conversations that preceded any real business.
âHow is your mother? Your father? Your son? Good, good,â he would say with grave nods. Then, in answer to the requisite polite questions for him, âI donât often speak to them, but my brothers and sister are well.â
Nothing happened rapidly, and getting frustrated did no good.
He pulled his ancient Datsun pickup truck into a curb-side parking spot in the block adjacent to the foundation offices. As he got out, his mouth quirked as he imagined what Clay would say about the irony of Will, the strong, silent member of the Becker clan, having to spend his days and weeks and months in seemingly never ending conversation. Orâmost delicious irony of allâbeing good at it. But these first months, Will had realized, would build the bridge of friendships strong enough to see a dozen medical clinics and two community hospitals built in the next two years. Or it wouldnât happen.
Harare was Zimbabweâs largest city. It had a surprisingly European look, to his eye, and a population of over a million people. Every time he reached the outskirts of the city after daysâ or weeksâ absence, tension melted away. He was American enough to feel most at home here. There were Western-style grocery stores. He could dine out on Italian food, Greek, Chinese. Hold conversations with American businessmen and women.
He felt rueful amusement when he thought of the last cocktail party heâd attended. He wasnât any better at that kind of socializing. Lurking in a dark corner, heâd wished for his mysterious redhead.
In the first week Will had rented a small house less than half a mile from the office. Even though he seemed to be away more than he was here, he needed a base. And heâd somehow acquired a full-time housekeeper-cook.
At home in the U.S., the closest thing to a servantheâd ever had was a woman who came in to the Becker home weekly to clean. Heâd seen her once in a blue moon; mostly they communicated by notes. Please clean the refrigerator this week, heâd write. Iâll be coming on Tuesday instead of Thursday next week, if thatâs okay, her sticky note would inform him. But having someone wait on himâ¦well, that was different. Heâd intended to take care of himself. But heâd barely moved in when women began knocking on his back door asking for work. He was met with blank astonishment when he said he didnât need anyone, thank you. And it wasnât totally true, he discovered; buying food in the unfamiliar markets where English often wasnât spoken was a hassle, and heâd come to Africa with the intention of immersing himself in the culture, not living in a bubble like a tourist admiring the scenery. Yeah, sometimes he appreciated seeing familiar brands on grocery-store shelves, but he didnât want to shop only in the Western-style supermarkets. God knows, he wasnât much of a cook. He had no microwave here. And unemployment was sky-high. He could afford to give someone a job.
So now, when he was in town, he came home to sadza ready when he sat at the table. Sadza was the word commonly used for any meal, but also for the staple of the diet: a sort of stew served on cooked grain. Jendaya, his housekeeper, most often used chicken in the stew, although she was scandalized that he preferred it to goat, which his relative wealth would have permitted. He liked the stew without meat at all, and she obliged with scandalized shakes of the head. Only the poor didnât put meat in their sadza, she made sure he knew. When he was in Harare, he usually ate lunch out, so Will was content with the traditional evening meal even though it varied little.
Jendaya had expected him back today, so he assumeddinner at home would be ready at the usual seven oâclock. That gave him time to stop at the office and check email. He hadnât even seen an internet café the past two
âHow is your mother? Your father? Your son? Good, good,â he would say with grave nods. Then, in answer to the requisite polite questions for him, âI donât often speak to them, but my brothers and sister are well.â
Nothing happened rapidly, and getting frustrated did no good.
He pulled his ancient Datsun pickup truck into a curb-side parking spot in the block adjacent to the foundation offices. As he got out, his mouth quirked as he imagined what Clay would say about the irony of Will, the strong, silent member of the Becker clan, having to spend his days and weeks and months in seemingly never ending conversation. Orâmost delicious irony of allâbeing good at it. But these first months, Will had realized, would build the bridge of friendships strong enough to see a dozen medical clinics and two community hospitals built in the next two years. Or it wouldnât happen.
Harare was Zimbabweâs largest city. It had a surprisingly European look, to his eye, and a population of over a million people. Every time he reached the outskirts of the city after daysâ or weeksâ absence, tension melted away. He was American enough to feel most at home here. There were Western-style grocery stores. He could dine out on Italian food, Greek, Chinese. Hold conversations with American businessmen and women.
He felt rueful amusement when he thought of the last cocktail party heâd attended. He wasnât any better at that kind of socializing. Lurking in a dark corner, heâd wished for his mysterious redhead.
In the first week Will had rented a small house less than half a mile from the office. Even though he seemed to be away more than he was here, he needed a base. And heâd somehow acquired a full-time housekeeper-cook.
At home in the U.S., the closest thing to a servantheâd ever had was a woman who came in to the Becker home weekly to clean. Heâd seen her once in a blue moon; mostly they communicated by notes. Please clean the refrigerator this week, heâd write. Iâll be coming on Tuesday instead of Thursday next week, if thatâs okay, her sticky note would inform him. But having someone wait on himâ¦well, that was different. Heâd intended to take care of himself. But heâd barely moved in when women began knocking on his back door asking for work. He was met with blank astonishment when he said he didnât need anyone, thank you. And it wasnât totally true, he discovered; buying food in the unfamiliar markets where English often wasnât spoken was a hassle, and heâd come to Africa with the intention of immersing himself in the culture, not living in a bubble like a tourist admiring the scenery. Yeah, sometimes he appreciated seeing familiar brands on grocery-store shelves, but he didnât want to shop only in the Western-style supermarkets. God knows, he wasnât much of a cook. He had no microwave here. And unemployment was sky-high. He could afford to give someone a job.
So now, when he was in town, he came home to sadza ready when he sat at the table. Sadza was the word commonly used for any meal, but also for the staple of the diet: a sort of stew served on cooked grain. Jendaya, his housekeeper, most often used chicken in the stew, although she was scandalized that he preferred it to goat, which his relative wealth would have permitted. He liked the stew without meat at all, and she obliged with scandalized shakes of the head. Only the poor didnât put meat in their sadza, she made sure he knew. When he was in Harare, he usually ate lunch out, so Will was content with the traditional evening meal even though it varied little.
Jendaya had expected him back today, so he assumeddinner at home would be ready at the usual seven oâclock. That gave him time to stop at the office and check email. He hadnât even seen an internet café the past two
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