"72 Hours"

Next Day.

Starts with me, Simphiwe Dlamini, addressing an entire school- 900 students and 55 staff. I give my speech in Siswati. I was prepared for laughter so I made my speech a bit interesting with my sisi's help. Laughter followed.... White girl speaking Siswati- with a Swazi name... God must be crazy.

Next. Mctosa and I walk to the local clinic- he to get tested, I to volunteer. I've been helping them with their filing (for now). Organizing four communitie's records- about a thousand different people each year since 1979. That's a lot of records. And of course, no computer. They laugh when I ask them, "So- where's your computer?" Half joking.

In the waiting room sits pregnant women and mothers with infants and Proud African. Unfortunatly, the rural clinics are no place for a man. Swazi men are too stubborn and too scared to come here. But somehow I got this one to come.

Although I'm a nervous wreck for his results- he doesn't seem phased at all. he talks with the women, picks up a toddler and speaks to it in his proud booming voice- even to the young he preaches. They call him back. I can't stop fidgeting. For someone who hates repetitive noises, my pen clicks non stop. Mctosa steps out. "Asembe." He says. Lets go.

"So?" I ask.
"So." He says.
"Negative?"
"Negative." He says.

I ask to see the slip. "They don't give you a slip." I argue, "Yes they do. I've seen them. They're pink and they say in big letters NEGATIVE followed by your name." He goes back into the clinic and returns quickly to whistle me in. He points to the head nurse. I ask her for the slip. She explains they do not give any slip of any kind for the safety of the patients. "OK." I say. I feel awful. Doubting Mctosa and demanding proof from the nurse. I tell him I'm sorry. "Ahh.. nevermind." He says.

I explain that today I promised make and babe I would go to Manzini to give a reciept of payment to St. Joseph's- my young sisi's boarding school. He laughs. "It's no where near Manzini- and you'll get lost. I will accompany you." "You don't have to do that." I say. He puts on his jacket and smiles, "Didn't you get the message? The King has appointed me your personal bodyguard."

A very VERY complicated two hours later- 2 kombi rides filled with screeching chickens. We are at St. Joseph's. An oasis among filth- filled with jacurrandas. A catholic boarding school. When we get to the office, there seated behind a desk is an enormous white man- priest with a collar. He grumbles for us to have a seat. He's Italian. Even worse- a fat Italian. The fatter the Italian- the harder to understand.

Noticing my skin color and Mctosa's, in English he asks, "Which language would you prefer I speak?" "Excuse me?" I ask- struggling to understand his words. "Shall I speak in Latin, Italian, French, Porteguese, English, Siswati, Zulu, Afrikans...." I interrupt this man's hollier than thou speech. "English is just fine." He looks at Mctosa. Mctosa says something in Siswati to him. They talk a bit back and forth in Siswati. Then he turns to me. He thinks Mctosa cannot speak English. Proud African speaks better English then this old man though. "So, you are Peace Corps?" He asks. "He tells me you are in the Peace Corps. Ungrateful people you are." Now he's got my attention. "You came here a long time ago, I've been here 55 years. My school housed your volunteers- they taught here. Then you just packed up and left- didn't even say goodbye. Then you came back to Swaziland and didn't even ask us what we needed. UNGRATEFUL PEOPLE." I try to interrupt but being an arrogant fat white man he doesn't allow my words to enter his ears. He continues with his ungrateful speech as his Swazi servant hands him a plate of meat and pourridge that he grabs with his left chubby hand. Unable to hold back anymore I jump up onto his desk- knocking over his plate of pourridge. With two hands I sink my fingers into his fat face and shake him raw. I yell into his Italian mouth, "Ungrateful? UNGRATEFUL? Giving up two years of comfort of my home to be groped at gawked at everyday- fetching water- respecting and struggling with cultural norms everyday- UNGRATEFUL you say?! While you sit fat and sweaty on your throne of lies?! Preaching a way of life unsuitable in this environment- no condoms, many babies, the illusion and unreality of abstinence. You waste of space old man!"

A comforting daydream. "Simphiwe. Simphiwe..." Mctosa says. "Asembe." "They call me (insert Swazi name). Ask your friend here what it means in Siswati. Good bye now." Italian says. "Goodbye Father." I stop and turn, "Today you're lucky. I'm Simphiwe Dlamini- and not Meredith Brooks."

Walking away from the office- I ask Mctosa what his name means. "The step of a bull." He responds. "Why did you let that man think you did not speak English Mctosa?" I ask. "I don't speak English with fat white bulls- only little Simphiwes like you." When I think about it- Mctosa really only speaks English when he and I are alone.

Over lunch, in town, his attention is somewhere else and his phone is ringing off the hook. I continue to ask what's wrong. "Ah nevermind." He says. Finally I demand to know. "Simphiwe, my girlfriend's in labor. It's coming today." I shoot up. "Oh my god! We have to go! Let's go!" I shout. "No Simphiwe. She is stuck at home- in Bekankhosi, she is unable to take public transport to the hospital in Manzini." "So an ambulance?" I ask. "Ambulances around here only come for the dead. No. I must rent her a car. The problem is- Im poor as a church mouse. It's $300 R. There has to be another way to get her there." I tell him I'll be right back. When I return, he is clearing our table. I tuck the money in his pocket. He stops me, "Simphiwe, I told you- You cant feed me you can't..." I interrupt, "Mctosa. This is not for YOU. It's for her and your unborn child."

A kombie and a hitched ride in the back of a pick up truck later- we arrive to a nearby town close to her. Mctosa calls and tells her to rent a car and meet him here so he can pay the driver. While we're waiting in his brother's carp shop- 2 of my fellow PCV's show up- interested in purchasing a dresser. We embrace. Like most conversations between PCV's and Swazi men we are on the topic of safe sex with Mctosa and his brother. Mctosa is again Proud African- booming Siswati in their faces. One PCV, outspoken like me, doesn't back down. They argue playfully back and forth. He is telling her it's useless to try and change Swazis. Telling a PCV to give up- that nothing will change- an argument us idealists don't like. "Where there is ignroance it is folly to be wise. Swazis don't want change. This is Africa. You know the story of King Solomon?" He asks. PCV's and he argue more as I sit back and laugh- it's nice to be the audience now knowing he's just arguing for sake of arguing. PCV's fidgeting with frustration now. Finally one of them argues his "just give up they won't change" argument with a quote from the Bible, "Faith without deeds is dead." ..Mctosa steps back, "How..." He smiles. He pauses a moment- then says, "Well... a wise man always changes his mind." His phone rings- he runs outside. "Where did you get this guy?" PCV asks me. "Planet Mctosa." I respond.

When he comes back, he whispers in my ear, "It's a boy."

On the way home I ask him when he will see the baby. "In Swaziland, a man is not allowed in the delivery room. And you go around a month before visitng the mother and the baby." He stops walking. "Meredith- thank you again."
"What did you call me?"
"Meredith, you said it earlier. What does it mean?"
"Guardian of the sea." I laugh. "But ironically, I am scared of the big sea. Tell no one my real name."
"Simphiwe, again thank you for..."
"Ah nevermind." I interrupt.