Yesterday, as I made my way home from work, I passed an old woman balancing a big basket of peanuts on her head while carrying a suitcase under one arm and a live chicken under the other. I saw the man sitting underneath the old tree with a pile of dusty footwear and his cardboard "shoe repair" sign - just waiting for business to begin.
Last week I saw a young man wearing a shirt that said Grandma To Be, another carrying a car door on his shoulder as he walked into the bus station and a third walking down the street underneath a coffee table.
As I took the minibus back from an afternoon meeting, I passed the sign that reads “A roof without Harvey Tiles is like being burnt in Hell without a Savior” while chatting to a man who insisted on showing me the grapefruit sized tumor hanging off his stomach.
Yesterday, from my office window, I watched two security guards give a man a fine for urinating in the field beside the care office (a place I’ve just learned to accept as Lusaka’s largest public toilet) while just a few steps away I could see at least 4 other souls peeing into the bushes at the same time.
On my walk home today I was greeted very affectionately by 9 different men, passed at least 4 wheelbarrows laden with cartons of homemade beer, and saw 6 trucks packed with women wailing sad songs on the way to the graveyard.
By the Church street corner I shook my head no thank you to the men selling Arabic monopoly games and Virgin Mary nightlights and Manchester United Beach Towels. And yesterday, like every other afternoon, at the Great East and Makishi traffic lights, I was met by John - waving madly and shouting madam! madam! with his hands full of pineapples and bananas. And then I laughed as I always do, as he and his friends came running from all corners of the intersection – laden with grapes and plums and oranges – trying to convince me that at least three of everything needed to go home with me.
There was a time when all of this seemed completely overwhelming and bizarre and ridiculous, but now it’s old hat. This is reality. This is life in Lusaka.
Since August, my morning routine has remained constant: a 35 minute walk along Makishi Road in Northmead to the Care office on Dedan Kimathi Road in Kamwala… passing the fire and police stations, Evelyn Hone College, and the bustling Inter-city bus station – where the buses’ horns sound like bugles and you are always guaranteed to find at least 30 offers for taxi! Madam! Taxi!
Most days, as I force myself to get out of bed with the 6 o’clock alarm, I’m not smiling about the early morning stroll through Lusaka, but rather wishing my contract included access to a car or at least a personal driver. The rainy season has turned Lusaka into a giant mud puddle, and no matter how big the umbrella or how carefully I walk, I always arrive at the Care office muddy and wet and sweaty and just a little frustrated over the harassing comments from the drunk men drinking shake shake by the bus depot. A car, I always think to myself, would make life so much easier.
But, no, I don’t really want a car. Because even with the puddles and sweat and marriage proposals, the walk to work is always one of my favourite things about the day.
Each morning, just after 7 as I leave my flat, I am greeted by the neighbourhood caretakers, Arnold and Mr. Tembo. Mr. Tembo is washing Manny’s car, stopping his chat with Arnold to wish me a “good day Madam” and to see how I’m progressing with my Nyanja. I’m not. Like every other morning, Arnold laughs that I’m carrying an umbrella to work, especially when the sky is blue, and I again defend myself, insisting that every time I leave it at home it ends up pouring. I say it’s better to be prepared and look silly than to come home soaking wet. Arnold shakes his head and mutters something about Muzungus.
Just outside our gate, my neighbours from Senegal, 4-year old Adia and her dad drive past me along Mwalule road. Because he’s such a gentlemen, Solomon always slows the car to ask which direction I’m headed (in case the office has moved since yesterday morning) and then just like the day before, apologizes for not being able to give me a lift since they are headed to Adia’s school on the other side of town. Adia waves frantically from the passenger seat giving a hearty “bonjour Jessica!” and I wish them a happy day. (Despite our age difference, Adia counts me among her best friends. And so, in exchange for French lessons, I’m helping her learn how to be bossy in two languages.)
As I walk to work there are always lizards scuttling across the road, a few squashed frogs to avoid, and a carpet of flowers from the trees in the little park by the primary school. Some mornings I pass Mary and her two little girls – Juliet and Alice – as they walk to the preschool Juliet attends. Mary has become a great friend - visiting me every Saturday morning, helping with the laundry and cleaning the bathroom in exchange for grocery money for the week. Juliet waves hello and baby Alice, who Mary assures me is a chatterbox as soon as I’m out of sight – snuggles into her mum’s back and avoids my eyes. At the end of my street I smile a hello at the old lady, who uses the tree stump as a stool while she cooks fritters in the early morning sunshine.
Each day I pass Marvin and his sisters, wave hello to the shy girls selling vegetables on the roadside stop and shake hands with 17 year old Lizwe who helps his mum with her corn roasting business and always asks, so how’s been the day, Jesca?
In the afternoons I hear Maggie puffing behind me, racing to catch up. Maggie the 40 year old mum who is convinced that if she walks as quickly as I do she’ll loose her African booty. “Jessyca – tell me your secret…where is your bum?”
Each day I always find the crazy assortment of men, who, as frustrating as they are, should be commended for 7 months of persistence in marriage requests and offers to escort me to work, to my home, or back to my country.
Every day I pass the old man with one tooth left in his mouth. The old man pedaling his bicycle towards me on the dirt path – always with a look of fear that he’s going to crash into me and then smiling with relief when disaster has once again been averted. I love that smile. And each day just before I reach my gate, I find the group of soccer-crazed little boys kicking about a wad of old newspapers calling out a muli bwanji Jessica! whilst cheering each other towards victory.
This is the Lusaka you see when you walk to work, the Lusaka you’ll miss from the driver’s seat of the car… This crazy city full of beautiful smiles and hello madams! And how’s been the days? This city of Arabic monopoly games and fresh pineapples from the traffic lights. This city of Maggies with big bums, and old ladies selling fritters and beautiful children playing soccer by my gate.
This is Lusaka. And man, I love this place.