Book Review: The Slaves’ War

It was one of those books that I ordered expecting it to languish on my shelves until I should happen to be in the mood for it. Though it sounded terribly interesting, interesting enough to prompt me to buy it, it was thick and had the sort of college-course-assignment vibe to it. But it didn’t languish nearly as long as I expected, and my expectations for how long it would take me to finish were even more exceeded.

The Slaves War by Andrew Ward is billed as “The Civil War in the Words of Former Slaves,” and that’s exactly what it is. Woven together with more standard historical battle accounts and report from generals are first-hand accounts from slaves collected during several interview projects in the early 20th century.

The book is arranged in chronological order, covering from just before the war through some of reconstruction. It’s incredibly interesting to see how the slaves’ ideas about and reactions to the Yankees change as the war goes on.  From an initial fear of an unknown described to them as a monster, to an almost idolizing, to disgust, distrust and near hatred, there’s a very visible evolution that comes with the war, occupation and Reconstruction.

Nearly every anecdote popular about slavery and the Civil War seems to come out as true in some area another. The South was (is) a big place and there was great variety among slave-holders, slave treatment, and direct effects of the Civil War.  Some stories of society in the mid 1880s seemed to have a striking resemblance to aspects of current society. Stop snitching has deep roots.

But for me, the most striking part of the book was this photograph from the Library of Congress,

which immediately brought to my mind this picture,

and reminded me of Ba Faye (fourth from left, back row) telling me while we were picking cotton that she wished someone would kidnap her son (front row, 2nd from left) to make him a slave because then he would be in America.

 

I recommend the book.

Note: My “Zam Fam” pic also appears on the post “Mosquitos Kill, Kill Mosquitos” from October 26, 2008.

December 1st is World Aids Day

It was a hot sunny day, the kind of day common most of the year in Southern Province and especially during Zambia’s hot season.  Stretched out on citenge clothes spread across the hard packed dirt of the yard, hunched over on small wooden stools, we sat together chatting and enjoying the afternoon.  The thatch overhang of the nearby mud brick hut provided welcome shade as a soft breeze rustled through the nearby mulberry tree and made the hot day comfortably pleasant.

It was the time of day for easy tasks, the types of chores that can be done in the half asleep loll of a lazy mid-afternoon, Shelling groundnuts, slicing vegetables for the evening meal, getting maize kernels off the cob.  It was also one of my favorite times of day, sitting together with the wives.  Not just enjoying the beautiful weather, but also enjoying the good company, the chats, the friends.

I couldn’t always keep up.  With the same Tonga skills as my four year-old brother, Mazoka, I was lucky to follow any of the conversations.  When the neighbors came over I was particularly lost, they talked so fast.  But the wives, Ba Fare (pronounced Feya) and Ba Joyce, they were wonderful and always tried hard to make sure I was included.  “Mwonwa?” they would ask, “do you understand?”  “Inzya,” I’d answer them.  “Yes.”  Or else just look at them with my brows furrowed and say one of my favorite Tonga words, “ndapyopyongana.”  “I am confused.”

This particular afternoon was more than just the regular small talk; there was news to share.  The second wife had gone to the nearby mission.  I knew little about her.  She lived on her parents’ compound in some nearby village and came infrequently to ours.  When she did come, it seemed it was only to yell at her husband and clean her and her daughter's hut.  She had been sick for a long time, on and off.  Everyone said that was why she lived on her parents’ compound.  I wondered if it wasn’t also because she and her husband (and the other wives) got along so poorly.

But on this day, there was no yelling, no screaming, no strange plastic items launching into the blue sky from the doorway of a small round hut.  Today there was just the quiet voices of Ba Joyce and Ba Fare as they talked about the news.  “She’s gone to the mission.”  “For a workshop?”  Lots of people go to the mission all the time for all sorts of events; it’s the center of activity for many villages across this side of Monze.

“No. She has gone to the hospital at the mission.”  I listened, unsure what it meant, stones of fear piling up in my stomach.  “She has been sick a long time.  She is sick enough now to need to be at the mission.”  “Everyone that goes to the mission hospital is tested.”  She means tested for HIV.

Understanding dawned in my eyes, I could feel them widening, my eyebrows creeping up my forehead.  I’d thought of this before; it would have been hard not to.  At this time, the HIV positive rate in Zambia was 20%, one in every five people.  I’d looked at the statistic and looked at my family.  Wife 1, Wife 2, Wife 3, Wife 4, Husband, 5.  But that was just statistics.  That was just numbers.  This was my family.

I looked at Ba Fare, afraid to ask, afraid to hear the rest.  She looked at back at me, our gazes saying more than words.  Then she laughed a sad half-laugh.  “Tuyakufwa.”  “We are all going to die.” 

We are all going to die.

Mosquitoes Kill, Kill Mosquitoes*

Dara and Feyi had malaria the other day.  Yep, just one day.  They were miserable, fevers, chills, throwing up and diarrhea.  The next morning, they were fine, running around and making a ruckus as usual.

Mazoka had malaria a few years ago.  I still remember getting the text message.  Barely a few months after leaving Zambia; I had just arrived home from work.  Don't think I'd even taken my work clothes off yet when Mommy came into the sewing room and found me crying.  "What's wrong?"  I couldn't even answer, I just handed her the phone to read the text message, "Mazoka died this week - malaria."

I loved Mazoka so much.  He was one of my favorites.  My little brother.  The one that I would let come play in the house when no one else was around, because he always cleaned up when he was done.  He was so cute and could always make me laugh.  And he was polite, not like Chipo.  When his little brother, Nchimunya, was born, he was so proud, and he worked really hard to be the best big brother ever.  He was only three at the time, but he would help his mom, Ba Joyce, with anything.  I would often find him out in the fields with her, picking cotton and stuffing it into his little red and blue striped sweater.  During planting season, he'd be out there with his own sickle, helping to clear the old brush.

Mazoka only had one eye, he was born that way.  In Zambia, I used to wonder how that would affect him as he grew up.  Would the girls like him?  Would it bother him?  I remember thinking when I read the text message, "well, that doesn't matter anymore."  But maybe that's why no one ever seemed worried about when he grew up.  Why worry about something you aren't even sure will happen?

When Dara and Feyi got malaria, their mom, Auntie D, gave them medicine from the cupboard.  When Mazoka got malaria, Ba Joyce took him to the local clinic in Chona (about 10km from the family compound), but the clinic was out of medicine.  Dara and Feyi knew about Mazoka, they had seen his picture in my little photo album and had asked about him.  When they found out they had malaria, they were scared and told their mom they didn't want to die.  She told them not to be silly, that malaria wasn't going to kill them.

But that's the difference, isn't it?  Auntie D and Uncle Soji only have two children, because they don't expect them to die.  Ba Lenix and his wives had well over a dozen, because they don't expect them to live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dara and Feyi in their traditional Yoruba clothes at Nigerian Day.

 

 

 

 

Family photo, 2004.  From left to right:  (Back row) Ba Maureen (2005), Ba Eunice (2005), Ba Crispin, Ba Feya holding Nchimunya, Ba Joyce, Me, (Middle row) Jemulaye, Trust, Ba Lenix, Ngandu, (Front row) Peppino holding Chipo, Joshua, Mazoka (2006).

*"Mosquitoes Kill, Kill Mosquitoes" is the slogan of NetMark Mosquito Nets.

"Car" Camping

So there's this thing they do out here called "car camping." Back home, we just call it "camping." It's where you camp close enough to walk to your car. Apparently "real" camping involves a lot of walking and dried food.

Anyway, last weekend, I got to go car camping with my good friend and some of his friends. I was a little nervous at first, because I recall often saying in Zambia, "I don't like camping." My reason was that I hated how nothing had a place and you sort of just lived out of a pile thrown in a bag for a few days. Luckily, the guy organizing the camping knew what he was doing, and the campsite had a little non-animal-proof cabinet. Things had a place! Yay!

I had no idea how badly I needed that little excursion, how much I would like it, or how sad I would be to leave. I haven't been out in the dark, far from electricity since I left Zambia. It was wonderful. I knew when I left Cheelo, I would miss the peaceful nights and the evenings around the campfire. In two years, I had already forgotten how wonderful those times were. The first night at the campsite, I sat outside alone under the stars, soft tears rolling down my cheeks. In my mind Mazoka and Chipo chased each other laughing. Ba Feya's voice seemed to float in on the wind. As the flames of the fire crackled, I could almost see Ba Lenix's tired, red eyes peering from the darkness. Almost, almost there, yet still thousands of miles away....

We all went to the boardwalk and beach at Santa Cruz on Saturday. That was a lot of fun, especially the rides, and the guy on the corner playing polka on an accordion! Unfortunately, we didn't really get the best part of camping, the sitting around the fire cooking, eating, telling stories, enjoying the night sky. For some reason, the rest of the people kept eating at restaurants. What the vampire?

Saturday night, when everyone else went to get Thai or something, my friend and I made a fire. Neither of us had actually ever built a wood fire from scratch before, but we did it! We had a beautiful blazing hot fire. He knew how to stack the wood and stuff, and I just kept trying things I had seen my family do to start our fires in Zambia. It worked really well, especially the blowing on a hot branch to make flames. I roasted a cob of corn in the fire, just like in Zambia. Then we had to dump water on it and put it out, because my friend wanted to leave. People running off to restaurants + camping do not equal fun.

Even with leaving early, and no big campfire night, it was still a lot of fun. Now I'm really itching to go again. I'm leaving for Africa in a few weeks, but I doubt there'll be any fires or electricity-free nights this time. Capital city, no village. :( Oh well, at least I found a little bit of that peace again.

Been awhile

So the internet's been down for a bit - here's a bunch of stuff I've been meaning to write:

Here people tend to have two names, one "English" and one "Tonga". I thought Chipo only had that name but I just found out he has another, though I have no idea how this is Tonga. You'll have to know our family really well to understand why, but this is absolutely hilarious!!!! His Tonga name is: Barnabas!

I can def. tell I've gained weight - but I think I look better. Is that strange? ...maybe it has something to do with the fact that there are no mirrors ;)

Last week or so Ba Feya called me something I have never been called before. "Kwenya" Now of course I've never been called that before it's Tonga, right? except that in English it means "normal". Should I be offended?

Last bike trip to town I passed a guy riding with a coffin strapped to the back of his bike. If that wasn't strange enough, it was painted bright purple.

(Original Post)