Counted: a conversation on Lake Malawi

He just got to me, my mom said, nodding her head gently, I don't know why. 

A lot of the people have that effect, I countered, bordering on snappily. 

But not like that, she offered, when he talked about losing his father, his strength, I don't know. 

What do you think, mom, we conduct focus groups with these people; all we do is talk about deep, personal things. I was defensive and insistent that our conversation with Black, the hotel employee who had taken us out on the speed boat to go snorkeling, wasn't as out of the ordinary as she was interpreting it to be. 

Sometimes we make remarks to try them on for size, listen to how they sound, see how they make us feel. We say things aloud to see if we can work with them; see if we can agree with them, even if we're not sure, when we let the thoughts fly, if they're even true. 

Because the truth --and I knew this as soon as the words left my mouth-- was that Black had gotten to me too. 

----

We were drinking hard cider and Black was drinking orange Fanta, the speed boat was anchored off a small island in Lake Malawi and we were sitting on its cream faux-leather built-in couches. We were eating vegetable samosas from a silver tin container. The samosas were warm, soft. Cooked and heated earlier in the day, but they tasted just right. 

Black was wearing an aqua and blue uniform shirt with a patterned Island print. We were in bathing suits and striped towels, having just reloaded the boat after a brief bout in the water. 

I don't recall how the conversation started but I'm sure it was in the usual way. We probably asked Black where he was from. Fast to the surface was that his village was nearby, on the lake. It was a fisherman's village, and he had lived there all his life.

Black had these eyes that focused on you but at the same time seemed to look farther. Especially when he steered the boat, he stared deeper into the distance than one would expect. He seemed to be seeing more. 

Black has two brothers and a sister and together they take care of their mother. Their father died when Black was ten and when his siblings were ten, give of take a few years. His father had been sick.  

(Black was one of many strong, young men who had spoken to my family and me about losing their fathers too young.)

Black has three children, 5 and 1/2 year old fraternal twins and a three year old as well. They're all healthy and were all born at the government hospital in Mangochi, a 2 hour walk from Black's village. The hospital is too far, he shared, completely unprovoked. 

(I had breathed a sigh of relief to hear about the twins- now over five and thriving. Twins are more likely than single gestations to be born before their due date, and most hospitals in Malawi frankly don't have the resources to care for premature babies. I've seen this firsthand.)

For minutes, Black spoke and we listened. I fell silent about my project here: our focus groups, our goal to understand barriers to hospital access. Black told us he used his vacation days to be at the hospital with his wife while she was in labor. He was so proud to tell us this. Even though the hospital is far it is where we must go for care. 

Black's home is a 45-minute walk from the hotel, where we stayed and where he worked. He does not have a bicycle but planned to buy one when he saves enough money, 40,000 kwacha, or 100 USD. Footing it for now is not a problem, he told us. He also had such pride in this job he had: he had started as a gardner and worked himself up in the ranks at the hotel, now he is responsible for the speed boat and a sail boat as well. Doing what he has to do to support his family. 

I'm not remembering this all verbatim (poetic license, they say). But it was a beautiful thing to listen to Black tell us about his family. The anecdotes about the hospital just go to show you (to show me) that this is a universal problem that surfaces without much prodding. We didn't feel rushed but were conscious about returning on the speed boat at a reasonable time, so that Black could begin his on-foot commute to his village, his children, his wife, and his mother. I'm probably not don't Black, his character, or this experience justice, but it was one of those days that touched my parents and me; one of those days we won't forget.