Potholes

Clement’s aunt has a little restaurant behind Kamuzu Central Hospital (KCH). The setting is humble; a simple mud brick structure with a thatched roof – through which sun, wind, and rain still find their way – but her food is the best that I’ve tasted in Malawi. During the week she serves lunch to whoever takes a seat at one of the three round cement tables and for less than a dollar she will fill your plate with roasted chicken, beans, greens, a cabbage salad, stewed tomatoes and potatoes, and nsima or rice. Whenever I’m around KCH at noon, I eat her food. Today Clement and I took our places across from a pleasant force of nature disguised as a friendly old man. He greeted us both in Chichewa and let loose a happy surprised laugh when I responded in-kind and answered his simple questions. (I, myself, was very excited to note that I was able to follow the conversation in Chichewa about food, work, and origins.) As it turned out, he was from Mozambique and every now and then he’d toss in a Portuguese word when his Chichewa left a hole (I’m sure that was part of the reason I understood so well). After a few minutes I said something in Portuguese and he practically jumped out of his seat with joy. His smile lit his face and his arms and eyes began moving in excited circles while he hopped around asking a dozen questions, barely leaving space for the answers. When he learned that I am 30 and unmarried, he sobered up a bit, clicked his tongue, told me it was time for me to marry, and asked if I liked ele pointing to Clement with his eyebrows. Before he left, he put his hands over his heart, told me that I was his niece, and wished us all the best. It took us a few minutes to stop laughing. It’s amazing how when love flows from unexpected sources, it can quickly fill and smooth over the emotional potholes from daily wear.