The last few weeks in Zambia have been all hustle and bustle. Between upcoming finals, last minute assignments and the impending end of our trip, we have been found in the red as far as time goes. The schoolwork defied the stereotypes of study abroad education standards – it most definitely was not an easy semester. Not to say that the classes were dull and dragging; rather they were intentional and applicable to the surrounding scenarios. The workload did not prove light, but it remained beneficial to the end.
With that end in sight, we strove throughout the last week for closure. Every second of our time not spent on school was spent with those who had impacted our time in Zambia. Everything started turning into “last times,” and with it came an intentional urgency. We made daily trips to the Havens, spending just a little more time playing with the kids and babies we had poured our hearts into over the semester. Chapel became reminiscent, worship with the college students became heart-piercing and full of memories. We made more time for the kids and our friends at Eric’s House and Alice’s House, we sang harder and fuller with the Basic School choir, and we found ourselves packed into Meg and Jan’s living room almost every evening. Time was running out, and frantically we attempted to make it, though the eventual reality of leaving was not yet realized.
Several events stuck out in our last week, events that were simple in their fulfillment but heavy with meaning in our context. First there was the party with the Aunties. If I’ve failed to explain the role of these wonderful ladies in past blogs, then I’ve foolishly kept hidden in the dark some of the loveliest lights we saw in Zambia. These women were tasked with watching over the children at the Havens. They fed, bathed, clothed and cared for the children; they swept, cooked, washed dishes, exterminated, and many other tasks all aimed towards caring for the children of the Havens. Our going away gift to them was minimal in comparison to all of their hard work, but recognition was our goal. We fed them snacks, a cookie and juice, and then sang a few songs in Chitonga to try to encourage them. In their grace and hospitality, they too offered us a farewell song, wishing us safe journeys and thanking us for our visit – though we, of course, gave little in comparison to the steadfast matriarchs we wanted to celebrate. In summary, those women were hardy and stout in appearance and in mind. They gave off a stern and resolute aura, alluding to their tough, rough and just disciplinarianism – but behind their shining eyes and warm, motherly smiles, their initial aloofness melted away to a gentle, humble and loving heart. They gave all to those children as they would their own – those tiny branches had been grafted into their family tree. But the celebration was fleetingly short, and we had to move on.
That same night, we headed out to “the rock” for a grill out with everyone involved with Eric’s House. The location’s name implies pretty much everything you need to know about it: it’s a big, flat rock. It served as a convenient place for a bonfire, a cookout and viewing the sunset. More importantly, it served as one of the last opportunities we’d get to see the Eric’s House kids. So it served as a final hurrah, catered with delicious chicken, beans and s’mores to top it all off. But the food was overshadowed by the company, and we took what chances we could to spend just a little more time with the kids that had impacted our nights at least once a week. Their joy and unconditional love was rivaled only by their urges to use us as transportation – there were piggyback rides galore. What would usually wear out our shoulders and backs now gave us happiness and energy. Every second counted, and we used it to further the relationships we had established with those kids, in all of their delightful quirkiness. The night ended with all of us singing around a campfire, chowing down on s’mores. It was reminiscent of an American evening, but the company that surrounded us reminded us of none but exactly who they are to us: our little Zambian brothers and sisters.
Finally, there was the party on Saturday afternoon. The party was designed to accommodate and recognize the people who, for the last three months, had served us tirelessly and with great spirits. The wonderful people who had cooked for us, cleaned for us, took care of the grounds for us, even the people who taught our classes – they were all in attendance, and this time it was our duty and excellent privilege to serve them, though – yet again – never in compensatory fashion. We used the veranda of one of the houses as our party headquarters. Thanks to the hard work of a few craftier HIZ students, the area was decorated splendidly with chitenge banners and fresh tablecloths. By noon, we had all taken up our positions, manning the hand-washing station and the kitchen, and prepared to serve our guests barbecue sandwiches and a cool glass of lemonade. After an hour or so, they had all arrived and been served. Ba Gary then proceeded to, in some small way, thank them individually for their endless service and hard work. They had strained for us in every faculty of our needs. They never complained, never hesitated, never stopped, and our thanks did not dent an impossible debt.
From then on, the days passed even quicker. No longer burdened by schoolwork, most of us spent the rest of Saturday and almost all of Monday at the Havens. Sunday we reserved for our last day of official, structured worship with the Zambians. We sang to our lungs’ capacity, particularly with the Basic School choir. Afterwards, there was a going away party for us, complete with a traditional meal of nsima and chicken, a stellar local band with rag-tag instruments and lots of dancing. A perfect ending to a perfect worship experience. The rest of the evening was devoted to packing and cleaning, preparing ahead of time for Tuesday’s deadline. As I said, pretty much all of Monday was devoted to the Havens. After months and untotaled hours with those children, it was time to go. For some whose sense of reality was grounded and aware, the break was hard, like ripping off a band-aid. For others, the idea that we wouldn’t be seeing those tiny faces smiling up at us again in this life couldn’t be grasped. Regardless, the walk back was quiet and somber. The weather seemed to pick up on our mood – gusts of wind ushered in dark clouds and an overcast sky. The gloom set in, inside us and about us. Before long, the clouds burst, sending showers that began a light drizzle but morphed into a downpour before the night was over. But the shadows didn’t imply misery, at least not for Namwianga. At the Secondary School there was singing, in the roads there were children laughing and playing – the gloom was met with joy, the overcast sky with a rejuvenated earth. Our last night at Namwianga we spent largely reminiscing, going through photos and videos, at times yelling over the hammering of the rain on the tin roof, others just listening to the steady pittering and pattering of gentle drops. We visited with those in our immediate vicinity: Meg and Jan, the neighborhood kids, visitors from the Secondary School and college. We dragged the night on as long as we could, avoiding the eventual and inevitable awkward and lacking goodbyes (in a fashion similar to the one I’ve adopted for this superfluous blog post). Despite our best efforts to rebuke our need for sleep – our unhealthy strategy to get us back on Searcy time as well as an attempt to deny the dawn the finality of its coming – we were overtaken, and rested timidly amid roaring thunder and flashing skies.
The sun rose on a dull grey, cold day, and we rose with it at 6 o’clock in the morning. A quick breakfast, and then it was on to the bus. But just before, we were given a chance to say some final goodbyes. Some older kids from Eric’s House and the leaders and administrators of the house had driven down for one last farewell.
A prayer is said, we board, the bus starts, and we’re gone. Namwianga fades; we leave it the same as it was when we got there, unchallenged and unchanged. We remain. Different? Changed? Perhaps, only discerning minds and time will tell. Still moving, still going, still driving. The expected misery doesn’t show – at least in my case. Sorrow is nowhere to be seen. I’m aware of my ignorance of the reality at hand, but as of then the plane home doesn’t exist. It soon flies us over the Atlantic, over a period of roughly 48 hours. Another blurred bus ride and we’re back at Harding. A flash of bright lights and HIZ chapel is finished; more blurred, concrete roads and we’re home. It ended as quickly as it began. The result: unsure confusion. There is still much unpacking to do on our parts – literal and figurative. There is still months’ worth of reflections before us, digging through the labyrinthine memories of our semester abroad. But of this much we are sure: we are no longer whole. A part of us was made for Zambia, for the unknown mysteries of Africa. This part has been wrenched away, unexpectedly and far too soon, but we have no cause to worry – fortunately, we’re surrounded by potential nurses and doctors within our group. We’ll be patched over time, and with the help of a newfound, motivating burden, we’ll grow in our love for Africa and for the world. The sun sets in a chillier, darker hemisphere, our bodies frigid in the cold. But thousands of miles away, the scorching Zambian sun warms our hearts, beckoning and whispering of a long-awaited return. The HIZ 2015 trip is over, but the family, the call, and the love live on.
Leza Mubotu,
Zach Burgan
