Kumbooka Charlie

An unfortunate week for blog-worthy posts: Until Today!

This week we enjoyed the end of the Olympics here in Malawi in splendid American fashion: no one except what felt like three Americans and the Brits were even interested or conscious that it was going on. Regardless, the Women's 4x100M relay altered my bodily existence, and watching Kobe Bryant get a pass and then being surer than anything that he would never pass it gave me a well-deserved boost of patriotism and a country music marathon urge.

I also had the distinct experience of feeling like an overambitious teenager again experiencing his first-ever concert; only I am 23 and in Malawi and I’m pretty sure my first concert was either Raffi or some combination of 90s pop songs, people dressed up as cartoons and ice. After mixing up the time that the concert started, the trio I was with arrived early to the venue to find a Malawian wedding in full swing. We decided not to crash it as weddings in Malawi generally consist of hours and hours of individuals getting up in front of the bride and groom while everyone watches, throwing money at the newlyweds’ feet and dancing for them. It is a long day. And we also might have stood out a little bit from the friends of the family. To buy time, we went to the Casino just as it was opening, watched a thrilling hour of the women’s 20k speed walking final and proceeded to each lose the money we hoped to spend on drinks.

Aside: Speed-walking has as much of a right to be in the Olympics as synchronized shaving.

Finally, we decided to return to the concert at its starting time of 8:30. We made it to the beginning of the sound check, which lasted for two and a half hours, and by the time the grossly overweight Lucius Banda struggled onto the stage, we were, as our British comrade Tom would describe it “Quite knockered, guvna.” Reminded me of my days when I thought you had to get to movie theaters early, sports venues in time to watch the warm ups and parties before all the drinks were gone. Oddly it felt like a strange bell curve of being “hip,” that I ascended for a brief three weeks in my late teens and am now on a steep decline.

But to make everything better. I went to get my haircut today. For the record, I have spent 1.89 years of my life in Africa now and this was my first hair cut experience. I had been warned very often in the past, that artists of the head-fur in Africa were not experts in “mizungu” hair (white person); thus my trepidation.

But at the suggestion of my longtime expat friend, I finally embarked on my quest to Unisex Beauty Salon. Donna, my layered stylist, started in on me with the scalp massaging and prepared my hands for a manicure before I stopped her. But when it came time to cut my hair she nearly had a seizure, picked up every instrument in the room before putting it down again and rethinking. Finally, she started with her “thinning scissors,” which led to this exchange:   

“You’re hair is so thick.”

“I know.”

“Very, very, very thick” Every “very” was followed with her taking a huge clump out of my head with a pair of machetes linked by a rubber band (Africa scissors).

Then she told me to wait, made a phone call, and ten minutes later there were eight women concurrently cutting, clucking and cackling at my locks. After which, they washed it with DEEP EBONY SHAMPOO and gave me hugs.

And then He made it happen, captain,

Steven


PS: A little short on the bangs, but overall, I look pretty good--Kick Teschke for me Bragg