A day in Malawi

Folks often ask me, “How was Africa?” I’ve discovered they either want me to say, “Great!” and move on to more pressing matters, like how hot it is outside, or they want a story.

When they want a story, here’s the story I tell:

Twice on our trip, we visited a family in their home. Technically, we squatted in the dirt with a family outside their very dark mud hut. These “home visits,” as World Relief calls them, provide an opportunity for we stateside visitors to experience a bit of village life and to offer encouragement to folks who are struggling.

So.

Matt and I visited Mr. and Mrs. Salimoyo. Mr. and Mrs. Salimoyo are an elderly couple. Well into their eighties, they have lived far beyond the Malawian life expectancy of fifty-five, and sadly, beyond the life expectancy of all six of their children. Mr. Salimoyo’s legs are gnarled with arthritis. Both he and his wife have watery, rheumy eyes clouded over with cataracts or disease of some kind. They can barely see.

World Relief has identified this couple as “particularly vulnerable.” They cannot provide for themselves, and there’s no family left to help. Matt, Nathan (a fellow Summit member), and I, along with a couple of World Relief staff members, sat on a grass mat outside of their hut. We were told that Mr. and Mrs. Salimoyo would find tremendous encouragement from our time together.

I sat next to Mr. Salimoyo, our stretched out legs nearly touching. He is a tiny man, much smaller than I am, and his wife is tinier still. As we talked, they swatted flies away from their faces and nodded seriously.

Three things happened during our visit that seemed so full of promise and hope, I can’t stop thinking about them.

One, Mr. Salimoyo, not a chatty or talkative man, gave us a song. He sang. To us. “Here is a song,” he said, “that we often sing at my church.”

The crowd of children pressing in and around us hushed. The staff members smiled and nodded in delight. And Mr. Salimoyo sang.

If Jesus himself put his hand on my head, I don’t think I would have felt more blessed.

And when he finished, Matt struck up a conversation with him. It turns out that Mr. Salimoyo’s line of work is weaving. Even though he is nearly blind, he can weave dried palm fronds into a spool of material that a villager takes to the market to sell on Mr. Salimoyo’s behalf. It takes Mr. Salimoyo two days to weave one spool—or one square mat—and for that effort, he earns roughly fifty cents.

Matt whispered to me, “This is awful. I want to give him all my money.” And I replied, “You know you can’t. That would undermine everything World Relief is trying to do.”

Matt cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Salimoyo, I would find it very useful to have a mat such as you make. May I purchase a mat from you?” Mr. Salimoyo nodded gravely. And than Matt gestured to me and said, “I believe my wife would also find a mat useful. May I buy one for her, too?” Another nod. And then Nathan, eyes twinkling, said, “I would like a mat, too. May I also buy a mat?”

Money was exchanged. The children cheered. Matt and Mr. Salimoyo were all business. Matt said, “The next time we come visit you, sir, we will collect our mats.” More nods and handshakes.

And finally, Matt and Nathan gave Mr. and Mrs. Salimoyo gifts: a bag of maize so huge, it would not fit into the overhead compartment on an airplane; a jar of peanut butter; a plastic bottle of cooking oil; rice; a blanket.

Mrs. Salimoyo quietly, said, “In my whole life, nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

I thought, “Me, neither.”

We rose to go, more head bobs and formal handshakes, in which I cupped the tip of my right elbow to show my respect for these people. I watched Matt, astonished at his seriousness and intuition—and his ability to suppress his typical Tigger-like energy. He was quiet and deferential, and I am certain his time with the Salimoyos left them feeling respected and filled.  

But then. He spotted a bicycle.

“Uh-oh,” I thought. “Here we go.”

Matt had already had several conversations with World Relief staff members. He wanted to know if he could rent a bike. No? Okay, how about hiring a ride on the back of a bike, as we saw hundreds of folks do each day to get to work. Not safe? Okay, then, could he buy a bike and then donate it upon our departure. Not planned in our itinerary?

He went quiet, but kept plotting.

And now, surrounded by Malawians in this tiny village where the people are all but forgotten, he spotted a kid with a bike. “May I ride it?” he asked.

Oh, my stars. There went my husband, peddling down a dirt road, dozens of children running and screaming after him. I walked slowly behind, alongside the staff members who were keeping a concerned eye on my Mr. Freckle Face.

When we got near Matt and the kids, I snapped a dozen or so photos.

That night, we curled up in bed, under our fan and mosquito net, and looked at them. Matt swiped through picture after picture, enlarging each one to see the delight on his face and the children’s.

Until we came to one with a young mother, her toddler in her arms gaping at Matt, the bare milky breast momentarily forgotten.

Matt yelped and then hastily handed me back the camera.

I laughed until I nearly cried.

This is precisely why I love Africa. She wrings me out at exactly the same time she fills me with hope. She demands I see, and not just with my eyes. She makes me smile at her warbling goats and running children and bare breasts. She breaks me into an ache I don’t know how to ease.

She whispers, “Do you not see? This is the heart of God.”

I smiled at Matt snoring next me, mostly in wonder at how quickly this place snared him. I felt a little afraid, not sure how loving Malawi together would change how we would spend our money, our summers, our retirement, our prayers.

“Sweet man,” I whispered to his sleeping self. “Know what I love best about Africa now? The same thing I love about every place I go. The man there with me.”

Oh, Malawi. You are in my mutu and my mtima. Pitani bwino, dear friend, until we meet again.