White Girl

One of the graduates of the Hope Tailoring School (HTS) a mother of two girls: Faith and Favor. At first, I figure that Faith (the elder sister) was shocked a little at my appearance, but most often, babies and I get along. Favor, who is just 2, for many weeks just didn't want anything to do with me up close. I get along with Favor's mom pretty well, from her Mom I discovered that the little girl called me "azungu" which roughly means "white person". Very few Malawians (that I've seen) are my shade of brown, most are a medium to dark brown. Being that she was very little, I figured okay, I don't speak her language and I don't look like everyone. But still, somewhere inside it hurt. One of the young ladies in the neighborhood who I've befriended explained to me that I must look very strange to the child: my hair is very dark, but my skin is very light and the whites of my eyes are very white, instead of the cream or even pale brown of most people here. So in essence, I'm a cartoon character that walks and talks - just great. (Fortunately, the toddler has come around and accepted that I am not going to eat her...)

But then I noticed, many other kids calling me mzungu (the singular form). Then I went to Lilongwe and the street vendors were trying to swindle me because I was mzungu - I ended up slamming the postcards back down on the table and telling them off. How dare they talk about me right in front of my face, all because I wasn't falling for their scheme?? When I got back from Lilongwe, and re-entered the rhythm of the northern region, I began to be sad once again. Even if I was a mzungu in Lilongwe, I was amongst many other foreigners of all nations and the people were used to seeing different shades of humans - I was still a foreigner but I was no stranger than the next foreigner, and at least there were street lamps and paved roads to make me feel closer to home than the dirt roads I'm now used to. Coming back to the north, I was sinking into feeling even more like an outsider than when I left.

Today, I could barely take it. After a round of church that just did not feed my soul at all (actually, besides the praise and worship time, I'm not exactly loving church), I just wanted to be alone to let the feelings melt away and just have a moment to myself without anybody around, doing nothing. Since the power was out (apparently this was a scheduled event), that wouldn't be too hard. I should have just walked straight from church back to my abode, but I didn't. I tried to attend the youth meeting after church, but I found myself lost in a flurry of words - I was at the point where I could care less about appearances. It's not that I needed to understand, but that nobody cared if I understood. So, I closed the latches on my cupboard of feelings, and I left the meeting without a word.

As I was making my solo exit, I was confronted by one of the youth who was on holiday from schooling Blantyre (in the far southern region). He could tell from my face that I was drained. I tried hard to explain that I just wanted to go home and rest a while but he really didn't take my word for it. Actually, he said it's not good to be alone when one is feeling so bad because that only makes it worse. Knowing myself quite well, I knew that I really did want to be alone, but he wasn't hearing that. So, we took a walk, because I just began walking in the direction of my place. Eventually he wore down some real answers from me - after a bite to eat, and getting a few nagging things off my chest I felt better somewhat.

Then.... then I went to the Mzuzu University campus with two of the girls I see most often, and there it was again. The eyes. The jeers... white girl, white girl, white girl. I could feel myself sliding back inside myself again. I'm so tired of it.

I never considered that when I came to Malawi people would call me white. Did I expect some kind of "welcome home" attitude? Maybe I did - somewhere in the back of my mind I guess I harbored this expectation. That's what all the celebrities said they felt, that's how they were welcomed. But I never considered that their complexion may've been darker than mine... I never considered that they appeared more African than myself.

It is one thing to be called white by children, but a whole other thing to be called white by adults. Even from afar, even when people don't know if I speak Chitumbuka or Chichewa I'm a white person. I was even asked more than once not to speak, or not to appear to be with the native person so that they'd get a good price on a taxi. Just because I speak English, I'm not Black - I'm not a daughter of Mother Africa. I never considered just how outside I would feel for things I just can't control.