Amanda and
John Hartman went on morning runs while they were here. I haven’t gone yet
because the streets are all named after people with three names, and I’d never
find my way back. Our street is Simon Luwansa Kapwepwe. Number 71.
The house is
plain. The walls are white. The ceiling is high. The floors are white tile. But
the living room has a loveseat and recliners. And a television. The kitchen has
all the modern appliances, including a washer and dryer for clothes. The water
for the shower gets hot when you want it to, and the beds are comfortable (the
rooster and the dogs wake us up, but the beds are good).
But the
windows have bars on the outside. The wooden door is thick and locks sturdily.
There’s a sign in the kitchen that says to padlock the doors at dark. There’s a
“screen door” with steel bars and a padlock. The entire property is surrounded
by a 15’ wall with thorny vines growing on either side. We lock the heavy metal
gate every time we come and go.
It’s an odd
feeling. The amenities make it feel comfortable. I feel secure. If I stayed
inside all day I’d forget where I was. I could even feel like home here if I
settled in. But what’s outside the stone wall? What should I be afraid of?
Dogs bark
throughout the night, and people say they’re mostly barking at each other. But
why does every family have a dog or two if it’s just each other they’re barking
at?
How does the
rest of Lusaka live? How do people living in the compounds, or in the
hand-built clay homes, survive?
