A Typical Week in Mfuwe – A story

The day of our performance breaks.

 

I sense the restless dawn gathering momentum outside; it percolates through the thin reed door of the hut, and seeps into my sleepy subconscious. I try to convince myself I still have at least two hours of sleep left but just to erase any doubt from my mind that daylight is breaking, the rooster next door belts out a spectacular cokoLIKO. And again. And again. Damn. I hear Simon crashing about outside. It’s his turn to be on duty to cook for the group.

 

We girls are all squashed into one hut like groundnuts in their shell. One person turns over, we all turn over. Eventually I realize that it’s useless trying to sleep any longer so I clamber over the other girls in the hut and make my way out into the feathered dawn. Simon is hunched over the fire grumbling to himself.

 

I head over to the well to draw water for a wash. We are in a lucky village this week; it has a well. And its close, a mere hundred metres walk away. There are already a couple of women and kids at the well fetching water for the day. We exchange lengthy greetings. How did you sleep, how did you wake up, how’s the family. Pleasantries taken care of they head back to the village. I hook my bucket up to the chain and lower it into the well, running the smooth, well worn chain through my fingers - waiting to hear it splash in the dark coolness, deep in the earth. Once I feel the weight of the water fill the bucket and pull it down, I begin to crank it up; it’s cool and rusty but clean enough. More women arrive, more greetings.

 

As I arrive back in the village with a bucket of water balanced on my head, I see that Japhet is up and about, camera at the ready. He’s been meaning to catch me at this for ages and is beside himself with mirth. Msungu! Msungu! He says, mimicking the children who have been following me back from the well. “Msungu anymula manzi pa mutu”. He sinks to the ground clutching his stomach in glee, tears in his eyes. I laugh back at him. What else can I do?

 

I put my shomeka of water on the fire because I’m still a wuss and like to at least wash in lukewarm water. The other girls are up now, spilling out of our tiny hut like sleepy larvae coming out into the world. They have already started giving Simon a hard time, their sport for the day.

 

Musa is also up and bright eyed. He’s banging on the doors of the guys’ hut. ‘Wake up you lazy ones! Can’t you hear the cockrel? Its way past dawn. Come on! Come on! CLASS TIME!!’

 

We are a theatre company. There are twelve of us altogether and we go from village to village researching and performing. We believe that the best way to success in this venture is to know and try to understand the important issues before trying to tackle them. This is why we live in the targeted villages for a length of time before we even attempt to create the plays.

 

So this day is no different from any other. Musa is banging on the door of the guys hut, trying to get them up for our exercises. Our plays are very physical with lots of acrobatics and jumping about so it’s important to keep fit and flexible. The crowds get pretty big too, so, although many can’t really see the point, Musa and I make the actors do voice exercises too. One by one the actors stumble out of their hut, ready for action.

 

We have been living here for a week. Every day the actors have gone into the villages speaking to people, getting to grips with the issues at hand. Musa and I have done the groundwork with the headmen so people are expecting us. And every evening we arrive back, knackered and ready to report back. We work late into the night, by dancing candle light, documenting the findings of the day.

 

Today our performance is in a village east of here; somewhere more central and accessible. We arrive before the audience and begin to beat the drums; calling the crowds in.

 

People trickle in slowly, on foot or by bicycle, singly and in small family groups so that by midmorning the numbers have swollen to bursting, excitement shimmering under the surface. The audience encircles us and the impromptu arena is throbbing; dancing and drumming; dust and ululations. We all sing and jive and swing our hips…..We are celebrating life and love and kinship and survival. Or that’s my take on it anyway!

 

Silence descends as the play begins. Enter Sarah as a stork. She’s carried high, balanced on a pole. The children explode with excitement and exhilaration. Off stage the actors make bush sounds; birds and frogs and distant hippos. One scene swims into another. Night falls on stage (a moon held aloft on a stick) and Japhet and Sams come on as an elephant. They move as one; lumbering on as a potent and undeniable force. They begin to destroy the exposed crops on stage. A defenceless but resolute man comes out wildly beating a tin bucket, vulnerable but doing all he can against this terrifying force. This sends a rumble through the audience. It is an all too familiar scene.

 

We are giving voice to people’s feelings of powerlessness. Today it is palpable. Our theatre is cathartic but also allows people a chance to speak their minds. Our research has served us well. We hit on the most important and explosive issues in this area. The relevant government officials are with us; they are able to see for themselves what is happening in this area. There are many people to consider; the tourists who bring the money; the people who make their livelihoods from these animals; and those who fear for their lives, who get killed and have their crops destroyed, and cannot feed their children. It is a fine balance and the forum created by our group allows for everyone to express their view. The performance is interactive and the actors facilitate discussion, ensuring that the most important points are aired and solutions to these concerns are initiated.

 

A crazy dog comes on stage; Bernard at his funniest. He sniffs audience members and cocks his leg on the local drunk. The relief is unmistakable; the tension diffused.

 

This is only the beginning. We have many more places to visit, many more plans of action to put in place. But the people have been heard and we are the catalyst for positive change.

 

We shall move on to another village tomorrow but we shall keep returning here, ensuring that the plans put in place are being carried out; there will always be new issues to discuss, new voices to be heard.

 

Dusk is falling, the sunset burning up the sky. The bats are pinging and the nightjars swooping in on the insects. Finally the dust is beginning to settle. We arrive back at our village exhausted. It is dark now but many of the actors are still on a high and get the drums out. Musa, as always, is the ringleader. He has the energy of a speeding comet, that man. We dance with our hosts in the village, way into the night, although I am knackered and sneak off early. I take my leave of the headman and crawl into our hut. Rose is already in bed, snoring quietly; it is her turn to cook tomorrow and she needs her sleep. She’ll be up before that damn rooster that I hear clucking above our hut. I drop onto my pathetically thin mattress and brush the mozzie net off my face.

 

As I drift off I think of the old man who performed with us today. He had an accordion. He set himself up in the middle of the arena on an old rickety chair made of sapling branches and cowhide. He’s as old as the dust itself. Utterly toothless and as wrinkly as an old granadilla. He started to play. Suddenly out of the audience came people ancient as each other. And they started to WALTZ. It was the most surreal thing I’ve witnessed in years. Beautiful rugged old men and women in their worn out 1950’s dresses, suits and hats, waltzing in the middle of a dusty schoolyard, with an audience of nine hundred watching as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it was. I felt dumfounded and honoured and I’m not sure why.

 

So I smile quietly to myself as I tumble into a deep, satisfied and untroubled sleep.