Gule Wamkulu - the Big Dance

© 2005 Winifred McCaffrey.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by 1st Books 03/01/05

ISBN: 1-4107-4155-9 (e)

ISBN: 1-4107-4154-0 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004098764

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

PREFACE

2003

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I wish to dedicate Gule Wamkulu

To

John McCaffrey

And to

Michael Sweeney

…To thank critical readers

John McCaffrey

Dennis Woltering

Gloria Spitzer

Florence Gottdiener

And my children

Dennis Woltering

David Woltering

Deirdre Morgan

As well as

Caitlin McCaffrey

For their encouragement and support

Notes to the reader…

The Title -

Gule Wamkulu-The Big Dance

is taken from the name of a traditional dance

as a way of gaining favor with the spirit world

of the

CHEWA TRIBE

(The Chewa tribe established their first kingdom in Zaire in the 15th Century—later emigrated to northern Zambia and central Malawi. Our most trusted attendant, a man about whom much is revealed in this memoir, is of the Chewan tribe.)

Family members have been excluded and, as doors reopened in memories past, fictitious names, including my own, entered—with the exception of house-servant Smart. His had been pre-ordained when, in a Missionary School, the teacher called him Smart.

The expatriate experience in

Zambia

1978-1982

is rendered factually

as

memory allows

Struggling for survival, is it hope OR morning sunshine in an unpolluted sky that fashions the Black Zambians’ easy smile?

PREFACE

2003

On a crisp October day following our seventieth birthday celebration, with my widowed twin sister Annie I visited the St. Louis Botanical Gardens—Shaw’s garden it was called in the days when we ran our little selves to its very end savoring this South St. Louis treasure.

So you might call it a nostalgic walk for the two of us in what had now become seventy-five magnificent garden acres at the very tip of Tower Grove Park…

If you had stayed in St. Louis, Mary, rather than running over the world, you would never have stopped ice-skating in Tower Grove Park when the winter lake froze. You would also be aware of the trail of dedication that has led to what you are now seeing.

When did you last skate? I teased.

Alfred and I went ice skating three days before he died.

Let’s eat, she said, and headed us towards the Ridgeway Center for white chili. Annie lives alone now in the eighty-year old South St. Louis home in which we grew up. I, too, live alone in my San Francisco townhouse.

We headed downstairs to begin our tour of Henry Shaw’s bequeath to the City of St. Louis.

Born in 1800 in Sheffield, England, after attending school near London, Henry Shaw returned home to help in his father’s iron factory. When his father went into debt, the two began anew in Quebec, Canada. Henry soon found his way to New Orleans where he recovered a lost shipment of tools sent from England and, on finding the New Orleans iron market saturated, he left for St. Louis aboard The Maid of Orleans steamboat. Successful in importing merchandise from England to sell in St. Louis, he soon owned much of the property in South St. Louis. Visiting the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew and the Crystal Palace Exhibition in London inspired the planting of thousands of trees and shrubs on his Tower Grove estate.

In 1859 the Garden opened to the public.

We strolled the Chinese gardens’ cultivated patches and sat on a bench facing the Moon Gate, an open door of friendship in a quiet world. Seductive acres of demonstration gardens surround the William T. Kemper Center for Home Gardening.

SEIWA-EN, the Japanese garden covers fourteen acres, including a lake surrounded by expansive lawns, a meandering path. This strolling garden can only be experienced. Features, as they appear from partial concealment, create mystery—the simplicity of unaffected naturalness creating tranquility.

Leaving Annie to rest on a bench outdoors, I hurried inside Climatron’s geodesic dome where she had already spent many hours—to linger alone in surreal rainforest environment of tall palms towering majestically above tropical vista of streams, waterfalls and more than one thousand species of exotic trees and plants.

Outdoors once again, I scooted in alongside Annie, to find she was facing a life-sized sculpture of a young black woman holding two children.

That’s African. I said.

It is. The Garden had an exhibit last year of sixty-seven African sculptures.

You didn’t tell me.

I wasn’t impressed.

Africa never did interest you, Annie.

How could it, Mary, when you could have been killed.

I went to take a closer look of the young mother hugging two children against her long, slender, youthful body. Entitled The Sole Provider, the sculptor, Joe Mutasa, had depicted a war, one that I had experienced, in which many a father and husband had been lost.

Now AIDS! I thought to myself.

I want to find out more about the exhibit. Let’s go to the Information desk.

Annie reluctantly followed indoors.

The exhibit contained sixty-seven sculptures, all of them created by the Shona people of Zimbabwe, the volunteer at the information desk told us. And came to us from the Chapungu Sculpture Park in Zimbabwe, Africa. They reflect a depth and wisdom of an ancient African culture and way of life. Their themes resonated with viewers as a journey of reflection, a connection with the spirit.

Do you know what materials were used? I asked.

They were carved from serpentine, springstone, verdite and opal. I was told these are natural stones of Zimbabwe. The one you saw will remain here. It symbolizes Zimbabwe’s civil war.

When, twenty years ago, Zimbabwe gained Independence and the country chose Catholic/Communist Robert Mugabe as their Prime Minister, both blacks and whites danced in the streets believing they could live together in peace. As did I.

Things have a way of falling apart. The lady replied.

They certainly do for Africa, I agreed, and, in the silence of anguish, remembered AIDS, a then undiagnosed illness that was taking lives during Michael’s last year in Zambia. And added, Mugabe has Zimbabwe living additional horror to that which we witnessed and experienced twenty years ago.

She was more courageous than ever I would have been. My twin sister shook her head at the lady, her finger at me.

You LIVED there? The volunteer asked.

"I lived in Zambia during the Zimbabwe/Rhodesia civil war when Kenneth Kaunda, Zambia’s Humanist President, supported Zimbabwe’s battle and there, all those of us living in Zambia, were. I have to admit, Kaunda, a fine man and strong leader, had my respect in spite of our own murderous loss and the sad lot of helpless Zambians.

…If it isn’t the blacks battling the whites in Africa, it’s tribal wars—man’s doing, all of it on a Continent laden with minerals enough to feed, clothe, house and provide all the medication science has to offer to alleviate and, perhaps even eliminate, AIDS, the devil not one of that Continent’s Countries needs nor has been spared.

The likelihood of that would be a miracle. The volunteer said.

Miracles do happen. I turned my head and called back to her as Annie had my hand and was dragging me out the door.

The Sole Provider

CHAPTER ONE

Many times, before and after our arrival in Zambia, I wished I had given my rear a good kick at the very thought…

However…

My anthropologist husband, hired to teach at Zambia’s university in Lusaka, would have the teaching position he had searched the U.S. in vain! His brilliant mind recognized; troubling manic behavior was certain to be remembered only as a bad dream…what was I thinking?

Support for Zimbabwe’s Independence battle, continuing intense, made Zambia a war zone of falling bombs killing innocent people—there were brutal murders, and, in that land locked Country, food and vital supplies of all kinds near non-existent.

In this environment we decorated our university home in local art and entertained—Africans, Indians, Europeans, many of them colonists who would leave only if they were expelled, a most unlikely happening in Humanist Zambia.

Michael’s intellectual curiosity challenged, independently I roamed, and came to know and enjoy Zambians who offered what little they had and, more precious to me, their wide smile. Alone or with Michael, I walked the land in wonder of THERE.

Thus, amid falling bombs and lives lost, my feet firmly rooted in the soil of that ancient troubled land, tears were all I had to offer when time came to say good-bye. THAT smile I brought along home…

A friend, on reading my manuscript, asked, Where are the animals? All the stories I’d ever read about Africa had animals.

There were plenty, I told him …struggling humans, fighting for Independence.

When I heard We’ve a letter from Todd and saw Michael sitting snail-like in an aura of cigarette smoke alongside me on the bed, his trembling hands struggling to get the darn thing open, forgotten was the glorious love making in the recent wee morning hours. I wanted only to seize the letter and have a quick read. Intuiting his resistance, I pulled the quilt over a naked body detesting his idiosyncratic nature always closing doors of possibility.

After a second, and even slower read, dull eyes, when they’re so beautifully green, in that little Irish face staring through the closet’s sliding door mirror, didn’t give an inkling of what I needed to know.

Without one word he got up from the bed and walked out the bedroom door.

In beige turtleneck and black tights of the night before, I followed his footsteps to the back patio, stopping only to check the clock above the stove.

Eight-thirty. Shannon had undoubtedly left for work.

In peacoat and jeans, sneakers pigeon toe pacing our apartment patio, his cigarette between stained fingers was polluting brisk, fresh morning, air.

Todd’s letter a ball in his fist, dull eyes met his anxious partner. I received my prey and Michael, snail-like, collapsed onto cold, barren, wrought iron.

University of Zambia

January 15, 1978

Mike:

I got a damn warm welcome (sensed urgency) when I showed up in Pierce’s office with your c.v. Said he wanted to get on it right away; asked if I would mind waiting.

One dry hour later—Pierce is a busy guy with a damn small office and little of interest to read—I heard Hmm, a traditionalist.

An intellectual traditionalist, sir. Can’t beat him when it comes to teaching. The guy’s a genius at reading students. Told Pierce I once was numbered among your students.

Unfettered by my mouth and long neck in his face, skinny hands fold like the Virgin in prayer. Old world thoughtfulness leans back in his chair.

What Hell it is, Mike, as well you know—sitting in someone else’s silence!

What’s Kilgariff like outside the classroom, he finally asks. Like one arrogant pain in the ass with one Hell of a wife. I think he thought I was pulling his leg.

Feeling damn good, I’m out his door for the Club and beer.

Three days later his secretary was in my office telling me the university is prepared to offer you a four-year contract as senior lecturer, social science. I took the hill from the library to his office like a chased deer. Dripping rain and sweat, Pierce hands me a dry shirt before heading us for the faculty lounge. It’s a bullshit hangout you’re going to love.

On filling once-white cups with hot water, this social science Chair takes tea bags from pants pockets (don’t expect food OR drink), opens disreputable chairs at a decrepit table crowding the small room, and raises his cup to thank me for bringing you to their attention.

As you damn well know, an Englishman’s solicitude makes an Irishman mighty uncomfortable.

Kenneth Kaunda, Zambia’s President and School Chancellor, wants students’ minds opened to cultures other than their own and UNZA’s social scientists—Communist, Catholic, Protestant, whatever, lecture little other than biased solutions for healing Africa’s woes. Pierce is convinced Kilgariff, the traditionalist, is their man.

Remembering five dry years, Mike, don’t go mucking waters with anti-establishment shit when they pressure you to come without delay. Besides, Africa mighty interesting.

Chitunga, and a maudlin fellow Irishman, gonna meet your plane.

Could be you go native.

Todd

P.S. Salary, nothing to brag, beats empty pockets. Besides, housing is cheap and comfortable. Bring books.

Get the bags packed, Mar, and include seeds; all kinds. You and me we play in the dirt.

To crush joy into Michael, I brought him from where he had collapsed and, holding that small, tight body that sometimes took my breath away, was returned a listless response. He stuffed the letter into his peacoat pocket, turned from me and went indoors.

My head both empty and full, I remained on the patio, nipping ivy, geranium and begonias’ dead leaves and blossoms from hanging pots until…the door slammed. A bottle of wine was in Michael’s one hand, two glasses in the other.

After having our first sip of wine on the cold patio, Michael finished his cigarette and we carried our wine into the living room, drew the blinds and curled together on the sofa. Michael asked that I promise not to tell anyone…yet. And didn’t say, nor did I ask, whether he would be accepting the offer.

I could hardly wait to write twin sister, Annie, and on Monday telephoned from my office to tell Michael I’d be delayed.

Why? He wanted to know.

Work, silly. I won’t be long. It will be just the two of us as Shannon is having dinner with Johnny.

I miss you when you’re not here. Promise me you’ll hurry home.

I will. Start potatoes baking in half an hour. I’ll do the fish and salad. Can you believe, Michael, we’ll soon be talking like this in Africa? It seems unreal?

Too unreal.

Not to me.

Are you REALLY thinking what Africa will be like, Mary?

What WILL it be like, Michael?

Very unlike here, my dear.

Bring Fred into the kitchen for company.

That cockatoo can be a pain in the ass.

You like him.

Hurry home.

San Francisco, CA

February 6, 1978

Annie,

Michael is going to be offered a four-year contract as social science lecturer at the University of Zambia in Lusaka, Africa, thanks to Todd Tully. I promised not to tell anyone just yet! So don’t YOU.

I think I briefly mentioned to you, fearful to say more, that Michael had had a visit from a friend living in Africa. I had never laid eyes on him until that cold evening a few weeks before last Christmas when his persistent ring of our doorbell sent me tripping over Michael’s papers littering the living room floor. Caution went up at his strange face in the peephole and…Where the Hell is Michael? startled me (a few others in the complex, too, I later learned in the laundry room).

When he handed me a big, black, dry umbrella and walked into the living room, I wondered what he wanted of Michael—how he knew him?

Michael came up behind me, zipping his fly.

When, might I ask, did you get in?

Last night, he said and picked Michael up (it’s true), swung him around. Came to see my kids and get you off your ass. Zambia’s social science program needs you.

You’re still full of shit, Todd, Michael said, shaking white curls. I want you to meet Mary.

Hello Mar, he said, planting a kiss on my cheek.

Not Mar, Todd, Michael said. It’s M a r y Mary.

It’ll be Mar to me, Mike, Todd said and laughed. Michael didn’t think him funny.

Todd’s bright, warm, upbeat. During his ten-day stay—much of which he spent in Berkeley with his son and daughter—he’d ring our doorbell late as midnight. One Saturday afternoon we heard OPEN UP. Shannon, that day off, was in her room reading bridal magazines. I was in the bedroom writing Christmas cards and Michael, in the living room, was writing poetry.

Give me a lift, Mike, he said when Michael went to the door. The two of them came in loaded down.

Shannon and I laughed to see Todd’s twinkling eyes meet Michael’s as rolls of smiling Santa’s—iridescent white hair and beard on paper red as raging fire—fell on brown carpet followed by a rainbow of ribbon and tape to last a lifetime.

What’s all this consumer shit supposed to mean? Michael stood, shaking his head at the scene.

Only what you want it to mean, Mike. Let’s go crack crab in Mar’s kitchen.

Mary’s kitchen, said Michael.

Shannon and I watched as they cracked crab, heated French bread, opened wine, apple cider. Gram’s blue glazed bowl spilled persimmons, oranges, apples, bananas—her round oak in front of the sofa a gourmet delight. Drinking, eating and feeding music into the tape recorder, I spent the night a couch potato.

You should have seen Michael with second-hand books—his poetry on the floor between Shannon (wrapping hers and mine), and Todd, who continued carrying in gifts from the car for his kids, his mother, his former wife.

Mac the Knife awakened dancing feet and Todd took Shannon in his arms. Her wide-eyed look when he asked if she had ever danced with her dad lifted me from Michael’s dancing arms, to powder my nose.

Recalling your telling me to get over it or I’d end like self-pitying mother, returned me to unaware Michael and, from the look of Shannon, she was involved only in fun.

Why her dad flew in that plane to Angel Falls after the pilot had been all night drinking???

Michael finished newspaper (wouldn’t have a thing to do with Todd’s store bought paper) gift-wrapping and used his cigarette lighter to waken red candles on our glass top table.

Todd then switched off our lamps and Shannon threw open the blinds to a diamond studded, full moon midnight sky.

Wait until you see an African sky. Todd said, pouring wine this very persuasive moment, a full moon reflecting on glass flickering candles lighting a midnight supper table.

You’ll have this and more in Zambia, he told Michael as he put a steaming bowl of my homemade vegetable soup in front of Todd, …no matter shortages. What the Hell! You know shortages and hardship, Mike, the way you pleaded your mother off that rooftop ledge of the apartment high-rise while your dad was out, alcohol binging. You know about that, Mar?

You’re out of line, Todd, was all Michael said.

‘What the Hell! World War II took my dad.

That’s terrible. Shannon spoke. Dumfounded, I said not a word.

Shit, Todd replied, Merry Christmas, He said and raised his glass …it’s going to be a grand New Year.

I sensed Shannon’s embarrassment when she changed the subject, saying moonlight made our faces appear tired. Neither she (who had had fun without Johnny—working on his VW bug) nor Todd looked tired. I probably did but didn’t FEEL tired. As for Michael, his was the look of a charged animal. Todd must not have realized his defensiveness in relation to his parents.

He soon left the table and, on his way to our bedroom and bed, told Todd in his full of shit voice the University of Zambia’s hiring him was nothing more than a dream emanating from Todd’s naive Irish heart.

On the last night of Todd’s visit, I was on the sofa dozing when I heard Todd’s coffee mug slam gram’s table. Eyes opened to see him pouncing on Michael’s lap and in his loud voice I heard I am not full of shit.

I was on my feet; Fred flew onto my shoulder.

Give him your curriculum vitae, Michael, I told deaf ears. One a.m. Todd was out the door, Michael behind and I’m next in line. Not another person in sight, not a light in a window.

I’ll send you a copy of my c.v. when it’s updated, Todd.

O.K., Mike, Todd slapped him on the back.

My plummeted heart curled in Michael’s arm and, as the rented VW made its way down the street, he said There goes one well-meaning guy. There isn’t a chance in Hell Zambians are going to hire a fifty year old anthropologist.

You are not yet fifty, Michael, and only last month I updated your c.v.

You’re naive as Todd, He said as we went indoors. Shannon had long since bid Todd good-bye.

The following morning I was once again dumbfounded to see Todd settle a big, black, wet umbrella on new peach carpeting in my office.

I have to see you. Mar, he said. Now! The anthropology chairman sitting alongside me appeared annoyed as was I—making my pitch for additional staff support and necessary office space in anthropology’s annual budget that had to be submitted to the Dean that very afternoon.

I’ll get back to this letter in the morning, Annie.

It’s morning now, Annie, and I’m in my office an hour early…

When I let Todd have it for interrupting our meeting he laughed, said I had more important business and he a plane to catch—not without Michael’s c.v. When I told him we had only a very outdated one in our file, he told me it didn’t matter.

I took the stairs two at a time in order to keep up with him and could do little more than watch as he danced impatiently at the secretary’s door. When he saw her take Michael’s c.v. from the file drawer, he made a quick grab.

He’s rude. She said to me giving him a dirty look.

At the front door, umbrella on his arm, his lips brushed my cheek as he whispered I was soon to be separated from the Chairman, his budget, and the prima donna upstairs.

He was out of line and I told him so. See you in Zambia his only response and, kissing the envelope containing Michael’s c.v., he opened his umbrella and disappeared around the Quad corner.

When I told the chairman what Todd was about and he laughed I made no effort to hide my annoyance. Michael is a gifted anthropologist and teacher.

Fifteen years ago at San Francisco State, Michael was teacher and advisor to Todd and Sandra, the mother of his children.

The two of them fled the U. S. after Todd, protesting the Vietnam War, burned the flag. Michael supported anti-war demonstrations and Todd’s regard for The Panther’s Feed the Kids program. However, he hadn’t supported the burning of San Francisco State University’s American flag.

Both Todd and Sandra earned degrees in linguistics in an Eastern European School. They were married in Nigeria.

With a second degree in library science, Todd was hired assistant librarian at UNZA, Zambia’s first and only national university.

After four years in Zambia, Sandra, with son and daughter, returned to San Francisco.

The night of his visit I curled in our big, comfortable, leather lounge—Michael’s chair—to check out this newcomer sitting on our sofa with a bottle of beer from the six-pack he had brought along.

He reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a photograph.

Her name is Chitunga, he said and she’s a grandmother! Twinkling eyes danced.

Michael, who had been pacing, sat his beer down to take a look. I looked, too, expecting to see a beautiful, young black Zambian rather than the sneering, weathered one who cleans university offices and lives with the thirty-five year old Todd in university housing where also live her kids, their partners and her grandchildren. They keep chickens, grow their own vegetables and mostly wild (according to him), flowers.

The perpetual grinning Todd is tall, slim and wiry. Big, blue, near-sighted eyes see the world through glasses down on his nose. I never saw him in pants that weren’t too short for long, skinny legs. Scraggly dark curls flip flop keeping pace with constant motion. He’s an ethereal quality about him that could make one take him for a high-spirited Catholic priest. However, when I asked what he liked most about Africa, he said

I like to fuck.

Can’t you just hear Mother’s "Do not have anything to do with the likes of him!"

He’s consumed with Africa, Annie, especially Zambia; speaks many tribal languages.

Though Michael has said little since receiving Todd’s letter other than I’ll have you to myself, I can almost SEE thoughts racing that bright and troubled mind. Pacing is non-stop, inside and outside the apartment. What’s left of the letter goes where he goes. When bureaucratic paperwork arrives, it’s going to be me coming to the rescue of a trashcan response.

AFRICA! Thrilled as I am of the possibility, I’m like a ship in rough water wondering how I’ll ever get out from under all I’ve going on right here. And what about YOU on reading this news?

Neither of us have had much sleep these past two nights. I close my eyes and pretend. There’s no way, in wee hours, I can deal two reeling heads.

Shannon’s wedding—a job replacement to train, apartment to close, leaving you, mother, Shannon, Johnny, even Fred—the furniture and more to store—preparing for and setting up housekeeping in Zambia. Blah, blah, blah…

The Salvation Army will get teddy bears, roller skates and skis I thought I’d never let go.

Todd says the university is going to pressure Michael to come without delay.

That’s a hurdle.

One pleasant reality is Shannon and Johnny’s wedding without Michael.

Could you ever have imagined this exotic answer to my simple prayer that Michael once again have an opportunity to teach as it is what he most loves?

We were recently walking together on campus when we came upon an East Coast man visiting friends. Mile high coconut palms didn’t dwarf him and, before I knew what was happening, he had Michael in a bear hug.

Professor Kilgariff! How the Hell are you! We all wondered what had happened to you?

I’ve been on a shelf. Michael CAN look downtrodden.

This guy (a former Syracuse student) said…Your husband’s the best teacher I ever had and the best damned anthropologist.

Five years since Syracuse.

I’ll miss our cozy snuggles…Michael reading his poetry to me.

…And Where Shall We Together Be

In Beds of Flounce

Merrily by the Sea

Cockle Shells

Where Lea Bells

Fishies and Mates

Swirly Striped Markers

Rising and Falling

Aflowly

Nomadly.

I rubbed tired eyes, swung my chair around, took the spray bottle from the file cabinet’s top drawer and went down the hall to the coffee room for water to fritz fern hanging from planters on either side of my desk.

Annie, the great hat designer, puts up with mother, is devoted to me and to Shannon and won’t be any more impressed with nonconformist Todd than she is with Michael.

After a long drink of water from the spray bottle I put it away and sat down to finish my letter.

I had no intention going on as I have, Annie. Let’s wait until after the wedding to tell Mother. If daddy were alive he’d visit us in Africa.

Hope St. Louis winter freeze soon thaws because…spring becomes you, AND your beautiful hats.

I love you.

Mary

Especially Michael did not need this letter from Marjorie James.

London

6 Feb 1978

Professor and Mrs. Kilgariff:

I must first introduce myself as the wife of Edward James, University of Zambia’s English Department Chair. I did want to write straight away on hearing Professor Kilgariff had been invited to join the faculty there. In my opinion, the timing is off!

Todd Tully informed us of the news in a somewhat ecstatic state as is his style. You Americans ARE cavalier but I suppose that’s your charm. Nonetheless, I had it out with him, went round and round at the Club, since we all know he’s the one person responsible for Professor Kilgariff’s hiring and has no doubt been singing the praises of Zambia to the two of you. I simply spoke my mind but Edward had a fit, my interfering in this way, claimed it was due to my drinking. None of these bloody men use an ounce of common sense.

Zambia was a lovely Country when we came out ten years ago: Lusaka an oasis from the madness of London. We lived in beautiful surroundings with servants tending our every need. Now I’ve one foot in my grave every day I’m there. My doctor insists, because of a heart condition, I frequently rest my nerves in London.

It’s Southern Rhodesia’s liberation battle causing the stir. And this President’s principles. Humanist politics, he calls it. Closed the border to Rhodesia, vows to keep it closed as long as people are suffering there under the yoke of oppression. If you ask me, it’s his own people who are oppressed. You can’t find even the basics: butter, sugar, coffee, cooking oil. Inflation is running at twenty-five percent. A month ago I paid the equivalent of forty pounds in kwacha for bed sheets Allessandra, my stepdaughter, had to have. Meanwhile, that man is saying things like Our record is a proud one and ought to be used as a measure of advertising.

A few days before I left Lusaka for London The Times of Zambia newspaper office was bombed. Twisted metal lay over Cairo Road, the main business artery. There is no controlling weapons coming in. Machine gun carrying gangs burst into homes demanding everything. What do you expect? With Freedom Fighter camps inside Zambia! I understand the African National Congress hide out here as well.

Edward exchanged our comfortable home, for fear of being burglarized, for a very inadequate town home. Most everything we own has now gone to storage in London. My only solace when I’m there is a bottle of bourbon under my pillow when I retire. I scrimp to afford it because Edward is dead set against the drinking.

It’s frightening, isn’t it, but one deserves the truth before coming such a distance with all the universities in the United States that I should think would welcome an anthropologist of art such as Professor Kilgariff. Should you brave it, which wouldn’t surprise me one bit knowing Americans as I do, I advise you leave valuables behind. Don’t burden yourself, either, bringing things for other people who won’t mind asking this or that be included in your luggage. You’ll have enough to do getting here and settling in.

Weather is pleasant for the most part; a bit cold in the winter and muddy underfoot when the rains come. The sky is wonderfully clear with no trace of pollution. And we do have good times at the Club. The ordinary Zambian is a gentle, decent sort. Do not misunderstand my intentions, Professor and Mrs. Kilgariff. It would be sheer delight having a middle-aged couple such as ourselves at this university.

(I understand you are a recently married middle-aged couple.) Rich Vickers is a young geographer from California. Two years ago he married Rose, a very decent black Zambian woman who holds an administrative position at the university. It really is a small world.

Edward sends regards. Best

Marjorie James

CHAPTER TWO

Watch someone disappear and you many never see him again.

MOVE it, lady…LA…DEE! I SAID—MOVE IT. A cop’s head in my face, I took one last look at uncombed white curls on a head glued to scruffy tennis shoes—the dufflebag trailing SFO terminal floor.

It’s a wonder I survived the thoughtless flight I gave the old Volvo on 101 after exiting San Francisco International Airport—cars and trucks spitting rain from all sides and my eyes distracted by the hands of a watch speeding towards Michael’s midnight departure.

In an all night cafe a few blocks from our apartment, pudgy waitress Jiggy was swaying to juke box music behind the counter while refilling coffee mugs for two guys eating her ham and eggs. (A one-woman act that time of night.)

Hey, she called, sashaying with her coffeepot to the booth where I had collapsed. Where’s that husband of yours?

She had begun filling the empty cup in front of me when Oh, honey, I near forgot.

It’s O.K., Jiggy. Fill it up.

But honey?

(Tea’s my usual drink.)

Michael’s left for Africa, spilled from my mouth fast as my cup filled.

Africa! I knew that man was crazy! Now you be careful on these streets alone, honey. About to throw up, I wanted to escape coffee breath and fumes rising from my cup.

It is one big mess out there tonight. She said, wriggling a healthy bust and butt to the jukebox.

When her back turned, I slide the cup to the other side of the table.

Guys, she called, dropping coins into the machine …this lady’s husband’s on his way to Africa!

No shit. The guys gave me what looked an identical stare.

I turned them and Elvis Presley off, vaguely heard Jiggy’s It’s lightening, as I stared out the windowed wall onto watercolored sky.

Huh? I turned to look at Jiggy.

You weird tonight, Miss Mary.

I am?

You am.

Playing with her long blond curls and enjoying the truck drivers’ Jokes, Jiggy soon ignored distant booth solitude…

"He didn’t even say good-bye."

During a quiet dinner at home on a cloud covered winter evening four weeks earlier, Michael had said

I want you to take a year’s leave of absence rather than resign, Mary. Insure your retirement benefits.

A second separation?

He put down his fork, took a cigarette from the package on the buffet and, match poised to light, was out the kitchen door.

Leftover pasta and soggy salad matched my mood. When I saw ashes dropping on white begonia I put down my fork…

You are poisoning our flowers!

Something was always in bloom on that California patio where we sipped evening wine, ate Sunday morning breakfast, read the San Francisco Chronicle, and sometimes danced.

I’m sorry.

You always say you’re sorry. And do the same thing, over and over.

I forget.

Head lowered and silent, he soon opened the door, took a towel from the drawer and began drying dishes.

Why so angry? His lips brushed mine, a forest of silence.

At midnight, after he had rolled over yet one more time to ask what was keeping me awake, I was finally able to say I don’t think you want me with you in Zambia.

He was on his feet. "I’ll never make it there without