My sister died of pneumonia today. Who knows what was really going on. All I knew was that she was sick. Then she was at the hospital. Then home. Then the hospital again.
My sister. A 34 year old Tanzanian woman. Calling Memu my sister usually sets off eye rolls or exasperated comments from my friends. I am not related by blood to Memu. I have not even spent very much time together with this woman.
Maybe because of the intensity of the experience, arriving in Tanzania the day before my 21st birthday, traveling alone by myself for the first time, then managing to make a home for myself in another culture. Maybe because the African sense of family is much broader, any woman of similar age to myself would be greeted as "my sister" in Tanzania. Or maybe because of the intimacy of the conversations I had with this woman my sister. For all these reasons and more, Memu became my sister.
Her boyfriend, an American, called and told me that she was sick again this week, and back in the hospital. He had informed me the first time, which worried me, but my sister is strong. I was not worried. Hearing she was back in the hospital was concerning.
I met Memu in the fall of 2008. I came to Tanzania to volunteer. Her nephew, son of her oldest sister (Mama Gladness), ran a volunteer house where I was staying. She would stop by to visit. Eager to make friends with locals, I would greet her and ask her how her day was
I cook. I feed the animals. I wash the clothes.
I felt I had nothing in common with this woman.
A month into my stay, all the other volunteers left which was the best thing that ever happened to me. I started spending more time at Memu's home which she shared with her mother. I would watch her do chores, helping where I could, though I probably slowed her down more so than anything else. Some of my best memories are in her kitchen, a shed attached to the cow pen. With a pot propped above a small fire, the room would fill with smoke till I could barely see and my eyes watered as we chopped vegetables and talked about anything and everything.
English was difficult for my sister, but this did not deter her from asking me the most complex questions about America and the philosophy of life. I was like a child. She taught me how to carry water, to pick coffee, to cook like an African, and helped me learn to speak kiSwahili and kiMeru, the language of her tribe.
Every day I would finish volunteering and I could not wait to see my sister, tell her about my day and discuss differences between life in Tanzania and life in America.
I learned that she was building a house in Maji ya Chai, water like tea. In the month before I left, she took me to see the house. Maji ya Chai is a small town between Arusha and Moshi. While wazungu, or white people, have flooded into Arusha and surrounding suburbs for safari and volunteer work, Maji ya Chai was untouched by tourism.
We walked past shops and stands selling vegetables and began a long trek uphill. We walked past empty fields of mahindi, corn and migomba, banana trees. We walked across a small brown creek, for which Maji ya Chai received its name. We walked through fields and past goats and past the water tower and finally as we seemed to near the end of civilization and I felt I could walk no further, there her house was at the top of the hill like a little oasis.
At the time Memu was living in the home of her mother; she had painstakingly saved money from selling the milk of her cow and piece by piece, bought land and built a house. She had just finished the roof and had yet to add furniture and a few other finishing touches.
The only thing present in the house was a rug, so we laid out the rug on the floor, Memu bought sodas for us and we laid down on the mat drinking soda pop talking about boys and giggling like school girls. It was one of the best days of my life, I can still remember pieces of that day so vividly, and fondly.
I came back in 2010, although my trip was cut dramatically shorter. I stayed in her, now finished home, in Maji ya Chai for 3 weeks. I almost didn't recognize it. Fully furnished with a beautiful garden and even electricity, most prized of all was a water spigot in the back yard. Even in Memu's mother's house, Memu would have to walk a half mile to the stream or to her friend's home that had a pump and carry water back every day in order to take care of animals, wash clothes, cook. This home was a little piece of paradise that she had dreamed up and built up herself.
When I dream of Africa I dream of lying in her garden facing the sky and watching lizards and people pass by. I dream of having a house on the hill in Maji ya Chai next to hers where I could visit often and laugh talk and learn.
I made the choice to stay and live in America and help people of my own country that do not have good access to health care. I thought about coming back after classes were over, but I was busy with studying for the pharmacy boards and made the decision to wait until after my residency year. I've been talking to my boss and making plans to come back in November.
Although I don't think that Memu would see these decisions as a failure on my part to be a true friend, let alone a true sister to her it has been difficult not to look back with regret if I had known! if I had known. But I didn't know. The Memu I know is a healthy woman, and stubborn to the point that even if she had hired help with her work, would probably do it herself anyway. I felt so distanced from what was going on and so confident that she would get better.
I think of her fierce independence, her thought provoking questions in broken English, and her smile. I think of her incredible patience with me and my complete lack of knowledge of Meru language and culture then her impatience watching her fiercely argue in Swahili to get the best deal on vegetables or bus fare.
It seems just too ironic that I decided to work with an underserved population in America then to hear that my sister died of pneumonia today. No matter what the cause I know I would feel her loss but aside from that I cannot help but feel anger that her death today seemed to be so preventable.
In the end it didn't matter that she was well off by African standards. That she had worked hard her entire life. That despite not having a high school education I consider her one of the most intelligent persons I have ever met. She died today because she was a woman living in Tanzania, without access to the same kinds of facilities medications and equipment that would be available in other countries.
People die preventable deaths in Africa everyday but Memu's strength had always made her seem untouchable to me. I feel cliche writing this, I really don't know how to express what I feel. If I just close my eyes everything will be alright.
She will be buried in her garden in Maji ya Chai on Tuesday.
Nakupenda dada yangu, I love you my sister.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyJzaPUbmEg
Maybe because of the intensity of the experience, arriving in Tanzania the day before my 21st birthday, traveling alone by myself for the first time, then managing to make a home for myself in another culture. Maybe because the African sense of family is much broader, any woman of similar age to myself would be greeted as "my sister" in Tanzania. Or maybe because of the intimacy of the conversations I had with this woman my sister. For all these reasons and more, Memu became my sister.
Her boyfriend, an American, called and told me that she was sick again this week, and back in the hospital. He had informed me the first time, which worried me, but my sister is strong. I was not worried. Hearing she was back in the hospital was concerning.
I met Memu in the fall of 2008. I came to Tanzania to volunteer. Her nephew, son of her oldest sister (Mama Gladness), ran a volunteer house where I was staying. She would stop by to visit. Eager to make friends with locals, I would greet her and ask her how her day was
I cook. I feed the animals. I wash the clothes.
I felt I had nothing in common with this woman.
English was difficult for my sister, but this did not deter her from asking me the most complex questions about America and the philosophy of life. I was like a child. She taught me how to carry water, to pick coffee, to cook like an African, and helped me learn to speak kiSwahili and kiMeru, the language of her tribe.
Every day I would finish volunteering and I could not wait to see my sister, tell her about my day and discuss differences between life in Tanzania and life in America.
 |
| My sister helps me with my suitcase |
We walked past shops and stands selling vegetables and began a long trek uphill. We walked past empty fields of mahindi, corn and migomba, banana trees. We walked across a small brown creek, for which Maji ya Chai received its name. We walked through fields and past goats and past the water tower and finally as we seemed to near the end of civilization and I felt I could walk no further, there her house was at the top of the hill like a little oasis.
At the time Memu was living in the home of her mother; she had painstakingly saved money from selling the milk of her cow and piece by piece, bought land and built a house. She had just finished the roof and had yet to add furniture and a few other finishing touches.
The only thing present in the house was a rug, so we laid out the rug on the floor, Memu bought sodas for us and we laid down on the mat drinking soda pop talking about boys and giggling like school girls. It was one of the best days of my life, I can still remember pieces of that day so vividly, and fondly.
I came back in 2010, although my trip was cut dramatically shorter. I stayed in her, now finished home, in Maji ya Chai for 3 weeks. I almost didn't recognize it. Fully furnished with a beautiful garden and even electricity, most prized of all was a water spigot in the back yard. Even in Memu's mother's house, Memu would have to walk a half mile to the stream or to her friend's home that had a pump and carry water back every day in order to take care of animals, wash clothes, cook. This home was a little piece of paradise that she had dreamed up and built up herself.
When I dream of Africa I dream of lying in her garden facing the sky and watching lizards and people pass by. I dream of having a house on the hill in Maji ya Chai next to hers where I could visit often and laugh talk and learn.
Although I don't think that Memu would see these decisions as a failure on my part to be a true friend, let alone a true sister to her it has been difficult not to look back with regret if I had known! if I had known. But I didn't know. The Memu I know is a healthy woman, and stubborn to the point that even if she had hired help with her work, would probably do it herself anyway. I felt so distanced from what was going on and so confident that she would get better.
I think of her fierce independence, her thought provoking questions in broken English, and her smile. I think of her incredible patience with me and my complete lack of knowledge of Meru language and culture then her impatience watching her fiercely argue in Swahili to get the best deal on vegetables or bus fare.
It seems just too ironic that I decided to work with an underserved population in America then to hear that my sister died of pneumonia today. No matter what the cause I know I would feel her loss but aside from that I cannot help but feel anger that her death today seemed to be so preventable.
In the end it didn't matter that she was well off by African standards. That she had worked hard her entire life. That despite not having a high school education I consider her one of the most intelligent persons I have ever met. She died today because she was a woman living in Tanzania, without access to the same kinds of facilities medications and equipment that would be available in other countries.
People die preventable deaths in Africa everyday but Memu's strength had always made her seem untouchable to me. I feel cliche writing this, I really don't know how to express what I feel. If I just close my eyes everything will be alright.
Nakupenda dada yangu, I love you my sister.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyJzaPUbmEg
I'm SO sorry for your loss, Marie. I know how much you loved and cherished Memu. She seems like such a strong woman, and an inspiration to women all over the world. May she rest in peace :(.
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