Rhodesia era.

“Some people say that men came from monkeys…” He looks at us cautiously to see our reaction. We shake our heads, “No we don’t think that, we believe God created man.” “That’s right! That’s right!” He exclaims with pleasure, “How could man come from a monkey?” He asks incredulously. A young girl, maybe four years old, creeps around in the shadow of the house, her eyes fixed on our white skin. “That’s my youngest daughter. Frieda! Frieda! Come and greet these people.” Grinning he says, “She is scared of you, she’s never seen you before.” Frieda runs across the dirt yard and crouches behind us in the shadow of the branches and tree stumps forming a fence for the backyard. “Some say Africans came from Ham…” his voice trails off as he stares at us, as if for guidance, “…some say it is because of climate,” he continues, looking at his arm. The man seems to ramble his white teachers various tainted lessons. He looks at us, as though we are his teachers. I can see him there, in that class room, a young boy, peering up at his red headed school master. I shake my head, half from actual confusion of where the conversation is going but mostly because I do not want to follow the raciest logic of his former teachers. After sitting for many long minutes, the man smiling thanks us for speaking with him, obviously pleased with the visit he struggles to his feet, says his goodbyes and walks back down the dusty path. Two girls who have been standing nearby take this opportunity to greet us; they appear to be about 6 or 7 years old; one of them is Frieda’s sister. “Muli bwanji,” we say warmly to them as we shake their hands, “Bwino bwanji,” they reply bashfully as they curtsy. Finally, with much encouragement from her older sister, Frieda slowly comes closer, bowing on her knees, she reaches out and holds Marie’s hand. “Muli bwanji,” Marie says warmly to the tiny girl. They remain this way for many moments, Marie leaning forward in her chair, Frieda on her knees, her eyes transfixed on Marie’s face. Then slowly Frieda relaxes and looks away, she uses her free hand to trace her finger through the dirt, but she does not let go of Marie’s hand. Several moments pass, Frieda’s sister stays close by, keeping an amused eye on her little sister, sitting among the white women. Then Frieda finally releases Marie and sits a few moments, before wondering away with her sister down the same path her father had taken.