Home
It seems like it’s time to show you the place I now call “home.” I have an uncanny ability to find and make a home no matter where I am. I now can easily call 4 places “Home” (Calgary, Toronto, Cambridge, Dedza) and do so without thinking, which invariably makes people confused about which one I am refering to.
I have only been living with the Funsani’s for a month now, but it feels like we have been together for so much longer. I am part of the family. We share not just meals and a roof but our frustrations, challenges and laughter, usually at the children, usually Akuzike. This afternoon, while heading out to the market with Brenda, Akuzike decided she wanted to be carried by “Aunty Kareene.” She climbed on my back and was secured on with a chitenge, and off we went, Brenda and I laughing while everyone we passed starred. Certainly, a white woman with an African child on her back is not a common sight. Akuzike thought nothing of it. As with most things, she is my best judge of the atmosphere of the house, so for this to be just another normal trip to the market with her mother and aunt… well if ever there was a doubt, I’m part of the household.
I walk home from work everyday along the main road that cuts through Dedza town. After turning off the paved road, I greet Peter who is in his usual place making good looking potato fries. I stoll past some nice maize fields and meet the first mud house where there is a little boy that comes out to shout “HELLO!!!” at the top of his lungs every time I pass. I wander past a few little groceries selling tomatoes, a borehole with children perched on the top and on my right is the local hang-out for the teenage boys and men who play something akin to Malawian checkers every day, at every time of the day. I continue down the hill, slippery with clay if it is raining, sticky with mud that threatens to pull your shoes off if the rain has stopped. It is so far never dry. The chorus of hellos, “muli bwanji?” and “azungu!” follows me down the path. I have become a regular and a part of the community. There is a band of children who run to greet me now. Their leader is maybe 4, and possibly the most polite childhood leader I’ve ever seen. He daily runs the fastest and extends his hand for me to shake before his peers come careening into us and follow his lead, each shaking my hand and saying “muli bwanji” in turn, then running before, after or with me down the rest of the hill.
At home, I meet one of the boys outside. They take whatever I have in my hands into the house, and ask how my day was. I walk in with a greeting of “odi?” (sort of a hello/I’m here/Is there anyone around) and put my bag down on an orange plush chair. I go to my room, push aside the curtain, unlock the door, and I’m home.
Indoor kitchen
