The Fire Next Tiime

By Fred Owens

God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time!

Eugene asked me what I wanted for my birthday, June 25. I said James Baldwin. I had read several of his novels when I was a kid and I thought it might be worthwhile to read them again. So Eugene sent me Collected Essays, which includes The Fire Next time. I read a few pages as a warm up to see if my serious reading brain still worked. I often read challenging works during the sixties when I was in college, but these days I often look for something easy and I'm afraid Baldwin is not too easy. But worth the effort.

Baldwin is rich. Here is one section from Down at the Cross, written about his coming of age when he became 14.

"Negroes in this country -- and Negroes do not, strictly or legally speaking, exist in any other -- are taught really to despise themselves from the moment their eyes open on the world. This world is white and they are black. White people hold the power, which means they are superior to blacks ...." 

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin, was published in 1963, about 50 pages, 2 essays. This is difficult for me to write because it is a serious book and I have never, in all my years writing, written a book review. So I'm going to ask people to work with me on this.

I asked Eugene to find a public domain photo of Baldwin that we could use to illustrate the essay. "Whatever looks good," I told him, figuring he would choose one of those deadly serious author poses so commonly placed on the back cover of a book. Instead he selected Baldwin smiling in sun glasses standing next to Marlon Brando. They were friends, it turns out. They even roomed together for a period. And Baldwin is showing a Hollywood smile with lots of teeth. Not that he had good teeth, because he didn't, but you know he had his moments when he knew he was as good as Marlon Brando. Viva Zapata was my favorite Brando film, followed by On the Waterfront. "I could have been somebody. I could have been a contender, instead of a bum, which is what I am."

I could have been somebody. I know exactly what that feels like. Brando I understand. Not James Baldwin.  I don't understand him. No, that's not right. Let me try and say it another way. Baldwin describes his life and his options as a young black man in Harlem. I know I don't understand it.  I got the book out on Monday and raced through the fifty pages in two days. It was intense. But I didn't get it, so I'm reading it again.

In 1963, that was the year of the big civil rights rally in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Baldwin was there, of course. Brando was there. That's when the photo was taken. It was a tragic time, August, 1963. Kennedy was assassinated in November. Malcolm X was assassinated in 1965. MLK in 1968. In 1963, when Baldwin's book was published, I was a senior in high school. I didn't have a clue. But I read his books, The Fire Next Time and Another Country and Giovanni's Room. That was a world I didn't live in.

Now I am reading a short story by James Baldwin titled Sonny's Blues. Sonny is the younger brother by seven years of the narrator. Sonny plays the drums and piano in various pick up groups at jazz clubs around Harlem, but doing heroin, which concerns the narrator who wants to help his younger brother find that thing that matters. I am on page 30 of the story which goes to 36 pages..... I don't think I have ever been to Harlem. I was at Columbia University for a Tikkun Conference in 1994 -- from the campus you can look down the hill to see Harlem, but I never went down the stairs.

I've never written about race, couldn't do it justice. We watched the 2016 documentary on the work and life of James Baldwin, titled I Am Not Your Negro. Baldwin has a very expressive face and an elaborate diction. Where am I taking this? I was in Africa for a year and married an African woman and we lived together for seven years. What did I learn? I must have learned something, just not much to write about now. I might do better writing about the time Jim Smith and I went fly fishing in Montana, right outside of Yellowstone Park, on the Madison River, full of hungry trout and easy to catch. Now I'm comfortable with that. But the Fire Next Time is not approachable. Well, Mark Twain could not write that story either. He would put Baldwin on a raft and call him Jim, but without the humor. Mark Twain would rip up draft after draft trying to write about Baldwin. He would curse a lot, puff on his cigar and give up. Norman Mailer would put Baldwin in a boxing ring fighting at the welterweight level and the result would be embarrassing. So if I screwed it up I would be in good company.

To be Continued .....

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Precious Comes to America

By Fred Owens

The photo shows Precious shivering in her winter coat but obviously enjoying her first glimpse of the daffodils in the Skagit Valley. This was in February, 1998.

"It's really cold in America and there are white people everywhere, you sure you want to go?"  I asked her and asked her again. "Yes," she replied with no elaboration and no declaration of goals about how America was a dream of Disneyland, wealth and freedom. For her, life in Zimbabwe was not only harsh, it was boring. To me life in Zimbabwe was exotic. To her it was like New Jersey. A question I never asked, because I didn't want to hear the answer was  -- did you marry me to get a visa?

We got her a visa, it took four months. At one point I had to call Ed Burke, the attorney, who lived in Framingham, Massachusetts. Ed had recently retired from a position as state senator in Massachusetts and began a private law practice. He was the widowed husband of a college classmate, that's how I knew him. I left him $5,000 on retainer before I went to Africa, figuring he might have to bail me out of jail or get me out of the hospital. He didn't ask for the retainer, but I thought paying him in advance like this would simply guarantee faster action and greater conviction. Because what if I did end up in jail or in hospital in Zimbabwe, who would get me out? Ed Burke.

This turned out not to be a problem, but we needed to jump through some immigration hoops to get her visa, so Ed took care of that.  A funny thing is that she needed a criminal background check among other documents. We had to drive four hours to Harare to get that document because the issuing agency had run out of stamps and could not mail it. This is Africa, waiting for stamps. But we did not want to wait for the stamps so we drove the four hours and there was Precious's criminal background report sitting on the bottom of a stack of un-mailed letters.

We collected the document and looked it over. "Precious, it seems you were arrested for assault a few years ago, how did that happen?" She immediately launched into an elaborate fabrication of events. The boldness of her dishonesty astonished me. There was a fight. Somebody hit somebody else. Somebody called the cops. Somebody -- that would be Precious -- got arrested, but it wasn't her fault. 

This situation did not disturb me. I knew her to be very feisty and strong. I had seen her look out for herself. Sometimes an African woman has to do that. And how much safer and easier would it be for her being a black woman in America?

We drove again to Harare for the interviews. Separate interviews were held at the American embassy to determine if our marriage was a matter of genuine affection and not some pay off for the visa. The embassy staff was charmed by our mutual appeal and gave us the thumbs up.

We got the visa in late February, 1998, and bought plane tickets to the Promised Land. Precious was never one to show excitement but we did get to the airport more than two hours early, her first time on a plane. We landed in Jo-burg for a four-hour layover. Precious did not fear flying but the escalator scared her to death so we took the elevator, which did not scare her. Whatever.

A long plane ride to NYC, a hop to Logan Airport in Boston for a short visit with my son. It was very cold and there were white people everywhere. Precious did not admit to being afraid but her face broke out in pimples, because she was afraid. But she was strong and there was no going back. We flew to Cleveland and visited my daughter at Oberlin College. Then we flew across the country to Seattle and took the bus to LaConner, just in time to see the daffodils blooming. It was very cold. She never complained. I think she liked it.

We bought a house. I made sure it was what she liked and I put her name on the deed alongside my name. We lived in that house for six years and then got a divorce. I guess you might say we ran out of things to talk about. I don't want to criticize her behavior or mine. It just didn't work out. And truthfully most people who knew us were not surprised. We didn't look like a couple, didn't fit in the grand plan. Except there is no grand plan.

For a long time afterward, I wished I had never gone to Africa and I wished I had never married Precious, but I got over that. I did get a good story. Precious lives in Pennsylvania now and works as a nursing aide. She returns to Zimbabwe every few years to see her family.

The End.

The Fire Next Time. Eugene asked me what I wanted for my birthday, June 25. I said James Baldwin. I had read several of his novels when I was a kid and I thought it might be fun to do it again. So Eugene sent me Baldwin's Collected Essays, which includes The Fire Next Time. I will read a few pages in coming days and let's see if it still works -- my reading brain. I often read challenging works during the sixties when I was in college, but these days I often look for something easy and I'm afraid Baldwin is not too easy. But worth the effort?

Baldwin is rich. Here is one section from Down at the Cross, written about his coming of age when he became 14.

"Negroes in this country -- and Negroes do not, strictly or legally speaking, exist in any other -- are taught really to despise themselves from the moment their eyes open on the world. This world is white and they are black. White people hold the power, which means they are superior to blacks ...."

The Election. ..... Current events can be overwhelming, but the news about Kamala Harris is uplifting...... Harris, quoting Biden, said "There is room for everybody." That is a hopeful mantra. The African story comes to a close this week. There are many more stories coming out of Africa, but who will write them? The entire text is about 35,000 words and could be worked up into a proper book manuscript. That is possible. But my energy, for the next few months, is getting Biden elected in November, so we are giving Africa a rest for now.

waiting for the bus

FROG HOSPITAL -- August 7, 2020

Waiting for the Bus

By Fred Owens

I have these moments when everything is just right and this was one of them. We were sitting by the side of the road waiting for the bus. It feels calm, I mean who knows if the bus will ever come or if it ever has come, that's not our problem. It's for us to wait. And she was being kind to me, as you can see in the photo. She gave me the shade, me being fair-haired from northern climates and not used to the hot African sun, while she was at home in it. So she gave me the shade.

Waiting for the Bus is what people do in Africa. You can buzz right through it as a tourist, or sign up for an NGO and do some decent development project like teaching children to read, or helping to re-build the well in the village that goes dry half the year. But you don't become Africa, you don't be Africa unless you're waiting for the bus. That's hope and no hope. I got to be Africa, waiting for the bus after many false starts. They could tell I was trying to get somewhere, until I finally realized I was already there. That's Africa, when you be Africa.  But by then my time was up. That's what I said at the beginning of this story. It doesn't matter if you love or hate Africa, or if you want to stay forever or leave tomorrow. You are given so much time and given by whom I cannot say but you are given so much time, and when that time is up, you better heed the signal because it's time for you to leave, and you should be mighty grateful that you got to stay here at all. I got to stay for a year and sometimes she gave me the shade.

We got back from Malawi in early November.........Mr. Mataka and his two daughters, Marji and Winnie, stayed behind to share  secrets with Amina, to tell old stories around her small cooking fire, and she laughing the whole time. But Precious and I headed back to Blantyre, the big city in Malawi and there I almost got killed by an angry mob. This man accosted us. He seemed to know Precious very well. He began to shout that I had stolen his wife and I must give her back. Quickly a crowd formed and the language became more heated. I was frightened. But Precious rose to the occasion and confronted this pig. She said to the pig, You do not own me. I am not your slave to order around, I go with this man now and we are married. You were a pig to me, but he is kind. So shut the fuck up and go back to your lemonade stand. You are bothering me. I will call the police and you will go to jail........ so she said to this man speaking in Chewa, which is the language of Malawi. She was very calm. The bystanders drifted away. Some old boyfriend I guess. 

This reminded me of how little I knew about her. She had two passports. One from Malawi said her name was Precious Mataka and that she was 25 years old. The other passport was from Zimbabwe and said her name was Precious Sibanda and that she was 32 years old. I did not believe either one. I figured I would never get to the bottom of the common African practice of multiple identities. She was who she said she was when she said it.

Well, I said, I guess you are.

The photo was taken right near Victoria Falls and we had come out to this road to view the world's largest baobab tree, called the Livingstone Tree, named after Scottish explorer David Livingstone. They never tore down his statue when they kicked out the colonial govt. in Zimbabwe. They tore out all the other statues of European heroes, but they left Livingstone standing because he did no harm.  He just wanted to find his way.

Who took the photo? It must have been my daughter Eva who came to see us that summer of 1997 in the few weeks before we got married. Eva stayed with us  before starting college in September. She took the photo. Then she got on the bus and saw her own adventures in the cold mountains of Chimanimani, which lie near the border with Mozambique. The guerilla partisans used to pass through there into Zimbabwe from their training camps in Mozambique but that war ended in 1980. Still it was wild, rugged country and I can't believe I let Eva go there all by herself having just turned 18.

How the Pandemic Defeated America  Defeated, yes, but it's not over. This matter of fact story in the Atlantic does not hide the truth but just lays it all out. I accept this judgment and say we can fix this if we first make a ruthless explanation of how it happened. Trump and the attitude that elected him is the biggest problem. But the whole notion of private health care and insurance by means of employment needs to be challenged. The last paragraph reads, "The pandemic has been both tragedy and teacher. Its very etymology offers a clue about what is at stake in the greatest challenges of the future, and what is needed to address them. Pandemic. Pan and demos. All people."

If You're Not Happy Today, That's Totally Normal. Barton Goldsmith explains this in Psychology Today. More than a thousand Americans are dying every day, plus many more thousands are dying around the globe. The human family is under great duress. So, to put it bluntly, these are not happy days. He writes, "Right now, I don’t think there’s any way to manufacture happiness when there is so much going wrong in our world..... your job is to survive—having a good time and feeling happy again will come later if you just do that."

Africa Knows How to Survive. Africa has survived every disaster since the beginning of the human race. Africa can say, better than anybody, that we're still here, we've always been here, and we always will be here. Africa is the place where herd immunity was invented. Individuals may die but the tribe lives on. This is something I neglected to mention in my quest to visit Chembe village and meet with Amina, the wise sister of Mataka, because this is where the human race originated. Somewhere around here, many thousands of years ago, a young creature stood up on her hind legs, looked around and realized that she was different from all the other creatures. She realized that she was a human being. And she began the process, taking many thousands of years, of finding out what it means to be human, a process that began somewhere near Chembe Village and continues to this day, to this pandemic. So tap into that life force and survive. And when it's time to be happy crack open some cold beers and smile,  because that's what they do in Africa.

In the Next Issue, Precious and Frederick Begin Their Migration to America. Leaving Africa, Coming to America. They got married September 1, 1997, the day after Princess Diana died. They made a honeymoon homecoming journey to Chembe, Precious's ancestral village. They came back to Bulawayo and began the visa process. Precious is about to take her first flight in an airplane.

See you next week,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

hey dude

FROG HOSPITAL  -- August 1, 2020

Hey Dude!

By Fred Owens

I don't know about that exclamation point in the title, but hey Dude, I'm the Dude, a slovenly white man who takes advantage of his dwindling privilege to go to the liquor store in his pajamas. He can get away with stuff like that. I was thinking of myself, reviewing crazy, stupid things I've gotten away with over the years. Like why didn't I get arrested, or scolded, or kicked out? Because I 'm smart and good-looking? So I thought. Actually it was just privilege.

Or this nice neighborhood where I live with Laurie in Santa Barbara near the beach. Having few funds amd fewer marketable skills, how did I get included here? Because I fit in. Because I feel comfortable and people don't wonder what I'm doing here. I belong here. That's privilege. Privilege doesn't explain everything. The term is currently being over-used. I'm using it now but I am usually at the tail end of these trends.

The leaders in language reform are way ahead of me. Like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, or AOC. She is a definer. She gives new meaning to current vocabulary. Her judgment is impeccable, in my view. I liked very much the way she handled Congressman Bloho. And you know he said it sideways, not to her face, but going away, close enough so she could hear it, but far enough away that he could deny saying it. Trump is the master of this sideways slur. What me? I didn't mean it.

Her speech in defense of good conduct was very good. Every word and every phrase held my attention. Not rehearsed, but prepared. The Congressman gave her the set up she was waiting for and she hit it out of the park. The wrong man said the wrong words to the wrong woman at the wrong time. And the world changed. You could feel it. I'll use that word again -- impeccable.

He used the b-word. The vocabulary of nasty pejoratives aimed at women is extensive. That's the low ball. Matched by an often phony high range -- the lady madonna phrases. Her purity of spirit! Her angelic beauty! Good grief.

What is missing is the mid range, the tone of equality. Men have neutral words like dude, buddy, fellow and guys. Some of these words could cross over and become gender-free. Gals doesn't work. Not Babes. Not Dolls. Woman is always right and it is the safe choice. Young man works better than young lady as a term of address. I use Sir or Ma'am a lot. You won't get in any trouble saying those words. All I'm saying is that I deserve to have a place on the committee. AOC can be the chairperson for new usage. I just want to have a say in it.  Race is also getting the overhaul, but I am not talking about that today. Like Thug, being ruled racist. I go along with this, but reluctanly.

I forgot Dame. Dame is  just right, informal but not pejorative. It was common usage back in the day. Let's bring it back. Like in a detective novel, this dame says to me.....

Batchelor cannot be salvaged. Spionster is much too sad. But we are stuck with Single, a word devoid of color. Are you single? I hate it. Let's come up with something better than Single. 

What's wrong with old? Like Old Man, that sounds okay to me. Old Lady  doesn't work however. See the problem? But in  any case old is good, in my view. I'm old. I was young once, then I got old. Does that bother you? Kiss my grits. 

Good Morning America.

Watching Good Morning America with George Stephenopoulis -- it's my favorite TV show. I made the effort to learn how to spell Stephenopoulis. This is a good way to start the day. The news, the weather, a bit of cooking, fashion, sports, adventure. Not too cheerful. They smile, but not too much. And the ads are good too, mostly local businesses in Santa Barbara -- arborists, garage door installers, carpet salesmen --- businesses I support.

Massive quarantined boredom is creeping across the land. I called my brother last night -- we had nothing to discuss. Folding laundry and stuff like that. We're going to need a pandemic pep rally, because people are down, with the serious matter of knowing this will last until Christmas easily, and knowing we might likely lose family and friends.

Cheerful news will happen. Biden will win. We will begin to smile again and have a little zest. Let's get through this.

That's all for this week. Remember, Precious and her family are still in Chembe Village in Malawi. They are communing with their ancestors, so let's give them some quiet. We will hear from them later.

Bye for now,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

FROG HOSPITAL  -- July 24, 2020

Amina Was the Younger Sister of Mataka

By Fred Owens

Amina was the younger sister of Mataka. She had lived her entire life in Chembe Village. She was the happiest person I have ever known and she had such pretty feet. I doubt she ever wore shoes. I would encounter her as she walked the 200 feet from her cook shack to the small mountain stream that provided water for the village. She pittered and pattered in light steps carrying a clay jug for the water. She would stop to set down the jug and talk to me. Her smile dazzled me and she told me many stories and gave me much courage in my endeavors and said she hoped we had come to Chembe to make it our home. She spoke to me in her language called Chewa, which I did not understand, not a word she said, except for the smile and the wonderful life-affirming energy.

But  she put her smile away for the camera when I took this photo. It was at a village wedding and hence I had permission to take photos and it was expected. We see Mataka on the left with his Muslim hat. We see Precious in her pretty dress which I had bought for her in Pretoria. We see Amina looking down, wearing her festive wrap skirt. And finally we see Lysson Rashid, a young man of the village, looking quite at ease.

Chembe was a quiet place. It was a Muslim village and hence had no dogs, no barking or growling at night. In the first light of dawn, the imam would sing the first call to prayer. To hear this prayer as it was intended, without electric amplifying, in a village without electricity was a haunting experience. The  melody is so peaceful. The mosque was a simple adobe-brick structure, and the imam carried his tattered scriptures under his arm. The women did not cover their heads as they would in more religious environs. Here it was simple Islam, as it should be, taken lightly.

Mataka and the two aunties bedded down in Amina's cook shack, warmed by the last coals of the cooking fire. Precious and I were given the more honored position, to sleep on a hard, dirt floor in one room across  from the mosque and the chief's house.

Chembe was the chief. It was his village, He was most at ease, treating me as an honored guest and quite his equal. Although I was more than a guest, being married to Precious, I had pledged my life to the village and Chembe, the chief, might show me a plot of land where I might build my home, if I chose to do that. But an equal to Chembe in the sense that he admired me but did not envy me. I had my college education and world travels, he had two wives. He quietly brought out and served a bottle of rum. Of course there is no open consumption of alcohol in a Moslem village, but a quiet drink now and then never hurt anybody. So Chembe and I talked into the evening, seated on chairs, what I suspected were the only two chairs in the village. Hard-wooden chairs. I got tired of that and we went to bed early, to sleep on the hard earthen floor of the hut. I could begin to see that I was not built for long-term occupation of such environs, to live without modern facilities entirely, to grow your own food entirely or not eat. And do this by hand for there were no tractors or other machines. No, not for me.

We stayed one week. Any longer and they would have put us to work. As it was, we had brought many pounds of groceries with us to spread around as guests. And they killed a goat for us. Goat meat has never done much for me, but I appreciated the gesture.

Fathers and Sons. My father published a  fishing magazine and he was moved to get one of his two sons involved in the business and to eventually take it over. I can understand that desire. I feel a special thrill knowing that my son Eugene is helping me out. My Dad was quite disappointed that neither my brother nor I want to get involved in his business. We simply had other interests. The funny thing is that my Dad never thought to ask one of my three sisters if they wanted to take over. His bad.

Back in Zimbabwe. One reader's  request to input stuff about the culture and politics of Zimbabwe is reasonable. But that is not what I can do.. I stick with what I actually saw and heard plus my immediate reaction to that. But I can make a short exploration of that topic. I noticed the utter lack of political talk when I was there in 1997. Robert Mugabe was the unchallenged president for life at that point, and people kept their mouths shut about his rule. You were free to come and go and go about your business. But to wear a political slogan on a t-shirt was ill-advised. Better to talk about the football game or the weather. Mugabe's rule was authoritarian and that was understood. And still is today, even though Mugabe himself is gone.

Back ground. Zimbabwe used to be Rhodesia. From Wikipedia. Cecil Rhodes invaded the Shona kingdom with his private army, took over all the territory, and founded a colony named after himself. Rhodesia, which became Zimbabwe. When I lived in Bulawayo I often visited Rhodes's unmarked grave, high on a granite outcropping in Matopos Park. They tore down all his statues, but it was too much trouble to dig up his grave.

Cecil John Rhodes PC (5 July 1853 – 26 March 1902) was a British mining magnate, and politician in southern Africa who served as Prime Minister of the Cape Colony from 1890 to 1896. An ardent believer in British imperialism, Rhodes and his British South Africa Company founded the southern African territory of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe and Zambia), which the company named after him in 1895. South Africa's Rhodes University is also named after him. Rhodes set up the provisions of the Rhodes Scholarship, which is funded by his estate.

One of Rhodes's primary motivations in politics and business was his professed belief that the Anglo-Saxon race was, to quote a letter of 1877, "the first race in the world". Under the reasoning that "the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race", he advocated vigorous settler colonialism and ultimately a reformation of the British Empire so that each component would be self-governing and represented in a single parliament in London.

There you have it, baldly stated. The English folks who settled in what is now Zimbabwe, believed they were doing the local people a big favor by demonstrating the superiority of their own way of life, what was called Commerce and Christianity. 

Back in the USA. As I said on Facebook this morning, the pandemic and quarantine is getting to be a solid drag, like it will never end. We are in the endurance phase, being tempted to cut corners and ignore basic commands. But we must not slack off. It will end, some day.

Please make a contribution to PayPal, your donation of $5 or $50 will be greatly appreciated. Otherwise we are especially glad to hear from readers. We need the feedback. Your comments can lift our spirit and help us do better. Please write to us and say what you think.

Back to Chembe Village. This week's issue is long enough. We will be back next week with more photos from Chembe Village, and more stories from Amina,  the wise woman.

grace's music

FROG HOSPITAL -- July 15, 2020

Grace's Music

By Fred Owens

Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. Grace Sibanda is the cousin of Precious Mataka. She lives in Bulawayo in a modest neighborhood named Nketa Nine. In 1997, when we lived in Bulawayo, we often took the 20-minute walk to Grace's house. Smiley Sibanda was her father. Smiley was uncle to Precious. To me, he was "baba-zala" or uncle by marriage. I liked him. We had many reasonable discussions while drinking tea in his cozy living room. I once helped Smiley plant a fig tree and an orange tree in his yard, Grace tells me the trees are still living and producing great amounts of fruit 23 years later. I asked Grace to describe her taste in music. People younger than me will recognize many of the names. 

Grace's Music. I love reggae, Rnb, a bit of south african hip hop, and gospel music. My all time favourite artists are luther vandross, joe thomas, westlife, ron kenoly, adele, brandy, mariah carey, christopher martin, ub40, bob marley, lucky dube, the gentleman, hillsongs, don moen, don mcclurkin, kirk franklin, black diamond. Local musicians of my country are legendary... Oliver mtukudzi, JAH prayzer, ammara brown.

Rugby. Watching a 2017 Rugby match between New Zealand and South Africa. Rugby is like playing football without any rules and no helmets. It is very popular in South Africa. Cricket is also important.  I watched a cricket match once. It is a very silly game I thought. It has that British silly quality that this mother nation spread to all her colonies. The British also built good roads and train tracks. But it became time  for them to move on, so the people took over the governance of Zimbabwe in 1980. They are not doing too well at independence in my opinion. But, being independent, they never asked for my opinion. Good on that. I only write about what I see, and very little about what it should be.

God Bless Africa. God Bless Africa is the South  African National Anthem. Nkosi sikelele Africa goes the lyrics. Such a lovely stirring song.

Back in the USA. The African story, as told in Frog Hospital, was interrupted last month by personal business. That is, I had back surgery on June 15 to relieve the chronic pain of sciatica, followed by three weeks of intense physical therapy.  This procedure worked. I am now pain free although the surgeon carefully advised me that nothing lasts forever.

Three weeks in rehabilitation at the hospital. No visitors. No wandering the hall, no communal dining. I was isolated except for the nursing aides who quickly became my new bosom companions. We talked in Spanish. I called Laurie on the phone and several times she came to the window of my room and we talked across this barrier. It was hard at times. I read a lot of books. I watched Good Morning America for national news. The aides made wonderful friends but the food was terrible. How could you ruin macaroni salad?

All this put Africa way in the background, but one or several determined readers reminded me that

I had not yet finished the story and they were patiently waiting for the next installment. That is why we have my picture this week with my lush Covid hair and beard. Next week the photo will be of African life.

I also remind everybody that this story serves as a pleasant diversion from the current double disaster of Pandemic and Trump.

So without further ado, let us return to Zimbobwe where a warm September evening at our rented house might find us lounging on the couch while watching re-runs of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It is 1997.  The newly weds are getting ready to go to Malawi.

"We can bring Mataka. He is the grandfather of all to us, and Chembe village in Malawi is where he was born," I told this to Precious."We can buy a train ticket for first-class treatment. We will have our own suite for the journey. Mataka will like that, to have his own bed." Precious agreed, but she added, "What about Aunt Marji and Aunt Winnie?"

"Marji and Winnie can come. I will buy them a second-class ticket. They can sleep in their seats. They are used to that." I said.

to be continued

my name is grace sibanda

FROG HOSPITAL -- June 12, 2020 FRED OWENS, Editor This week, brought back by popular demand, we can read the rich and meaningful story of Grace Sibanda, written in her own words. She is the cousin of Precious Mataka, and the grandchild of Mr. Mataka. She works in the hotel industry in Bulawayo, her home. She has a husband and two children. But I'll get out of the way now  and let her tell her story ........ Photo credit: Fred Owens. I took this photo in 1997 when Grace was seven. She is on the front porch of her grandfather's house in Luveve. my name is grace sibanda By Grace Sibanda My name is grace sibanda, I was born 15 may 1990, my parents are simile dick smiley sibanda and cathrine phiri. I stay in nketa 9, bulawayo in Zimbabwe. In my family I am the only girl. I did my primary education at mgiqika primary school, my high school at Maranatha adventist high school which was a private institute. I obtained 8units at primary and at secondary I passed 5 subjects. Tertiary I did my certificate of hotel and catering at metro institute and diploma I did at speciss college where I got 5distinctions in all my subjects. My dad pushed me to where I am today through his encouragement, he always told me that he was not learned but he wants us to excel and be successful busines people. I love my job fred, I got my diploma in hotel and catering in 2015, lv meeting new people even though it keeps me on my toes all the time. Am renting nearby my parents place, but we building our dream home at silobela where my husband comes from. Life was hard for my family during my high school days, the economy in my country had inflated to the highest level, my dad's salary was now peanuts, we could barely make ends meet, at that time they were earning trillion bearer cheques which were useless. What used to happen in those days you would go to the bank and collect your salary but after collecting you find prices have gone up and that money will be useless to buy anything. Prices would go up 3times in a day it totally insanity. But my dad and mum would take loans and pay my fees which were very high since it was a private school. In the morning before school I would eat left over pap and cow heels /vegetables from our previous supper and go to school because I had no lunch money. I would not bother asking my dad because I knew he was also struggling even at work too. Life was so hard my mum had to resort to baking and selling scones, doughnuts and plain buns to help the family. I loved my grandfather, I adored him, he used to call me nkosikazi wami meaning my wife. Whenever I would visit him he would put me in his lap and tell me he has been busy the whole week planting sweet potatoes and that soon when I visit him he will give me some, and he loved 2 come 2 my home. Whenever he would come my mum would cook him his favourite meal which was chicken and pap and before he would go he would have a cup of tea accompanied with scones, kkk and my dad will give him some money, he would be so grateful to them both, and he would use his chewa language to bless them. He loved his home language chewa but I only learned 2 use the 2words 2greet only which were murimbwanji meaning hello and murimbwino meaning how are you. He came from Malawi but that time before he passed away I was young so he never spoke 2 me about it. He loved his family alot and he used to perfom his home rituals whereby he would invite all his kids and their family and perfom sadaka(its traditional appeasement to the ancestors). My aunties would make traditional beer which would be brewed for 7days before being served on that, and they would slaughter a goat and cook the blood of that goat without salt and braai the meat, they slaughter chickens too, and cook them. These would be served with white rice only. Then before people feast my grandfather will go in centre and kneel and talk to his ancestors asking for blessings and guidance on how to guard his family, he would then pour some of the traditional beer on the ground, and the feast will start, it was a joyous celebration all the families together in his home. Donate. Please make a donation into the PayPal ikon at the end of the newsletter. All donations this week will be given to Grace. We hope Grace will write for us again. Her writing style is so personal that you feel she is somebody you already know. That's it for this week. We wanted to give the whole show to Grace, so I will display my own pearls in the next edition. I am having back surgery in a few days -- Monday. Recovery from that procedure means that another issue next Friday is unlikely  -- unless Eugene wants to do it. Eugene will be in charge. He has been a great help to me with this changes we have introduced, such as photos and a semi-firm weekly schedule. Not forgetting the further adventures of Precious and Frederick and their fabulous adventure to Malawi, to Chembe village where Precious's ancestors are buried. Every urban African has a home village and Chembe is her true home, for her first visit, with a brand new rich, white husband in tow. She will make quite a splash. People of Chembe speak Chewa, which goes Mulibwanji --- or hello. Mulibwini  -- how are you? I am taking my kasu -- hoe-- to the mindu --field and I will cultivate the cassava crop which is nearly ripe. Please contribute to the fund in PayPal and we can make a nice cash gift to Grace Sibanda. I will ask her to keep writing for us. Perhaps she can share her hopes and dreams  --- for herself, for her husband and children, for Zimbabwe, and for all Africa. Grace, is there hope for a better world? She can answer that question, or write about something else if she chooses. All my best to you and yours, Fred

Part Two, Domestic Tranquility

FROG HOSPITAL -- June 5, 2020

Part Two, Domestic Tranquility

By Fred Owens

This is the beginning of Part Two of the African Story. Part Two will describe the incredible journey to Malawi, going way back into the mountains, to the little village of Chembe, where Mataka's ancestors are buried and where he grew up. Precious and I took him there, but also we took Aunt Marji and Aunt Winnie, to make a jolly family expedition back to the roots. I myself, being fully and legally married into this family, was welcomed to Chembe village as a long-lost relative come home.

But let's go back to the wedding on September 1, 1997, when Precious and Frederick became united. Very quickly after the wedding, an atmosphere of deep domestic tranquility descended on our rented home at 21 Shottery Crescent. We simply enjoyed ourselves. Our spirit is displayed in this wonderful back yard photo, showing Precious and me in a standoff. This pose tells the entire history of man versus woman. She is in her bathrobe with her hair done up and wearing a pair of blue slippers --- my slippers, in fact, feeling free to borrow them. She has her arms crossed. He has his hands in his pockets. Nobody is giving an inch. These are very stubborn people. Yet it seems playful, and it was. So our life unfolded in our rented castle, as we planned the honeymoon homecoming journey to Malawi.

Editorial

I told you last week that we would interrupt the narrative with other things, like an opinion. I try to keep opinions out of the story and to just let things unfold. But this interlude is a good place for such argument.

I have not studied the problem in an academic sense, but I did live in Africa for a year and did marry and live with an African woman for 7 years, and I might have learned something. So here's my opinion on the whole situation. African men live like kings, they get waited on hand and foot and so they have no incentive to improve their circumstances, why give up such a good thing? At Mataka's house the ladies sat outside the kitchen door on woven mats on the ground. The men sat in chairs on the front porch. I never saw a man sit on the ground on a mat. I never saw a woman get preferred seating on the front porch.

The men aren't going to upset the mango cart. They drink their beer and let the women do all the work.
The best way to change that is to make sure that the young girls get good schooling. If they get those learning tools from good instruction then they can turn the entire continent upside down and make it a better place.
The men would have a little less leisure time, they might even have to fetch their own beer, but you know, c'mon guys, it won't kill you.

How A Daughter Loves Her Father
Grace Sibanda, a cousin to Precious, wrote this memory of her father, Smiley Sibanda. Smiley was uncle to Precious and we often visited his nice home in the Nketa Nine neighborhood. Grace writes in the local dialect of African English. I found it easy to understand and had no desire to correct her choice of spelling and grammar. I found her writing to be powerful and heartfelt. Grace is a young woman who lost her father and she expressed her admiration for Smiley and the grief she has endured since his passing.

Smiley dick sibanda, 3born of patrick mataka. My dad was a down 2 earth father, he was a go 2 guy, most reliable, trustworthy and a wonderful counselor .Smiley worked at the Kango factory as the machine operator. He started work there at an early age of 18. He worked there till the time of his passing. Smiley was married 2 Catherine Phiri (my mum) who is a Zambian. Together they had a small family, Grace and Duncan. My dad had no car but he had a bike which by that time was the best mode of transport given 2 workers by their employers. He would go to work and knock off 4pm, get home freshen up and go to tavern to have a beer or two with his friends. He never liked the traditional beer but he enjoyed his Castle, and he smoked Kingsgate cigarettes.

After whiling time with his friends he would come home watch tv and spend time with us, and he never missed supper with us. His favourite meal was pap and cow heels, cow insides and vegetables.On weekends he used spend most of the time with the societies he had formed, several clubs and burial societies. He was the secretary and in some he was the treasury, and when his favourite team played he would go and watch his team play. His favourite club was highlanders club. In his family he was one man they relied on be it wedding, funeral, parties his input was essential, a very smart man he was, and clean, he loved his formal suits, weekends he wore jeans and t-shirts.

My dad was a loving man who showed me so much in life, he valued education and he always strived for us to have the best in terms of education and life. I was daddy's girl. Smiley never got sick he just complained of feeling cold. We went to the hospital they took some test and gave him some pain stoppers. We went back home and there was no change. On the second day he passed away. I spoke with him on that day. I left the room and after he spoke to my mum, then he passed away peaceful. Smiley had a good fight in life. He might have passed on when we still wanted him but he had an amazing life which he enjoyed.

(Then I asked Grace if she remembered my visits to her home in 1997)

Yes I always loved to see you, back in the days seeing a white man close to blacks was a rare experience, and I know my parents loved to host you. Remember the two trees you planted in our home, mulberry and figs, they still standing and my mum has memories, wonderful memories.

So that is how a daughter loves her father, as Grace loved Smiley. She can tell more stories  about her life in Zimbabwe -- her husband, her children, her mother, her work, her happiness and her sorrows. Write back to us and tell us if you liked her story and we will pass this on to her.

I would like it if Grace told us more of her story.

-

She Wore A Red Dress

By Fred Owens

After the wedding ceremony before the Justice of the Peace, we drove back to 21 Shottery Crescent in the same order, Mr. Jones driving, me in the front seat, Mataka, Precious and Tanti in the back seat. It was a pretty car, but small. Precious's bridal finery took up all the room. It was a somber group driving back, as if we had done something important, something good, and something that could not be so easily undone,  as if the continents themselves were bound together by magical strands, so we were part of that larger binding.

Or maybe we were just getting thirsty and it was time for a cold beer back at the house. Precious looked calm and victorious. Mr. Mataka was unusually quiet and somber. Tanti was smiling, like she always did. "These dress pumps I am wearing are starting to hurt my feet," she said and laughed. Precious said, but in Ndbele so I wouldn't understand, "I have to pee so bad I think I will scream." I heard her say that in Ndebele which I scarcely understood and made a mental note to find somebody, maybe one of her younger cousins, who might teach me that language. Frankly, Precious enjoyed speaking Ndebele in my presence as if I might not go there, wherever she was going. Her English was poor, along the order of "I want to watch TV," and "Are you hungry?" We had a mutual working vocabulary of less than 100 words, which kept us out of subtle verbal traps.

We got to the house and the fifty cousins gave out a cheer and Precious smiled broadly, such good teeth in her smile I had noticed many times. That was the life span of our marriage, those seven years, when she finally got tired of me looking at her. But she was so beautiful, what could I do? She married a mouth breather. I was always that way, still am.

We ate the cake, amid much cheering and shouting and the music got louder. Precious retired to our bedroom to get out of her bridal veils and into her new red dress, bought for the occasion and quite comfortable. Now it was done and we could get ready to eat the roast goat, which Joseph had been tending with slow-roasting affection in the back yard, under the guava tree.

The roasted goat was placed on the kitchen table and was quickly sliced and served. The beer flowed. Beer was invented in Africa some thousands of years ago. It is the home beverage. First the grain crops were developed, then, by divine miracle, the grain transubstantiated into beer. They should build a statue to the first African man who got drunk. We had a bottle of champagne but no takers. Wine, whiskey were offered but no, just beer and lots of it. And sadza, or pap, the heavy cornmeal porridge cooked to the stiffness of mashed potatoes. For flavor, add salt. People say that Zimbabwe once had an elaborate cuisine, but a century of British rule ruined it. The British built highways, railroads, and bridges, but British cooking destroyed the local palate. Still the many cousins were happy.

Mr. T and Smiley sat together on the upholstered love seat, not by choice. But they were brothers and Mr. T was the oldest and it was his daughter that was married. Smiley's daughter Grace was only eight and not yet ready.

But Smiley and Mr. T were in conference over the bride-price. Mr. T was short of breath and sweating, over-excited, it seems the money was not forthcoming. Smiley soothed him saying, "But he's white and we can't make him pay." Mr. T threatened to capture Precious and take her home because the deal was off. "I will keep her. She can find another man. This white man is nothing. I have seen this before." The cousins, rejoicing, established a cone of silence in Mr. T's perimeter. They could feel his volcanic eruption about to burst and end the party.

The newly weds huddled in the kitchen. "I'm getting bored," Precious said. "We are married now, so they should all leave."

"But you know they will leave when the last bottle is empty and the sadza is all eaten. Then Mr. T. can pile them all into the bed of his old green truck and take them back to Luveve. After they leave, we shall retire to the bedroom and drink the champagne. We are Mr. and Mrs. Owens now and forever," I said.

The next morning we got up and the house was a mess. Nobody cleaned up, but at least they all left. We were happy together. We began a period of domestic tranquility over the next six weeks. Nobody bothered us. We talked about going to Milawi for our honeymoon. To Chembe village, which was the ancestral home of the Matakas. It was Precious's true home and we must go there and talk with Amina.

"Who is Amina?" I asked her many times,  because each time I asked she gave another answer. "Amina is the sister of Mataka. She has lived in Chembe village her whole life. She has never worn shoes. She has never sat in a chair."

The story makes a natural break right here. Precious and Frederick settle down for a few weeks of domestic tranquility. Meanwhile the folks at Frog Hospital headquarters -- Eugene and me -- are working on some changes to the format and content. Nothing too radical and we will be making mistakes as we experiment. So stick around and as we make changes be sure to send us an email saying if you like it or not,

I Do, I Do, I Do

I Do, I Do, I Do

By Fred Owens

Something about her quiet determination got my attention. That morning of the wedding day, we got up and made tea as always. Precious talked about her mother Matilda who had passed away at an early age. Matilda had flown away from the brutality of her husband, Mr. T, going back to her Tonga village and family alongside the Zambezi River, in the hot country. The Tonga were a small traditional tribe and very poor. Precious had only one small wallet-size photo of her mother, as if Matilda had traveled through her tragic life and left no trace, only the photo. Even so Matilda's  mournful face moved me. Even today I can see her face and hear her voice although I never met her. She had the soul of every African woman. Precious shared that soul and today she would redeem it. Today was for Matilda, although per her normal custom, Precious did not say those words, having just a wan smile and telling a story about how Matilda went to the market every day to sell tomatoes. "My mother was very kind to me," she said. "Her life was too hard and she died, but I think about her every day. She sold her tomatoes every day and bought me  candy when I was a small girl. I can never forget."

Someone was rattling the chain at the gate of our rented house on 21 Shottery Crescent. Cousin Tanti, the Maid of Honor, had come by herself, without any of her seven children, to do Precious's hair. "It's Tanti," Precious said, "Go let her in." "What are you going to do with your hair?" I asked smiling. She said, "You go and leave this bedroom. You will not see me now. Go over the fence and help Mr. Dlhwayu with his broken motors."

Fair enough. I took my suit and shirt and shoes to the other bedroom and went for a shower. I had a fresh haircut from the white barber in downtown. This may seem obvious once it has been pointed out, but black people and white people don't go to the same place for their hair. Eat the same food, go to the same school, play hopscotch by the same rules, but hair is the difference. My white barber was gay, he seemed to enjoy brushing up against my leg. He complained to me, a perfect stranger, about being harassed about his collection of pornography. "It's my business if I want to look at art photos. You have to be so careful in Bulawayo. The natives -- and I don't mean just the black people -- are very conservative."

"I hear you, and you better be careful who you trust," I said, looking around the room, seeing only white men reading magazines -- old Rhodesians, the remnants of a banished tribe. I was not and never could be a member of their club. A white man could sleep with a black woman anytime, but quietly, or talked about in code words. You couldn't marry one, in the open like I was about to do. But it never came up in the conversation, because we never talked. I just knew it was a waste of time. The old Rhodesians were famous for being close-mouthed to strangers. But I got a good haircut. I did want to share my story with the gay barber because he had his own persecution to face, but I did not have the chance to tell him that the haircut was in honor of my wedding in a few days. I said nothing, but gave him a very large tip, which was typical of Americans in Africa. We were loud, we banged into furniture, and we left vary large tips. I thought Zimbabwe could use a few hundred American immigrants  --- things I might have said to the old Rhodesians if they had given me the slightest welcome. It didn't matter.

My shoes were shined in the spare bedroom. My suit and shirt were fresh from the store. I even bought a red tie. "Who is bringing the goat?" I shouted through the closed bedroom door. "That man is bringing it," she said. "What man?" I asked. "That man who brought us together, Joseph from the Palace Hotel. You don't remember?" she said. "How could I forget Joseph? He changed my life. He made me a prince among men because he brought you into my life ..... but will Joseph bring the firewood for cooking the goat because we don't have any?" "Don't concern yourself with that," she said with irritation. "Go back to Dlhwayu and help him fix his car."

Well, I didn't have anything to do and it was too early to drink beer. Stand around and wait. That's what grooms do. I was finished thinking about it. I could have grabbed my passport and credit card and fled out the back door, and gone out to the airport and caught the next jet going to Johannesburg and then back to America. I could still escape. She would never find me......Nah.... Nah.... I'm staying. I'm doing this. It's like Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral. I'm going to face those demons and start shooting. Maybe die. 

All right, I won't die today but why does a wedding feel like death? The death of a dream? The ruination of fantasy? And where the hell is Mr. Jones? I was expecting Colonel Clifford Jones, retired, Zimbabwe National Guard and my Best Man, to show up with the rental car. Precious was not going downtown in her gown all smashed into my pretty white Nissan diesel truck. We had to pay for a new car rental.

Three cigarettes later -- I must have been nervous -- Jones drove up in a shiny new rental Honda. He parked it in the driveway and walked over to my vigil spot, my pacing chamber under the pepper tree. He formed a languid figure in his sport coat and tie, sort of a charcoal grey-brown light wool jacket, suitable for hunting foxes. Jones could have hunted foxes, if he had wanted to, he gave that impression, a mixed race warrior and he had nothing to prove. "It's your big day, kid," he said. "Kid? No one calls me kid. You can call me Freddy if you want," I told him. I had scouted out this pepper tree in our front yard a hundred times. With the result of deep research I chose just the right Wedding Day tree limb to lean against while I awaited the bride. If you know anything about trees, you can't just lean against any branch. Men do this the world over. In 1972 in Manhattan in the Lower East Side, at 3 a.m. in the morning, outside a smoky tavern, on a hot and humid August night, I chose the rear fender of an old green Chevy to lean against. I was really cool and then I realized that the guys gathered towards the front of the same car, breathing the same air as me, smoking the same smoke as me, were beatnik poet Allen Ginsberg and his coterie. That's when I realized how cool I really was. Leaning on the same car with those guys. So don't tell me a pepper tree in my front yard in Bulawayo was any different. I chose my leaning limb and struck a pose. And Mr. Jones, without even trying, chose a leaning limb just as cool as mine. That's why I picked him to be Best Man. Let Precious and Tanti do their magic in the bedroom. We had the car ready and we waited, and it was going to take a long time.

 

You still going through with this?" Jones said. He looked up and down the road and gave me a chance to reflect.

"I don't need to think about it anymore. I thought of just running to the airport and catching a plane, but I'm staying," I said.

"Well, I got the car and I'm your man. You want to fly, let's fly. Cause they're in there right now planning to take over your life."

"You're against marriage but I'm not. My Mom and Dad had a happy life together. I want that same thing. I always thought I'd be married. I never soured on it. I never blamed myself when it went south. I like being married because it focuses the mind. Precious is who I'm going to deal with, just her."

"Is it too early for a beer?"

Guests were  floating in. The uncles Ronnie and Milton, both bachelors. Milton was gay. He went to Jo-burg for work and ran with the wrong crowd and got shot and killed a few years later. That kind of thing happens in Joburg. Ronnie came with the usual sad story. Smiley came with his wife and daughter. Maphuto, Patrick, Francis and Christopher were bachelor cousins. Mr. and Mrs. Ndlovu. All kinds of lady cousins all dolled up. I didn't know their names. The house filled up and the crowd spilled over to the yard under the shade of the pepper tree. But people were still quiet and the music was soft, waiting for the bride. Mr. Mataka and Mr. T came in Mr.T's old green truck, or maybe he just borrowed it. Aunt Marji rode in the back with various younger children, Prince, Johnny and Juliano. The Dlhwayus walked over from next door. Bill and Mary Collier, the nasty white people down the street, were invited, but we knew they wouldn't come. Clyde, the cashier at Solomon's fancy grocery store, came with his girl friend. The goat was already roasting. Someone in the back was fixing another fire to boil a big pot of sadza, that heavy cornmeal mush that Zimbabweans never get tired of.

I was glad to see Mataka and not glad so see his oldest son Peter Lovemore, the one we called Mr. T. Coming for the bride-price. I'm thinking ten cows at $500 each. The cows to be delivered one year at a time, or the cash instead, and people nowadays usually took the cash, which made it a lot less interesting.

Less the cost of the wedding, which I was paying for. Less a discount for her advanced age, almost 35. Less a discount for already having children, but that was a plus too because it proved she could -- have children.

I was just not too interested in this discussion. Mr. T would have to wait. I had this advantage because I was not of his culture. He could not  make me pay, or shame me or embarrass me. Besides I was already paying for this and that. I paid for school fees and over due water bills and groceries. I was prepared and willing to keep making small payments on a sustainable scale. And not because I owed the bride-price, but because I came  from America. For some reason, Americans have a lot more money than Africans. So why not be generous?  Later on, years later, Mr. T. got a large chunk of my money, but that was too his ruin. I will tell that part at the end of this story.

Precious emerged in slow procession from the house, coming out the front door, with Tanti holding her train up from the red dust of Africa. She gave a confident laugh at the crowd of relatives,  a laugh that said you thought I couldn't do this, but I can do this and today is my day.. The crowd of relatives parted like waves on the Red Sea. She was beautiful and regal.  She looked at me but did not wave, walking slowly to the driveway and the waiting car. Mr. Jones took his position and kept the door open. Precious eased herself into the back seat followed by Tanti. Mr. Mataka came in the other side. I rode up front while Mr. Jones drove downtown to the travel agency.

We climbed the stairs to the judicial chambers. The agent seated Precious and me at an elegant table where we signed papers applying for a civil marriage. We all stood up and the agent, now acting as Justice of the Peace, read the vows and we repeated after him, that we promised to love one another, cherish and care for one another until death do us part. I thee wed and you may kiss the bride. It was very simple and not overly solemn. It was a good day. Africa and America were united in marriage. We would float down the river of chance and die or not die, but together, and we were bound to each other and what was hers, from the pyramids to Capetown, was now mine, and what was mine, from Virginia to San Francisco, was now hers. And her family joined my family, from the lowest earth to the highest stars above. It was a good day. Outside, maybe ninety degrees and clear skies. Not too hot. We rode in silence back to our rented house at 21 Shottery Crescent, now married, and what would my parents think of this? Surprisingly my father, who died in 1974 and harbored racist views that would never change, told me, in my dreams, that he had a change of heart since he died and went to heaven. "I like that Precious girl. I think she will be good for you."  But my mother, who died in 1996, had her doubts. "Don't say I'm prejudiced, but she has no education," mom said. "How can she make a living except to be a housekeeper?"

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Precious and Frederick Get Married

Precious and Frederick Get Married

By Fred Owens

We decided on Saturday, September 1, 1997 as the date. That was our plan, but it was not in our plan for Princess Dianna to die in a car crash the day before. This tragic news rocketed through Africa, for Dianna was a beloved figure. Many a humble home had her framed photo on the wall in an honored spot, next to a photo of Reggae star Bob Marley. People were devastated about this unexpected death. And it would have been selfish for the bridal couple to exclaim "What about our coming joy tomorrow?" Spirits were dampened but we took it as no bad omen, for each day has its own story and our story would be told on September 1.

The owl was a different matter. We heard it softly cooing in the pepper tree in the front yard on the evening of the big day. "Look, Precious, an owl in our tree, how wonderful, what a good sign!" She looked at me with astonishment. Speechless with fear. "They are witches. They are bad luck. We must chase the owl away." But I refused to just switch sides on this matter. Immediately I saw the problem -- where we see owls as symbol of power and wisdom, Africans see them as dangerous bad luck, bewitched and devilish. I quickly suggested an agreement. "I think owls are a good sign for our marriage and you see them as trouble. Let's agree with both. We'll have wisdom and we'll have trouble too." I was pleased with myself for this solution, but I could see that Precious was already bored with the idea, just too much witchcraft in her life anyway, bad spirits. My view indicated that we had a choice, to welcome the owl or not. Her view was fatal. There is no choice, the owl is here and it is bad.

Do you think we could have talked this over? Do you think we talked over anything? The fifty cousins would descend on our house tomorrow, all happy and ready to party. I had nobody but myself, if you could picture the groom's side of the aisle. Just Mr. Jones, standing for me. And we had Joseph, the waiter at the Palace Hotel, who introduced Precious and me to each other. He got this whole thing started so he took a master seat, on a crate, in the shade of the guava tree in the back yard, near the fire where the goat was roasting. Did I have doubts about all this? I had no compelling reason to get married. We already lived together harmoniously. But I wanted the full catastrophe, to be chained up forever with a wild full-blooded African woman, a most dangerous creature. We would fight to the death, or love each other until death do us part. Somehow death seemed to be involved. 

That evening, Precious was busy with wedding stuff. I didn't ask, but I think it meant a lot to her, to be honored by her family, as first among the fifty cousins, to wear the pearls and lace and gauzy veils of a proper bride. Tanti, the maid of honor, had been over earlier in the day, helping to clean the house and she worked on Precious's hair. My unspoken instructions were to get out of the way and not ask stupid questions. But the cake was already out on the dining table on a cake stand and covered by a veil to fend off flies. We could not store beers on ice because we had no ice or coolers to hold it. Instead, we would send boys over to the Plumtree bottle store, to buy many cold bottles as needed.

All was well that last evening, and instead of watching TV from the couch, I stepped out into the back yard for star gazing and quiet contemplation. Bulawayo had a half-million residents, but most of the housing was lit with 25-watt bulbs which did not overwhelm the natural stars of southern Africa. Many stars, and quiet sounds. Mr. Dhlwayu, my next door neighbor, was putting his car tools away. I bid him good night and looked forward to his attendance at the reception. Then I paced back and forth by the garden, viewing the rows of strawberries and the tomatoes in cages.And looked up.  There was something about the starlit African sky that made all the suffering worthwhile. I mean the suffering of the African people, a land of constant decades-long civil war, a land of ignorance and disease and hopeless poverty. Why could they not develop their country and become prosperous and democratic like us?  Why were they taken in slavery, and then overwhelmed by colonial powers, and now, in 1997, ruled by heartless dictators? But they had those stars and that sky. They had nothing but that sky. God it was vast.

Growing up in a suburb of Chicago, I had the usual interest in black culture, which is to say, I liked the music. Motown, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye and Ray Charles. One summer in high school, Doug Serwich and I got tickets to see James Brown playing at Soldier Field. This was adventuresome. Over 25,000 fans came to this show and I believed Doug and I were the only white boys in the crowd. The music was electric. No one sat down from first note to last. James Brown was over the top like I had never imagined....

Another time we went to the Arie Crown theater downtown, seating 3,000 fans, for Ray Charles. That was cool. But what really blew me away, may have planted the seed in fact that got me to Africa, was when the Raylettes strutted on stage. They were so big and power-packed, big hair, big everything. Forbidden fruit. Not for me. My world was white. I lived in a prosperous leafy suburb. I had a drawer full of nice sweaters and a seersucker sport coat in the closet to wear on hot summer evenings. And I was progressive and modern in my developing views on race. I was not going to be like my father, who some times spoke his prejudice against black people. But I have to put a word in for my Dad here. Yes, he had a bad attitude, but he never expected his children to adopt his views. He grew up poor in St. Louis and he had to fight with black kids on his way to school and fight them again on the way home. And my Dad's whole life was about getting out of that neighborhood and getting to the leafy suburb where he raised five kids, all with nice sweaters, all bound for college, and all ready to correct his language at the dinner table.

My older brother and I went to the civil rights marches in Chicago that summer of 1966. We walked along side Jesse Jackson and Martin Luther King. My mom approved, but my Dad was furious. It was like that everywhere in Chicago that summer, an argument in every kitchen.

But it felt awkward. I didn't really know any black people. My high school was all white. The neighborhood and the parish church was all white. There was a prosperous black family in Kenilworth that I had heard about. Otherwise it was Benny the cleaning lady and LC the mechanic  at the Shell Station who would go buy us six-packs of Country club malt liquor for drunken binges. Why did I ever drink such swill? But I didn't have any black friends.. It was awkward, but I already said that. I left it at that. My father's way was overcome and so we moved on. And I loved the music.

But I never dated black girls. Or sought them out. All my fantasies were about white women. It never occurred to me otherwise. I looked at Playboy magazine. All white.  Except I did have a thing for Nancy Wilson, the jazz singer. I bought her album just so I could look at her photo on the cover.

I went to college. I got to know some black fellows from Jamaica. They were nice guys and really good at Ping Pong. I went out West after college and lived for 25 years next to a Reservation and got pretty involved with Native American people. Later, I moved to Boston for six years and joined a Jewish study group. Why Jews? Well, why not? They became good friends. And it wasn't awkward.

But I never got to know any black people. I mean, it's not like I had a check list, but still, when my mother died in 1996 and I went back to Chicago to straighten up her affairs -- that's when I started to think about this.

Any reasonable single man, who had buried his mother, had sent his two kids off to college, paid off his debts, and still had some coin left from the estate -- that reasonable man would have booked a flight to Jamaica, to idle in the shade of a palm tree, smoking doobies and sipping rum in the company of a very beautiful Jamaican lady. I could have done that for six weeks and come refreshed and enlightened.

But no, I had to go all the way to Africa, to Zimbabwe, to meet and marry a totally fearsome African woman named Precious. That was more than taking the plunge, that was taking on a hurricane from the Third World. No baby steps for me, but whole hog. I was enjoying the calm starlit African evening in the back yard of my house -- rented, but still very much mine. I had somehow transferred my life and existence half way round the world to cast my lot with a woman who I did not really even understand. So of course I married her. Because I didn't want her to get away.

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Do You, Mr. Jones?

Do You, Mr. Jones?

By Fred Owens

Do you know something is happening, Mr. Jones?" I said that to Clifford Jones, Retired Colonel Clifford Jones of the Zimbabwe National Army, currently residing on Plumtree Road one block from our house on Shottery Crescent. Jones I call him. Owens he calls me. His wife Audrey and my bride-to-be Precious are fast friends, apt to get loud and raucous after a few beers, turning up the music loud and trying to get us to join them, but Jones and I retreated to his back yard.

"I don't like all that noise," he said. "Those two are trouble. Why are you getting married anyway? You see my trouble here. Do you want that kind of life? If you marry Precious you will be chained. You will have to feed all of her family. Every single cousin will come and knock on your door. And be very humble. And sit on the couch in your living room. Until you feed them. So you feed them. But that's not enough. They want beer. Then they want a bed for the night unless you give them bus fare to go someplace else. This is what my life is like with my family, all these cousins.

"Go look in my refrigerator. It's empty. We have no food. All my relatives ate the food. None left for us. These days we only go out to eat at a restaurant. So my advice to you is that if you get married to Precious you move far away from her family. Otherwise they will take every penny. Believe me."

Jones stretched out his lanky frame in the lawn chair in his weed-full, unkempt rag-muffin of a back yard. "You're not inclined to smell the roses are you?"as I noticed the squalor of dead flowers and creeping weeds.

"No, I leave that to Audrey. She is my little pumpkin. She can fix the garden if she chooses, but she doesn't  choose to dabble in dirt."

"Jones, if she is happy, then what else matters. So, you must know that I came over here to ask you a favor. This is not what you expect. Not about money. What I need is for you to stand with me next Saturday when I get married. I will be making promises and I need somebody strong to stand with me. But don't answer right away. Don't say yes you will do it until we have more time to talk."

Jones yawned and then gave a small cough. He did not seem a soldier, not all stiff and proper, or tough and corrosive in bearing. Jones was easy-going in posture and in principle. He smiled too easily. I didn't trust him. He sent men to their death during the Revolution against Rhodesia..... But I did trust him to stand as Best Man. I was not looking for a paragon of virtue.

Precious was inviting her family to the wedding, the fifty cousins. She had more cousins than friends, but friends were coming too. What about me? I was starting to feel like the loneliest white guy. I had no cousins, no comrades. If I could find just one man to stand with me, then we could face the black horde.

"You see, you're coloured. You're a coloured man, you know, mixed. Your father was Irish"

"No, he was Welsh. And my mother was Kalanga from Plumtree. They never married. The law would not allow it."

"So, do you feel mixed? Are you at odds with yourself or are you blended? Because you look like a mocha."

"A mocha?"

"Yes, light brown. You don't see too many coloured people in Bulawayo. Do you guys all know each other?"

"What!"

"Sorry, bad joke."

"Ugly fucking American! ... I was there in your country years ago. What I could see is that all the American black people are not black. They are coloured,  like me. They are not African. The slave masters raped the African women and from that you get Muhamed Ali. He is not black. He is coloured like me."

"Yes, I see it in the bones of your face. But you are a little like me. I am white. You are part white. You can stand with me. Do you agree?"

"I do agree. Audrey and I will come to your house on Saturday for the wedding. I will be your Best Man."

"Good, because you can do it, and no one else can understand this," I said.

The Cake Stand. Meanwhile we were shopping for a wedding cake. In Zimbabwe they follow the British tradition, of a dense fruit cake baked months ago and soaked in brandy. You buy the cake and they put the icing on. I should have taken a photo. The cake was beautiful and Precious and Fred Love Each Other, it said in the letters of pink frosting

"And we need a cake stand," she told me. "What is a cake stand?" I asked. "It holds up the cake for all to admire." "But we don't need such a cake stand. I have never seen one." Precious looked at me as if I knew nothing about weddings, which was true. And she had that quiet way about her, not being the talkative type. "Otherwise we need a cake stand." I quickly agreed to that purchase. "Of course we need a cake stand, " I shouted with joy. "A big beautiful expensive cake stand." That's why you can see that I wanted to get married. Because it was my pleasure to give her things that she wanted.  This is why Colonel Jones loved his wife Audrey and called her little pumpkin, even though she was far from little in size.

And a gown for her, rented, elaborate, traditional, that is European-style, white and lacey, very pretty. And I bought a suit, black, too big and baggy, for $100, with a white shirt and a red tie.

And a goat, to cook and serve to the fifty cousins. and two trays of anti-pasta from a downtown deli, which no one ate at the reception, no on but me. Everyone else wanted the goat and the sadza.

A truckload of beer, and a reservation to visit the Justice of the Peace, an Asian man who ran a travel agency and maintained judicial chambers of polished wood on the second floor of his building. This Asian man would preside as we made vows.

And a rented car  to carry the wedding party. Precious would bring Mr. Mataka and Tanti, Aunt Janet's daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Jones would come in their own vehicle.

And wedding announcements to mail back to America.

Suddenly we were in a big hurry to get it done. As if someone was chasing us, and we better keep running.

Do You Need Me? People asked me why did you marry her? Did you love her? They should ask her too. It's patronizing to think hitching up with me was the best chance she would ever have, although she did have a smile on her face like she hit the jackpot. Precious, did you marry me because I am a rich white man who can take you to America? "Yes," she answered, "but there was more than that. I married you because we both like that Don Williams' song on the casette. I married you because you showed me how to skip stones on a pond of water." Is that all? Any other reasons to stay with this guy until death do you part. "You're a white man, you won't beat me or have another girl friend, and you're cute, kind a old, but cute."

But you Fred, why did you marry Precious? "I married her because I was lonely. My mother died and there was no one to look after me, My mother used to make me breakfast and iron my shirts, but she died, and there was no one to take her place. So I went to Africa and met Precious. You remember that first day when we were together in the rented room on Airport Road? She fixed my breakfast and ironed my shirts. So I wasn't lonely any more. I fell in love.  Plus she had a really great ass.

I'm skipping her faults. She had a full range of bad habits and a history of bad choices, equal to mine. Tales of moral depravity that you can find in any cheap novel. Her drinking habit, her assault conviction, her inability to tell the truth, her tenuous grasp of monogamy. her failure to understand delayed gratification when making financial decisions. It's a rich topic. My own pathetic needs -- ironing shirts? weird -- lack of responsibility closely allied with a lifelong sense of entitlement and privilege, my failure to plan and make long-term goals, my twisted understanding of what women want based on 16 years of Catholic education. I could continue.

Oh, we were a pair of mangy dogs all right and neither one of us as good as we might be, but it was my life, it was her life, and we decided to get married just because we could. Our favorite song was I Believe in Love by Don Williams, the American country singer. When she wanted to make love to me she said, "Do you need me?"

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital