"Open Your Eyes Simphiwe"

9.03.08

It's 6 in the morning, unlike most days where I am awaken by children playing or roosters crowing- there is a banging at my door and I hear Bongiwe's voice calling me. Christ- let me sleep.

Face mask glued to the pores on my face, tank top with no bra, boxers with holes- I look a fright. I open my door. Bongiwe with Babe and 2 strange men. "Kusile." I sleeply say. "Good Morning." "Simphiwe, you had told me you wanted to have a bookshelf made. Here is your carpenter." Babe says as he places his hand on a strange man's shoulder. I look closer. Sure enough, it's Proud African. "Oh no, not HIM!" I accidentally burst out. Man looks down. "It's my proud african, here to build poor white girl a bookshelf huh?" I say. Babe looking extremely confused now- negotiates a fair price with Proud African. We say goodbye, and that' that.

But not really. Sure I would love to learn some carpentry- someday. But really the chance to annoy/learn from this Proud African- priceless. I decide I will tell him I 'll pay him to teach me how to make a bookshelf. He once accused me of being unable to remember African names. I look on my hut wall. There I have posted a list of "Important People" with names, pronunciations, and how I know them. For example, *Mctosa- Proud African. I embed the name into my mind, I memorize how to say, "I want you to show me how to make a bookshelf." "Ngifuna ungi khombsi kwakha ebookshelf." Siswati likes to borrow English words and just throw an e in front of them. Or they have a really long and ridiculous way of saying something. Like the word blue. In Siswati is luhlata sagabagabaga. Which literally translates to "The Green Sky". Makes no sense to me. So you spend an entire week trying to memorize this absurd word for the word blue- it pisses you off. Then your Siswati teacher tells you, "Or you could just say eBlue- no one really says it the Siswati way." You invision strangling your teacher- or maybe just I do.

I'm off topic. Topic is- must prove Proud African wrong. I memorize my lines and walk to the carpentry shop, which unfortunatly is also the hang out place for all of the young men in the area. Bongiwe and Chief insist on following. I dont know if I can handle checking in with babe and make and having bodyguards for the next two years. I don't do well with supervision.

*Mctosa is there leaning against a building equally as worn out as him. He's doing what most do here midday on a weekday- leaning and chewing on a piece of grass. Swaziland is unemployed.

With an audience I begin.
"Sawubona *Mctosa. Unjani?"
He responds with a greeting. I continue on.
"Ngifuna ungi khombie kwakha eBookshelf."
He half smiles.
"Who told you my name?!" He forcefully asks.
"You did. I remembered."
"No no no! Someone told you!"
"Sorry Proud African- you were wrong."
"So you want to learn how to make a bookshelf eh?"
The others laugh. *Mctosa and I discuss a day and time.

Before I turn to go, he caves in and asks about me. He's curious now.
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Do you have children?"
"Yes. They're back home in America. Infants- all alone for the next two years. They should be ok right?" I've forgotten in Swazi world it's common for mothers to leave children with parents/aunts while they go find work.
"What kind of music do you like?" He asks.
"All kinds- but not what the kids around here listen to. I do NOT like Akon, Beyonce, 50 cent, etc." Young Swazis laugh in the back.
"Ah! I'm not like these fools. I like GOOD music. Bee Gees, The Temptations, Ray Charles."
"Al Greene?" I ask.
"Yes."
He hands me a pen. I take it with my right hand, place the left hand on my elbow.
"You are supposed to bend at the knees when you grab something from me." You Americans are rude- loud- abrupt. You're disrespectful."
He continues on, "Do you have sex?"
I reply, "Now see- THAT is disrespectful and rude to ask."
"I can tell by your avoiding the question- you have. Did you like it?"
Anger in my voice now, "Look- I'll bend at the knees and grab with my right hand, I'll do the skirt thing, I'll love the king, I'll greet EVERY SINGLE PERSON that walks pass me, I'll kneel to the chief and sit with the bomake. But you need to meet me in the middle here. Don't ever ask me about my sexuality again. It's disrespectful and rude. Is this clear?"
He puts his hands in the air and shakes his head. "You're going to teach us about HIV and you can't talk about sex?"

Bongiwe went to buy sour milk. I'm stuck standing alone with unemployed lazy young men and proud african. One boy tries to take my picture with his phone. I look down. Another sits below me, he looks up. "Are you here alone? The only one in the village?" I explain the Peace Corps.
"Im afraid you're stuck with me kid. Im the only one."
"Are you scared?" He asks.
"No. Should I be?"
He laughs. "Yes."
"Of you?" I ask.
He looks away.

Bongiwe returns with my cryptonite-sour milk. As we go to leave *Mctosa shouts Siswati at me. "Angiva!" I shout back. "I dont understand!" He walks close to me. He leans forward and softly says, "Vula emehlo Simphiwe- kuse eAfrica." Open your eyes Simphiwe. You're in Africa.

Walking home, Bongiwe and I run into drunk old man. This man I run into every corner I turn. Constantly asking me to be his second wife and to give him chocolate. He grabs my hand and rubs it on his stomach (which is always exposed- his button up collared shirt always undone blowing in the wind). He rubs my hand on his belly, I pull it away quickly. He leans in and says, "I didn't mean for that to be my stomach!" He laughs. "Beat it old man!" I yell. Bongiwe yells at him in Siswati, he grabs her arms tells her he's not talking to her. "Well Im talking to you. Dont talk to my sisi like that. Hamba! Go! Before I get Mkhulu." He stumbles off.

When we return home Make approaches me. (on a sidenote- if I say make, this is mother. Babe is father. I go back and forth calling my mother and father make and babe or Gogo and Mkhulu. They are parents to me and grandparents to others on the homestead. Just know mother is Gogo or Make and father is Mkhulu and babe.) Make hands me her cell phone. On the other end I hear, "Simphiwe! This is Gladis! I am your new make and babe's daughter. I am living here in Chicago with my husband and three children. My eldest is named Simphiwe." A Simphiwe in America I think. I explain how close they are living to my family- where I grew up. She asks, "Have you fetched water yet Simphiwe?!" We laugh. She explains her frustrations raising children in America. "They don't realize how good they have it here." She chokes up, "But I miss home." I choke up. "Nami Futsi." Me also. She tells me about her life here. How hard it must be for her to go from a small community to a large world. Feeling so alone. Her husband, from Ghana, gets on the phone. "We must speak to your parents. May we call them?" I give them their number and their names. "But she is not Mrs. Brooks I explain." "Oh divorce?" I laugh, "You know that word. You ARE in America." Gladis says, "Yes- Americans love it." She asks me, "Anything you want us to tell them for you Simphiwe?" I choke up. They're in my home, I in their's. "Tell them I love them. Tell them I miss them. Tell them I'm happy." "OK Simphiwe. We...." Phone cuts out.

I walk back to my hut. The stars above. The warm Harvest Moon- always smiling back at me. I smile, amazed. Always amazed- at the tinsy tinyness of our little world.