The Ideal Week by Acacia

A crazy civil servant called for litter-bins in minibuses, if only clean streets were that easy. It was Monday morning; Acacia drank her coffee, listened to the radio and smirked at such naivety.

Admittedly, she had had a few crazy ideas of her own. There was a photo of a smiling younger woman holding a banner, protesting outside the houses of parliament in London. MPs were beseeched to act for one cause or another. Meaningful posters adorned the students’ kitchen. Prayers were said for soldiers in Iraq. Fair trade products were aggressively promoted. Even Wetherspoons had received an indignant letter with her signature.

Fortunately those fanciful days were over. Acacia sucked the last sip of the dregs and set off for her meeting, she would arrive exactly twenty minutes late to avoid waiting for latecomers.

A girlfriend called an emergency lunch on Tuesday; should she move in with her boyfriend, after all this time was he ever going to put a ring on it? The soup took quite a while to arrive, but they were used to that.

Wednesday was martyrs day, Acacia didn’t know much about Chilembwe. Dying for your principles seemed rather old-fashioned. She savoured the the lovely, luxurious time alone. Many old friends had left town and there wasn’t much point in making new ones just so they could leave as well. But she was content, she could happily keep the same job, live in the same house, and wear the same hairstyle for the rest of her days.

The boss called on Thursday, demanding to know why the grass wasn’t short. he raised his voice; Acacia rolled her eyes, which part of rainy season did he not understand? Why did these people bother?

Friday was pretty slow, Acacia just wasn’t in the mood. George emailed through his new project concept; vague objectives, blood donations – nothing new there. She couldn’t be bothered to type up her feedback (did starry-eyed do-gooders ever listen?). On skype-type Mr. K recalled how he had expressed his dissatisfaction to road traffic for issuing his license late (what on earth had he expected?). A face book friend asked her to sign a petition for computers in the national library (Manuel was such a dreamer).

With an invisible pat on the back, Acacia applauded her own pragmatism. Was there anyone else so realistic, so in touch with the challenges on the ground, so in tune with the cultural obstacles, so adept at predicting pitfalls and problems? Yet so flexible, so ready to find new ways to adapt and cope, endure and survive?!

Finally 4:30 came, she picked up both her phones (sometimes one network went down) and drove to the filling station (you never knew when there might be a national shortage). At the ATM, Acacia got enough cash to cover a police bribe in case she was stopped on her night out. She took her new route home, slightly longer but it avoided that dirt road with potholes. Someone chucked a crisp packet out of the window of the car in front.

Saturday brought no lights, no kettle, no electricity. According to the gardener, they were the only plot affected. Acacia set up camp in Capital Hotel, with weekend newspapers and ready cups of tea… while super-neighbour Nicola mercilessly harassed ESCOM faults.

The press detailed how a Malawian passport holder was accused of not being Malawian. In court another accused was denied bail to protect him from mob justice. Even Acacia could see the irony in a system that had no faith in itself… Yet more debate around the quota system; in the quest for the best stopgap solution, what happened to the bigger picture?!

Acacia got a good seat in church on Sunday, and put her handbag on the floor in front of her (where she could keep an eye on it). The pastor spoke solemnly about how a guy from the church had lost his way and got in trouble, he urged us all to pray for the poor chap. Acacia couldn’t understand why the pastor was so sad, he almost seemed crushed… surely this was not a surprise, the signs had been there all along.

What was a surprise, was that Acacia found herself jealous. She was jealous of the pastor’s strong emotions, his deep disappointment. When was the last time she had been gutted, or ecstatic? Being a smug know-it-all wasn’t that great really, oh very safe, but rather dull.

They were everywhere - these idealists, who didn’t accept life as it was but wondered how the world might be. They carried their ridiculous dreams, under a rising sun of possibilities. When they cried, they probably cried more than her; but when they laughed she knew they laughed harder.

At Joe’s pub that afternoon, Mtendy mentioned that in Nigeria once a week at a certain time everyone stops work, comes out of their offices and houses and picks up rubbish for an hour. This is enforced by the police and Lagos grinds to a halt, for the sake of clean streets.

Would that work in Malawi? Somewhere along the path she had lost hope. She hoped for nothing, she hoped in noone. She missed it.


NB: For a change, everything in this article is somehow true, except that George’s proposal was quite cool, and I don’t actually keep my tank full. Manuel’s petition was eventually successful. Watch this space for part 2: in which Acacia finds her way back to hope.