Crazy Zambian Woman

I had biked into the boma to run some errands, buy some bread and hop on the internet (If there was electricity available that day).Well there was no internet that day so I ended up at Yotham’s, my good Friend, and cracked open a Carlesberg  beer. He and I sat around watching brazillian soap operas in the empty bar.

Then she came in.

She was outspoken and clearly drunk.  Her black robe dress was torn down the right side, exposing her brazier and significantly lighter skin. She bought a beer and offered to buy me one. I shrugged and wasn’t about to turn down a free beer. She said she was a mother from Zambia she had married an Englishman and had white babies just like me. I was feeling a bit confused and overwhelmed but decided it was funny. The bar was empty save the three of us.

The Zambian woman brought me a Safari, a stronger, and I shall say it better Tanzanian beer. I prefer Safari’s to Carelsberg but Carlesberg is cheaper and on my stipend, you can’t be choosey. And I will clarify; it’s not all Carlesberg that’s not so great, it’s Carlesberg Green and then Special and works its way up to Elephant and so on. Price directly correlates with flavor with the Carlesberg!

 After the Zambian woman went outside to wander Yotham leaned in and told me that she had shown up earlier. She said she was here to confront relatives who had stolen her car. They beat her up and stole her money and clothes. The police were trying to investigate and while that was happening she was hanging out at Yothams. 

She came back in and perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, saying to me, “you need another beer? Get her another beer!” To Yotham. He is such an amiable and quiet fellow, that he has the perfect temperament to run a bar with all the crazy personalities that sweep in. However, let us just say he has a flip side that you do not want to cross, also perfect for owning and running a bar. Anyway, back to the story.

Needless to say this was the only the beginning. As the soap operas droned on I aimlessly watched people drift into the bar. I sat in a plastic chair and propped my feet on a bar stool. The day wore on slowly. Through it all, the Zambian woman stayed, ranting about getting beaten and about her ‘white’ family. She bought me beer after beer as her hair became more disheveled, a beer and lit cigarette perpetually in her hands. Her eyes were bloodshot and glazed. She repeated pulled up the torn sleeve of her dress in an absent motion. She begged Yotham to call a rest house and tell them she was booking a room. So he did, amiable and connected fellow that he is. Countless beers later the police walked in and questioned her again.

At this point the sun was setting and I had had my dose of strange interactions for the day. I gave Yotham a Big Squeeze and went out back to roll my bike out of his house. I biked home in a pleasant daze just before dark.

A few days later I returned to the boma and Yotham  told me the Zambian woman had left the rest house without paying saying Yotham would pay her room for her. Of course he didn't, he thought the rest house owners were ridiculous for not making her pay. Since no one ever wanted to see the flip side of Yotham, the rest house owner left it at that. Yotham shook his head, flipped a hand dismissively, smiled so his dimples showed and told me, “She was just some crazy Zambian lady.”