Zambia: part 2

“Let me claim that Africa and I kept company for awhile and then parted ways, as if we were both party to relations with a failed outcome. Or say I was afflicted with Africa like a bout of a rare disease, from which I have not managed a full recovery.” – Orleanna Price, The Poisonwood Bible

Who knew that Africa would be the death of me? Someone knew. Many knew. Anyone who had been to Africa before knew. I wonder if they kept it a secret. I wonder if they tried to tell me but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t listen. How could I know? How could I understand? I couldn’t. I had to experience it for myself. I had to die. Those who knew guarded the door of Darkness. Do I now do the same? Do I have a future of sitting around, knitting black wool and introducing others to the unknown? Will I sit there, scrutinizing the cheery faces, sending people to their deaths? There is no way I can prevent others from dying. I want others to die. I want others to experience Africa, the Darkness.

But there is now more than the Darkness. There is the light. Africa is also the light. Africa wounds. It heals as well, but not without scars.

I first stepped onto African land in the middle of the night. Johannesburg at night is a beautiful city. It was a similar experience to stepping outside the airport in Las Vegas. The warmth of the night hit me and I knew I was no longer in the midwestern United States. Everything was a rush. We just wanted to get to our hotel and settle in for the night. No time to dance underneath the African sky. No time to say a thankful prayer for our safe arrival. In our minds, we hadn’t arrived yet. Zambia was our destination, not South Africa. We were still in transit, in the developed world, not yet in the great unknown of the African bush.

One afternoon flight later and we were in Livingstone, Zambia. Stepping off the air-conditioned plane into the bright hot African sun was a shock to my body. It was the warmest January air I had ever experienced. Man oh man, are we in for it now… It [didn’t] look to me like we’re in charge of a thing, not even our own selves. No, after passing the immigration desk we met them, the white man and the black Zambian woman in tie-dye. They were in charge, and we were subject to their knowledge.

“Welcome to Zambia!”

Welcome to death.