Sunday

It is Sunday. I’m up early for the 7 am english-speaking service at the catholic church. The church building is beautiful – spacious and full of colorful rays of light that stream through the many pastel-colored stained-glass windows. The priest speaks about how the rich will go to hell if they don’t help the poor. I am the only musungu (white person) in the service and I feel many expectant eyes shift to my direction whenever the priest mentions the “rich”.

Take a short nap after the service and am awoken by my cell ringing. It is Foster, the sweet, smiling woman who cleans and cooks at the guest house. I have been glad to have her at the guest house most mornings. She is a petite woman- thin frame and one of the only females I have seen in Africa who does not have an enormous bust. Her skin is clear and smooth – a creamy chocolate-brown color. Her eyes are a slanted almond shape. Her teeth are bright white, very straight, and – amazingly – all there. Every morning I hear the keys rattling down the hall and I know Foster is here when I hear her voice, singing to herself high and sweet, almost childlike. Although she arrives between 7 and 8am every morning she comes to my door shortly after she arrives, knocks gently and sing-songs, “Eleezabet?” Luckily, she has never caught me sleeping late but sometimes I am still in a state of morning confusion – bed sheets tousled and twisted, my hair sticking up in all directions. She doesn’t seem to mind though, “Mashubukeni, mukwai! Goot morning, Eleezabet!” she exclaims cheerfully, flashing her bright smile. She doesn’t wait for my sleepy response before she brushes past me, broom in hand, and begins to sweep the dirt and dust I have tracked in on my flip-flops. I love when she cleans the bathroom in the morning before I am up because this means the toilet will be cleared of all the critters that gathered there during the night: spiders, cockroaches, lizards. There is nothing so annoying as having to perform the duties of a pest exterminator with a bladder that is ready to burst.

So, Foster is on the phone. She is coming to get me to have Sunday lunch at her hut with her family. I am excited to have something to do on a Sunday afternoon, and a chance to get to know this sweet lady better. We walk together through Chilonga, past the stores and marketplace, to the more “residential” section of the village. She leads me to her home – a small hut made of mud, with a grass roof. The yard out front is spacious and tidy, just swept. Her husband, Joseph, walks toward me with a big smile, kind eyes – the perfect mate for sweet Foster. They introduce me to their daughter, Patricia, a teenager, who is bent over the outdoor fire. She is shy, lowering her eyes when I greet her. Leaving Patricia to manage the cooking, Joseph and Foster lead me into their hut. The sitting room is small, but big enough for two small couches, facing each other with a coffee table between them. In the corner of the room is a shelf, loaded with pots and pans, dishes, glasses, mugs. On the walls, covering the rough mud plaster like a patchwork quilt are a 1978 Scotland-Argentina World Cup banner, several pictures of a musungu Jesus with a crown of thorns, a woven picture of Santa Claus’ rosy face with a snow-covered American house in the background. Off of the sitting room are 3 bedrooms. No electricity or running water, although the nice furniture and decorated sitting room tells me they are doing all-right compared to some of the other huts I’ve seen.

We sit and talk of easy things – the weather, my work at the Mango Tree, corrupt politicians, the Chinese who have recently descended on the country to build schools, roads, etc. in an effort to make good relations with the Zambian government. Joseph pours me a glass and assures me the water was boiled and is safe to drink. I thank him and take a tentative sip as he describes the contents: water, mealy-meal, and munkoyo root. It is the color of iced-coffee at Starbucks, with lots of cream. Tastes very sweet, and yet a bitter after-taste. Very grainy. I am not a big fan but I drink it down quickly to try to get it over with. Bad move. Foster jumps up and refills my glass to the brim before I can decline. Oh well, I’ve decided I won’t decline anything they offer. Please God – nothing too smelly, or slimey! Joseph’s older sister arrives and I listen as they talk in Bemba for a while.

Finally, Patricia brings in four covered dishes. I hold my breath and start to silently pray. First lid is lifted – it is nshima, the staple dish of every Zambian meal and I was expecting it – it is very bland (made of mealy-meal, kind of like flour, and water) but I kind of like it. Second lid is lifted: cassava leaves – whew, I like this dish a lot, it is similar to cooked spinach. Third lid is lifted: rice with tomatoes – wow, I’m all set, I think. Suddenly remember Foster asking me earlier if I was vegetarian (to which I said ‘no’ and immediately kicked myself) and I start to get nervous. The last lid is lifted and Joseph announces triumphantly “fresh game, killed at 3 hours (3am) this very morning!” In an effort to verify the fresh factor, Joseph darts into the bedroom and comes out with a plastic basin. “See?” He pushed the basin towards my face so I can see what he is very excited to show me. “Oh, wow” is all I can manage to get out as I look into the basin and see the bloody meat inside. Also in the basin are the legs – still untouched with hair and little hooves. Before I can recover and ask what exactly this was before it became our dinner, Joseph pulls something out of the basin that had previously been hidden underneath the meat. The decapitated head of what looks like a very small deer (without antlers), eyes wide and glassy, stare at me directly. I can almost see the fear in it’s eyes, and I realize the last thing this poor animal saw was Joseph as he prepared to take it’s life – in order to present this feast to me! I feel guilty and nauseous all at once. Everyone starts to serve themselves. Excellent, I think to myself as I select the tiniest and least-revolting piece of dark something from the Pot de Bambi. Joseph immediately starts clicking his tongue disapprovingly and grabs the spoon from my hand. “Eleezabet, you must have more! You are too thin – here, this is the tastiest part.” On to my plate flops two more spoonfuls of Bambi. I say thank you enthusiastically, trying to mask my panic. Lord, please help me to get through this. Upon a closer look, I discover that there actually is no meat on my plate. As it happens, the “tastiest” part of this animal, of which I am the lucky recipient, is in fact the innards. I wish I had been in a clear state of mind so I could have thought to snap a picture, but I was too concentrated on the plate before me to think of blogs and such. I can only describe it as best as I can. There are three large and lovely pieces on my plate and they all look very different. One is smooth, black and flat. I go for that first. Very dense, very black all the way through. Liver, possibly. The second piece closely resembles a human ear: smooth, curled and folded – and about the same chewy texture as I imagine an ear would be. At this point I am sweating. I keep thinking of Fear Factor – and how I probably would rather jump off a building than eat this right now. But I am determined. This will not beat me. I will not let my stomach reject this food. Images of me gagging, losing my dinner in the middle of their hut – the horror of offending and disappointing sweet Foster in such a way keeps my gut in check. I keep shoveling in the nshima, rice and cassava to help it all slide down easier. The final piece on my plate is seriously daunting. A perfectly round, grey, bubble-looking thing about the size of an eye (it isn’t, thank you Lord) is attached to a flat, bumpy piece with a few pieces of hair still attached….I can not even begin to identify and think better not to know. “So tasty,” comments Foster as I take a bite. “Mmmm,” I say. Lord, please.

I am pleased to say I cleaned my plate. As I hand Foster my empty dish I feel like I have just done something extraordinary – run a marathon or something. Still sweating, I lean back on the sofa and send my silent thanks to heaven. I am able to relax as we talk some more. Foster’s 2-year old grandson – completely adorable – waddles into the hut from out in the yard where he had been playing, takes one look at my white face, screeches in terror, and takes off running as fast as his toddler legs can take him. Joseph’s sister says her goodbyes, promising to have me over to her hut for dinner soon. I take pictures of Foster and Joseph and then say my thanks again and wave good-bye. Stop at the Storefront and grab a Coke, hoping that will normalize my slightly unsettled stomach.

All in all, a nice Sunday afternoon. Feeling pleased with myself, empowered. Maybe I am not such a wuss, after all.