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When I protested that of course I did, they smiled and we ate boiled eggs or cold peeled cassava roots or a whitish porridge, and then off we went to the bar, to get drunk again in the filthy place. And her brother backed her up, sometimes accusing me of not respecting them. In her refusal to let me go was not just nastiness but a hint of threat. Another night, Nina's laughter in her orgasm and in the morning the reminder that I was trapped. We spent Boxing Day as we had done Christmas: the bar, beer, fights, abuse, and finally that dizzy nauseating feeling of mid-afternoon drunkenness. His smile meant: You do what I tell you to do. "We go," George said and tapped my shoulder and smiled. It is Boxing Day." And she summoned her brother. I was dressing in the morning when she asked me where I was going. Nina undressed me and sat on me and laughed, and jeered at me. We went back to the village hut and I lay half-sick in the stinking room. The brother stopped several angry men from hitting her. The woman was taunted for being with a white man. It was hardly eight in the morning yet we went, and drank all day, and whenever beer was ordered, they said, "Mzungu" - the white man is paying, and I paid. The brother, George, overhearing, came into the room and said that it was time to go to the bar. But, in the morning, when I said I had to leave, to go to my hotel in Lusaka, the woman - Nina - said, "No. I had had a year of women in Malawi, the casual OK, the smiles, the fooling, Jika's bantering, Ismail's leers.
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#Wad unpacker gunpoint Patch#
Then she sat me down, and she undressed me, and we made love on the warm patch on the blanket where the child had been lying. I stepped on a sleeping child - there was a squawk - and the woman woke him and shooed him from his blanket into the next room. I was shown a small room, the woman followed me in. This involved a long taxi ride into the bush. And she likes you very much."Īt closing time they invited me to their house. "This is for you," I said, giving the man a bottle of beer. With Christmas approaching I went via a roundabout route to Zambia and on Christmas Eve was sitting in an almost empty and rather dirty bar outside Lusaka, talking to the only other drinkers, a man and woman. I used to say: I'll get culture shock when I go back home. I had been expecting this Africa and I liked it. Apart from the clammy cold season, June to August, none of this seemed strange. We were content in the bush, a corner of the southern highlands, red dust, bad roads, ragged people. My cook had a cook of his own, a young boy, Ismail. I had a house and even a cook, a Yao Muslim named Jika. Independence came and with it a new name, Malawi. I had gone from America to Africa and had been there for almost a year: Nyasaland. It was something like First Contact, the classic encounter between the wanderer and the hidden indigenous person, the meeting of people who are such utter strangers to each other that one side sees a ghost and the other side suspects an opportunity. The incident has informed one of my early novels and several short stories.
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T his took place 40 years ago in Africa, and still I ponder it - the opportunity, the self-deception, the sex, the power, the fear, the confrontation, the foolishness, all the wrongness.