Sixteen days ago I stepped off of a little plane and onto the cracked concrete of the airport runway in Lilongwe, Malawi. The cool breeze and warm sun embraced me like old friends. The auburn dust that populates the capital city invaded my senses, metallic to taste, chalky to touch. The familiar yet distant trees and flowers crept their way back into my mind. The coolness of the floors and walls, the warmth of the smiles, the rhythm of the language, the depth of the voices all came flooding back, sweeping me off my feet, welcoming me just the way home should.
It's incredible to me how much love there is in my heart for a place that was only "home" for a couple of years, the permanent expression of which is tattooed on my wrist to represent, remind, refresh my love for this country, these people, the years here. Life-changing years. I suppose it's true that my love for the place has been enhanced and defined by my love for one of her sons- my dear husband-to-be. Malawi embraced me these two weeks and I emerged changed yet again.
Can you picture the sixty smiling graduates, marching with all the pomp and circumstance to the cheers of proud mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, celebrating the culmination of years of hard work and countless sacrifices? Shall I tell of the winding road to Salima with tiny huts and villages decorating the gorgeous hillsides? Of the white grainy sand that turns to powdery black as it meets the pure blue of the Lake of Stars? Of waking to the smell of the sweet morning smoke from fires in the fields that burned all night, providing warmth and light? Should I describe the artistry of the pottery in Dedza, with classic Malawian scenes portrayed on the sides of mugs and faces of plates? And what of the British influence on the one-of-a-kind Kamuzu Academy, founded by the original president of Malawi, named in his honor, and responsible for so much of my love's childhood world? Can I allow you to hear the gleeful shouts of "azungu!" as cars, bikes, motorcycles, busses, tuktuks, and pedestrians pass by the open windows of our car, with the breeze carrying the sounds further and further away? How can I portray the warmth of the smiles and hands that are extended with a "muli bwanji?" to the bemused foreigner who has fallen in love with one of their own? And the dancing! The dancing that goes on and on and on, as friends and family bestow blessings and hugs and colorful kwacha on the grinning nuptials who have chosen this strange but wonderful path that none of them imagined.
The red dust of Africa clings to my shoes, the smell of her sweet fires still permeates my clothes, and the warmth of the heart of Africa has yet to leave my soul. And I don't mind at all.
It's incredible to me how much love there is in my heart for a place that was only "home" for a couple of years, the permanent expression of which is tattooed on my wrist to represent, remind, refresh my love for this country, these people, the years here. Life-changing years. I suppose it's true that my love for the place has been enhanced and defined by my love for one of her sons- my dear husband-to-be. Malawi embraced me these two weeks and I emerged changed yet again.
Can you picture the sixty smiling graduates, marching with all the pomp and circumstance to the cheers of proud mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, celebrating the culmination of years of hard work and countless sacrifices? Shall I tell of the winding road to Salima with tiny huts and villages decorating the gorgeous hillsides? Of the white grainy sand that turns to powdery black as it meets the pure blue of the Lake of Stars? Of waking to the smell of the sweet morning smoke from fires in the fields that burned all night, providing warmth and light? Should I describe the artistry of the pottery in Dedza, with classic Malawian scenes portrayed on the sides of mugs and faces of plates? And what of the British influence on the one-of-a-kind Kamuzu Academy, founded by the original president of Malawi, named in his honor, and responsible for so much of my love's childhood world? Can I allow you to hear the gleeful shouts of "azungu!" as cars, bikes, motorcycles, busses, tuktuks, and pedestrians pass by the open windows of our car, with the breeze carrying the sounds further and further away? How can I portray the warmth of the smiles and hands that are extended with a "muli bwanji?" to the bemused foreigner who has fallen in love with one of their own? And the dancing! The dancing that goes on and on and on, as friends and family bestow blessings and hugs and colorful kwacha on the grinning nuptials who have chosen this strange but wonderful path that none of them imagined.
The red dust of Africa clings to my shoes, the smell of her sweet fires still permeates my clothes, and the warmth of the heart of Africa has yet to leave my soul. And I don't mind at all.
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