A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [78]
“Too much seaweed on the beach,” I blurt out, regurgitating Ted’s predictable objection.
Did I just tell an environmentalist that Nature isn’t good enough?
“The dark side of Lisa,” D says, raising his eyebrows, “Part two.”
There is nothing complicated about fish. They are beautiful, simple little beings in weird, wild shapes and neon colors, like eighties cruise-ship clichés, some with frills that remind me of war-era secretaries in black-and-white polka-dotted dresses. I squeal with delight, smiling so wide I break the seal on my mask. It floods with water over and over again, so I have to keep coming up for air.
We get back late, in a rush to make it to the airport. While the taxi driver loads my bags, D and I pause for a moment. We’re too rushed for a decent goodbye, and I’m too worn down to drum up some witty, sexy, romantic endnote.
“I can’t believe you’re going back to that place,” he says, kissing me goodbye.
I ignore the slow-creeping adrenaline buzz that comes when I think of Bukavu’s gutted streets. My inner college-era feminist is tickled by the role reversal: powerful man kisses young woman goodbye on her way back to a war zone. He adds, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Yeah, right. I laugh, and say teasingly as I climb into the taxi-van, “I’m already doing something you wouldn’t do.”
As the taxi pulls away, D stands in the driveway of the hotel watching me. I look down at my arms, which are getting redder by the minute. I press my fingers down and fixate on the white imprint that remains. My back smolders with my only Zanzibar souvenir: the worst sunburn I’ve ever had. It will blister and peel for the remainder of my time in Africa, aggravated by the daily thrashing from bumping over Congo’s washed-out roads. Two years from now, the faint traces of the swimsuit I picked up in the hotel gift shop will still be burned onto my back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Goodbye Party
THE WOMEN FOR WOMEN staff is abuzz with the imminent arrival of the organization’s founder, Zainab Salbi, and the writer Alice Walker.
Hortense called early this morning, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I am not invited to their arrival reception or to any of their meetings with women, including Generose. I don’t know why and I won’t lie: I’m disappointed. Especially after days of enthusiastically trying to walk the Congolese staff through every Alice Walker work I’ve read—from Meridian to Possessing the Secret of Joy—trying to remember all the key points I made in a twenty-five-page college paper comparing Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Color Purple. But as anyone who has engaged in the political minefield that is celebrity wrangling can tell you, this kind of thing goes with the territory. I decide to not take it personally and make plans to spend my day-in-exile following up with some of my new Congolese friends.
First up, Generose. Her brother has collected her children from various friends and neighbors, so they are now fine. It’s time to break the news about the house. I sit next to her on her hospital bed. I don’t want any of the other sisters in the neighborhood to be jealous, so I’ve made up a story. “I’ve found an organization that provides small grants for people who are disabled because of war-related injuries,” I tell her. “They are going to build you a small house.”
For a moment, she sits quietly, absorbing the news. Then she lifts her hands up and cries out, “Aksanti sana sana sana! Merci!” Thank you very, very, very much.
On the way out, we stop by the baby ward to check on Bonjour. As I take him in my lap, shouting fills the room. We all watch, stonefaced, as a man yells at a crying child in the corner. The man moves on to the next bed, lays his hands on his next victim and launches into his routine once again, apparently egged on by the fact that the whole ward is staring at him. The new baby screams with fear while