She is a lovely British woman, Kenyan born with the sort of lilting musical accent my ears have been longing to hear after all these months of Simon’s gruffness and muttering. She enters the room with an incredible air of confidence; she carries herself exuding such a sense of capability and authority that I am immediately a bit intimidated and struck slightly wary, in the effect that only truly capable and approachable people have on me.
She is a lady. A proper lady. She sweeps into Simon’s house and I am quickly very impressed. I smile a shy half smile (so uncharacteristic of me!) and look down, wishing there was some way I could magically have the rough edges of myself buffered away to be like her. Although she has spent nearly her whole life in Africa, she is thoroughly British, and of the belief that there were no obstacles that can not be overcome with some tea and reasoning. I get the sense that there is no question on Earth that could render itself impossible for her to answer, and no problem that dare place itself firmly in her path; she could take it on and solve it without breaking a sweat and tackle a few of mine for sport. I get the impression that no would never be the answer she was given unless it was the one she requested. She is a doer, and yet had such an air of approachability and humble grace. If you have earned her respect she will indulge you, and if she thinks you are a reprehensible moron you would have to push her pretty far, and give her a glass of red, rather than her classic white, in order to get her to tell you outright (unless, of course you are trying to screw her or her business or one of her children over. Then watch out.)
I instantly respected her and wanted her as my friend, my mentor. I felt the childish urge to want her to like me. Over lunch we discussed some of the projects I'm working on, and she had showed what appeared to be genuine interest, and had ideas or suggestions or contacts for many of them. She always follows up with these contacts, sending the information or encouragement I needed at just the moment I was about to lose inertia, interest, and hope in my projects.
She is always crisp and fresh in unwrinkled linen, even when she’s not and it isn’t, you would swear this was the case upon recalling the details of her after she’s left the room. She is the epitome of a colonial African woman, and I would compare her to Merryl Streep in “Out of Africa” if it didn’t do her the injustice of implying that she was copying Merryl, rather than the seeming reality that Merryl got it from her. She walks with the purposeful grace and stride of a dancer, gliding through rooms, both commanding attention and offering tea.
She offered her home as a place I could stay in Maun, an offer I took her up on on my way back through for medical from Gabs. She led me to my own tent outfitted with a complete bathroom and a queen size bed. We had lovely dinners of fresh vegetables and wonderful, luxurious meats and cheeses. She spoke of her childhood and raising her children in Africa. We talked of our mutual love of Vanity Fair, and fresh vegetables, her battle with breast cancer, and the experience of boarding school. I paid full attention, trying to figure out how to be like her.
I quickly noted that she has really mastered the way to interact with men in this country, to use the authority vested in her to demand what she felt she or whatever cause she was petitioning for deserved, or was right, whilst charming the men and evoking them to offer her their help, service, counsel, advice, or opinion on how something was to be done. She depends on no man, and yet they clamour to help her. She is building a cottage on a plot in Seronga, and every time I am with her someone asks how it is going and how they can help her. It is extraordinary. She is extraordinary.
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