After my first week here, i think I have settled in. the jet lag is long gone and I feel like I am home.
In some ways, the week has been uneventful, in other ways not so.
The obvious disparities that exist both inside and out the gate are a reminder of the stark reality that a nation like this faces. Such disparities were made more apparent today when I drove into Solwezi, around 80km from here - to the grocery store. Along the way, I was once again greeted with the colours and sights of Africa. The road is long, and tedious, but the stories are not. I see two young girls playing on the side of the road - best friends I would imagine, playing, blissfully unaware of their surrounds. Further up the road, villages with reddish-brown huts in stark contrast to the long green grass that surrounds them, with people laughing, laughing, dancing. However, not every story is a happy one. Two men are obviously irate, angry, mad about something and are fighting each other fist to fist as though their lives depended upon it. And do you know what? their lives probably did (do) depend on it. I see a Mama, with a baby on her back, one on her side, potatoes on her head and her three young children with buckets of water on their heads. Walking this loooong stretch of road that goes on and on and on. This gets me thinking about the parallel universe I come from. I switch on my computer and check my social media - where I keep in touch with people, thousands and thousands of miles away and I find out what is happening in their worlds - perhaps out of sheer curiosity rather than care. I see stories of sadness 'posted,' wanting to get symapthetic responses. I see happy stories, with tales of new babies, wedded bliss and holidays, waiting in eager anticipation to see how many people will 'comment' on what they have written. Whilst we are each entitled to live our lives as per our societies, I wonder who creates societal norms? Us. the people in them. We make things of utmost importance in our lives, that perhaps don't need to be.
When I watch how hard the women of Africa work (and please, I am not disrespecting any of my western friends, family, colleagues or otherwise), I am amazed by their strength to keep on going. Day in, day out. Manual labour. Women who have to rely on themselves. Not on a car. Not on a bus. Not on a government that will provide. Nothing but their own hands, their own legs. As I get further along the road, I see a group of young women, walking, having fun, each with baby on her back, 6 Litre jerry can of water on her side and a big sack of something heavy on her head. I take a moment to thank these women for keeping this greater African society going. Having had the honour to meet some of these women, and sit in their houses, I am humbled by the way that they treat me. They have swept and cleared a place on their mats. Boiled water and let it cool so I could drink it and cooked me up their best recipes. These women may not have the biggest houses, the most money in the bank, (in fact, most rely upon their savings circles and co-ops to look after their finances) and many are illiterate. Those who did go to school, sat on a stone under an acacia tree, while counting ants, pebbles and writing in the dirt. this doesn't matter. That makes my Mater's degree from one of the finest universities in the country look like nothing. What does it count when among friends? After all, we were there to discuss life and we had all been to that school - the school of life. Some studied harder than others. Each and every woman I have met in this continent, in each house I have dined in, each and every time, I realise, these women are strong. They are the back bone. They run the show. The continent, the counties, the villages. They are, after all, the women of Africa.
