Living History: Grace Kalawo

Living History
Agogo Grace Kalawo, Mubanga Dec 13^th 2011

As a baby she was called Ingiwo or Maylise. Agogo Grace has short white hair and eyes only slightly tinted by cataracts. She is a small woman but enthusiastic, lively and eager to tell her tale to any who will listen. Often the grandparents are respected yet ignored, and often sit in the quiet of their own minds, remembering how things were.

Agogo or grandmother Grace is soft spoken and shocked when we showed up at her compound. She asks curiously if one of us is the white volunteer living in Mubanga. I nodded and pointed my finger to my chest. She smiled and clapped her hands in thanks. She is wearing a chitenge wrapped around her waist and a heavy brown and deep red flannel jacket. Under the jacket is a blue polo shirt. Using Johnathan as a translator, Agogo launches into talking, not shy at all. She speaks with her hands which are taunt and leathery. She has deep wrinkles on her face that deepen when she looks off into the middle distance and furrows her brown in concentration, recalling the past.

Two school girls are with Agogo at the house. They are curiously staring at us, and giggling at the embarrassing things their grandmother is saying. Often they interject questions, amazed at the stories they are hearing for the first time, genuinely interested. It is a gray, drizzling day. We are all sitting on the front porch, which is only a slightly raised, mudded area. We are sitting on the smeared mud floor, a bamboo mat and a small wooden stool.  As Grace talks we look out across her complex. Rain drips rhythmically from the thatched grass roof, forming puddles below the porch. Occasionally a stray droplet drips onto Agogo Grace’s bare feet.

As the stories begin to flow, she jumps up and scurries into the house, pulling out items to reiterate her stories. She pulls out a banana leaf mat, a maize sack woven and tied with cloth, scraps used to clean the dust from their legs at night. Out in the complex, maize is sprouting from her newly dug ridges, this year’s food, income and hope. The jembe (hoe) beside me is covered in fresh earth, leaning against the eroded bricks of the house. The thatch roof of her kitchen is turning black from the smoke of the fires. The yard is swept clean of grass and debris, harboring puddles and paths of water erosion from the beginning of the new rainy season.

The girls are joined by several younger children and they giggle at Agogo’s scandalous stories about sex and ritual. We all smile and laugh as Agogo chants tunes from the old music. Johnathan gently coaxes Agogo with softly asked questions. Adam sits still and quiet, trying not to break the spell, attempting not to ruin the voice recording, smiling when the others break into laughter. It is an infectious laughter. Adam hushes me for making too much noise as my hand shifts rapidly across the paper, and my rain jacket crinkles as I writing these memories.

Agogo’s teeth are still healthy and in good condition, if not by Western standards, a fact she attributes to the better food they ate in her youth. She shakes soya beans in a tin pot to demonstrate how music was played in her day, how song and dance was rich and earthy. Curious chickens strut closer, hoping for a meal, pecking at the wet ground. Agogo has a distinct mole on the bridge of her nose between her eyes. The soft pat-pat of the rain on the thatch, on the leaves of the small mango tree in the yard, the drips of the rain into the puddles, is a soothing white noise added to her stories. Another school girls walks up to the house. She carried a jembe and tried to act like seeing two azungu’s sitting on her grandmother’s porch is not surreal. Behind her is a young girl in a dirty and torn shirt made of chitenge. She stares wide-eyed as she walks by.

As Agogo talks on, the two girls come and sit with us. The younger one cannot take her eyes off us. Not blinking, mouth slightly open, a nervous look on her face, she stares. As she talks the others glance at us, knowing we don’t understand yet curious of our reactions to their reactions. They are a bit confused by our silent listening. The younger girl has a lighter brown hair, a symbol of malnutrition. Periodically the girls get up and move around, come back and sit down. In general, everyone seems unperturbed to be walking around barefoot in the rain, drizzle and mud.

Agogo is worried that we have been sitting and chatting and there is no food to offer us. We assure her that it is OK. If we had not insisted so hard that we were fine, she would have insisted on preparing us something, most likely nsima which takes at least an hour to prepare, not including having to light a fire. This also means that she would have to cook us a dende, a side dish, and would probably feel ashamed feeding us their ‘poor’ food and have to go buy something expensive like eggs. They probably would not eat themselves, just sit and watch us consume their offering or even setting us up inside and then waiting for us outside. We could not do that.

A spider that was hiding in the cracks of the brick wall beside me has caught a fly. I listen to Agogo even as the buzzing of a dying fly echoes in the background. It is a sound so small it is lost on the others. It is something no one would notice in the western world. The world around us is a symphony of sound. The thudding of bare feet on the hard pan compacted earth as a young girl runs off.  Sometimes Agogo pauses in her speech, using only facial expressions and pantomime to tell a story. She often stops to stare into Johnathan’s eyes, making sure he understands the gravity of what she has said, emphasizing her point. She is not shy of eye contact or the truth of her story.

Grace has just come from farming all day in the rain. We let her listen to the recording before we part. She nods periodically, agreeing with herself. The girls giggle. Grace chuckles, recorder held close to her eye but for the most part she retains her neutral, ‘wise elder,’ face. She thanks use, laughs, smiles, and claps her hands. The three older girls are sisters. One of them is Grace’s namesake.  Agogo holds my hand tight, lingering. She looks deep into my eyes and I feel like we are talking across worlds and barriers.

A Translation of her tales is to come

Chitandilla is 101 Years Old

Chitandilla is 100 years old, this year he turns 101. Since no one can remember his birth date, it is celebrated on January 1^st. He carried tree trunks up a mountain and built Chisenga’s first CCAP church.  You may remember him as the hunchbacked hero I wrote about before. He is still a devote and faithful man. One thing you can always understand is when Chitandilla is talking about the lord, ‘Ambuye.’ Chitandilla lifts up his arms towards the ceiling to praise god. He broke my heart.

Adam and I went to see Chitandilla at his home in Chisenga. He lives in a nice, big compound, proof he has done well in years past to support his family. We Odi’ed and were led into the sitting room. It is a large room with a hodge-podge of different sofas and chair. There is a chicken clucking and running around, stuck inside. On the chairs and sofa are the typical Malawian doilies. Adam and I sit on one couch, waiting for Chitandilla. We don’t want to disturb him, if he is sleeping, we tell his daughter and caregiver to let him sleep. We are in luck however, because he is not sleeping, he is just finishing eating. His daughter disappears to fetch him and tell him he has guests.

He was lead into the room by his middle-aged daughter. Hand in hand they shuffled slowly out of the dining room and into the hall. His daughter turned and disappeared back into the dining room to clean up quickly. Chitandilla, hunch over, shuffled slowly forward with his arms touch, flapping gently, seeking a familiar surface. First he found the doorframe and painstakingly turned. Then he felt around for the couch. Our translator reached out and placed Chitandilla’s hand on the couch. Chitandilla shuffled slowly around the couch. His daughter re-entered the room and came up behind Chitandilla. She sat down on the near end of the couch and reached out. She gave a gentle tug and shouted in local language that he should sit here, patting the couch next to here. Slowly, with coaxing, Chitandilla sank down to the couch. He was hardly able to hear; his daughter sat close and leaned in often to translate even local language. Chitandilla was used to understanding his daughter’s voice. He was also scarcely able to see, his eyes glossy with cataracts.

Adam’s family had visited him and brought a hearing aid. For a while, Chitandilla was able to hear. He heard his grandchildren and great-grandchildren’s voices for the first time. I wish I had been there to see it. However, seeing Chitandilla interact with Adam, I had some idea of what it was like. Flecks of nsima remained stuck to his lips, remnants of his lunchtime meal. He has a tear track from his right eye, down his cheek, to his jawline. Every so often his daughter leans over and much like you would a child, with quick, precise action, not harsh but firm wipes a new tear from his face with a scrap of old chitenge cloth.

He is a small man upon first glance. However, not long after meeting Chitandilla, you recognize the length of his arms is too great for his short stature. You notice that when he shuffles to and from the room that his back is bent at a ninety degree angle. He must have been a tall man in his youth. His hands are long fingered and weathered but powerful looking. The palms are so much lighter, tinted yellow than his deeply browned skin. When he speaks, it’s a trial. His voice is a raspy and wavering whisper. His daughter is used to it however and translates easily, head cocked to his face to catch his words better. More often than not, a raspy stutter or cough disrupts his attempted speech.

Chitandilla still has a full head of hair, half an inch long and pure white on the sides moving to grey on the top. After he sits down he covers his head with a knit orange beanie. His daughter gently scolds his and takes of the hat as we talk. But as we are chatting Chitandilla slowly puts his beanie back on, he knows what he wants. His ears are proof that ears never stop growing. He also speaks with his hands. I have to bite back tears when Chitandilla finally understands that his daughter is telling him Adam in here. He praised god, lifting up his arms. Then he twists to the side on the couch, arms reaching, his face jubilant. He is confident that his guest will come to him. Adam gets up and crosses the room. Chitabdilla’s hands are still up like an eager child. Adam touches his hand. But Chitindilla does not want a hand shake. He pulls Adam to himself in the warm embrace.  He has what is as close to a beaming smile as his half closed, sightless eyes, and weather worn face can show.

He held Adam tight, and rubbed his back in an enthusiastically jerky motion. When Adam finally was released, Chitandilla held his arm with both of his hands, his long fingers wrapped securely around Adam’s arm, refusing to relinquish touch. Adam did not mind, he sat down in the chair beside Chitandilla. As we began to chat again Adam held Chitandilla’s hands for a while. Chitandilla constantly moved his mouth; his teeth are large and protrude a bit, particularly on the bottom. They are only yellowing a little. His bottom front and left teeth are missing. He rasps out answers to questions as Adam records them with a miniature voice recorder. He tells us about how he won his wife, building the CCAP, having trips to Zambia, his favorite foods.

Chitandilla went to Zaambia and felt love at first site for the most beautiful woman. Without delay he went to her father and asked what he had to do to win her hand. The father wanted a display of strength and devotion. He demanded Chitandila build three maize collars for him. Without delay he cut down the trees, cut them and built three maize collars to prove to her father that he was worthy. He left Zambia with a wife and moved her to the very same complex in Chisenga he lives in now. He loved her most intensely.

Chitandilla is wearing a green fleece that used to be of a neon variation. It had a blue collar and cuffs paired with grey dress slacks. There is something earthy and natural about him and old age does not seem to have dimmed his spirit. He still laughs and talks. He loves sweets and his favorite food is curdled milk. Though he may move slow, assisted with a simple, smooth wooden cane, he knows what he wants. If fact, in the middle of our conversation he grew quiet. After a few attempts he managed to stand. The he slowly shuffled right out the door of the house. Nature called.

I fell in love with Chitandilla that day. He broke my heart and made me want to help him, care for him, appreciate him. He broke my heart yet filled it with a happiness that’s hard to explain. I wanted to give him things and care for him and yet I knew he would never be happier than he was here. Here he was surrounded by a family that loves him, by a church that is grateful to him; a comforting faith in god contents him, familiar surrounds and of course, curdled milk.

The year is 2012 and Chitandilla has turned 101. We can only hope to have accomplished half as much as him and retained such a high degree of spirit in our own lifetimes.