Anodiwa stood still, staring silently, almost rudely. She started to tremble. Her mouth opened as in grief, her eyes wide, and she broke into sobs. She stumbled toward the doctor, grabbed her in a desperate embrace. Dr. Washington held the joyful mother, silently.
Since his birth the little boy was a humiliation for his mother. Even at age six he rarely spoke, and when he cried he always covered his nose and mouth to stifle the sound, its difference. Anodiwa was ashamed of her shame, but mother-love is a duty as much as a feeling -- something that the doctor relied on. Anodiwa had confided, "My boy, he something God forgot to fix in my belly." She said, "Sometime I wish the ground swallow my little boy up." And she burst into tears.
Of all the surgeries Dr. Washington performed, these sorts, cleft palate and the like, were the most satisfying. She sometimes said that saving a face was like saving a life.
The surgery had no complications. The little boy's lip had been reshaped, and now he looked like an unremarkable child with a sticking plaster on his face. The doctor had preserved enough of her funds to stay in the region long enough to monitor the healing of all her patients. Parents always had to be trained, warned about clean bandages, and infection, and opening scars. That was a bigger job than the surgeries. Do no harm.
Until almost living memory, doctors had killed more of their patients than the diseases did. George Washington was killed by his doctors -- they bled him to death. The doctor kept this fact in the forefront of her mind, not because they shared the name, but as a reminder about how the world is: people think they're right, when they're not.
Later that evening, alone in her makeshift office, gazing out the window past her mobile surgery parked outside, the doctor saw Anodiwa walking alone at the other side of the village center, carrying water to her young family. Faintly, a crooning song about answered prayers hung on the cooling twilight air.
====
Earlier:
Idai had turned off the paved road from Nkayi hours ago, into the rough hill country, slow going on the dirt track. A bus came shambling toward them, passed, children waving like bon voyage passengers from an ocean liner. Flat-topped trees, dry gold grass, roan antelope placid in the distance. The road bucked and swayed beneath the large van, unrestful across the hypnotic landscape.
They finally came to the crossroads. A truck blocked the way, five men standing, holding or leaning on bolt-action rifles, waiting.
Idai rolled to a stop. The officer approached, casual, arrogant. He wore mismatched military insignia. “Lieutenant Captain,” Idai said quietly to the doctor. "Not so good for us. And Budya. They should be Tauara. Not so good.”
“Get out,” the officer said. His face was burnished copper, dull with the grime of dust and ash, streaked with dried sweat. A necklace hung outside his shirt, the teeth and claws of some big cat. Not deigning to use English, he spoke rapidly in a dialect the doctor could not follow.
Idai replied, round vowels and rolled consonants. The officer looked angry, lines dug hard into his face. Idai gestured broadly, swept his hands eastward, encompassing all of Zimbabwe, into Mozambique, perhaps to the ocean. He smiled, his tone deep and melodic. He was being convincing.
The lieutenant captain stared at the doctor as Idai spoke. He growled a few words, turned abruptly and went to his men. They argued among themselves. "He did not care to see our permits," Idai whispered. "He knows who you are. I told him we have only a little money." Idai wiped a palm across his brow. "They always must have something. They must have everything."
The officer returned, snapped what had to be commands. Idai hurried to the cab, pulled out a bag from behind the driver's seat. Handed it over. Papers, notebooks, and several hundred British pounds. The officer took the money, went back to his truck and laid it out on the bonnet. One of the men started dividing it. The officer returned, pointed at the watch on the doctor's wrist. She pulled it off and handed it over.
A few more sharp orders, dismissive, and Idai and the doctor got into their vehicle. Far down the road, Idai let out a bark of a laugh. "You know why he let us go? You heard him say it, 'Doctor Martha'. Fifteen years ago you did an operation on one of his cousins. He said he will give her your watch."
====
Earlier:
The large wall clock clacked off another minute. The customs agent glanced up, down again at the transit papers, grunted disapproval. He looked up and stared unsmilingly at the doctor. He looked at the papers again, unblinking, not reading -- thinking rather, planning. He smiled tightly.
"Wait," he commanded, and disappeared behind a door on the far wall. She waited, knowing the game. Unusually long, this time -- more than ten minutes. A siren whined through the open window. The window blinds clattered in the morning breeze. The door opened abruptly and the agent gestured. "Come."
In the office, the agent's superior sat at his broad desk, pretending to be engrossed studying her permits. She had been in this office before, six, no seven years ago. The same neglect, peeled paint, coffee stains -- the same dust and indifference.
The official was surprisingly old -- perhaps her own age. He raised his eyes, sighed, remained seated, shook his head solemnly. "So Dr. Washington. You come again to our beautiful country. I am Under-Sub Minister Siziba. I think I have not had the pleasure of a previous meeting." He did not wait for a reply. "But I should think you would know by now the importance of Zimbabwe law. We are a very lawful people. Civilization cannot work without rules. It is very serious to smuggle technology and drugs into our country, as surely you must know. There are many fees and costs."
They had not met before. She supposed he was reciting his usual speech, varied only slightly for her particulars. So many men like this, over the years -- decades, really. Uniforms with incomprehensible decorations, or shiny suits more expensive than an official income could account for. Corruption and money. Disease and medicine.
Siziba tapped the stack of papers on his desk. "Not in order. No proper stamp. You did not pay the proper fees. I cannot allow your -- what are you calling it? -- your 'mobile surgery' to enter. So sorry, but no entry. It is not possible.”
She looked into his bored, shrewd eyes. Games have rules -- agreed upon, but open to interpretation. She smiled, nodded, and sat down uninvited. They interpreted.
Money, money, money.
====
Earlier:
[applause] Good evening. I'm Martha, as some of you know. Let me tell a story, of sorts. Many years ago, when I was young, I was, yes, believe it, a Flower Child. That dates me. I called myself … 'Titania'. [laughter] We believed in flower power. [singing:] "Love, love, love." "All you need is love..." We'd save the world by painting our faces and dressing like carnival people.
We were a fad, like love beads. [laughter] The world did not cooperate, red in tooth and claw as it is. You've seen the picture of the girl putting a flower in the rifle barrel? I knew her. She died of a drug overdose. We were just children with flowers -- babes in the woods. And victims not just of our own foolishness. There were wolves among the sheep. As there still are criminals, and predators. Lions after goats.
When commercials started singing songs about solving global problems with a soft drink, well how perfectly human. A flower, a smile, a cola, and everyone is young and beautiful. [laughter]
Go ahead and smile, at who we were. If you do, we were right, a little -- honest laughter makes the world better. But we weren't right. Smiles don't save the world -- they brighten a mood. Sometimes that has to be enough. But it's better to do more, if you can.
I grew up a little, finished college, lost my Afro and went into the Peace Corps, to Botswana, a landlocked African country. In those days, the average income was 20 cents a day. They didn't need flower power, they needed clean drinking water. Water power. I came home and became a surgeon. Once a year I'd take a few weeks off and do surgeries in Central African villages -- of course I'd need to follow up the next year or two. When I retired, I took it up full time.
Let me show you. I carry this notebook, my little black book of photos. I have many older ones, and this one's just about full up too. I started with polaroids, and now it's digital, but I like the physical connection of paper. I'm like a grandma, with pictures of my hundreds and hundreds of grandkids, and I don't mind making a nuisance of myself.
You can see on the screen behind me, this little boy, with a cyst the size of a fist on his lip. Yes, it is hard to look at it, isn't it. I removed the cyst. Here he is now. How very, very, very beautiful he is -- utterly transformed, by a procedure of mere minutes. Saving a face is like saving a life. His name is Boitumelo. It means 'Joy'. Pardon me. His smile blinds me. Tears for joy.
Let me make a nuisance of myself. There is an unspeakable need in Zimbabwe. Twenty thousand will cover the final and peculiar costs of this trip. I don't expect it, but the very last thing that came out of Pandora's box was hope, otherwise full of pain. American dollars, of course. Twenty thousand Zimbabwe dollars are about fifty US. It's among the very most corrupt countries.
There's a breakdown of projected expenses on my website. I doubt you'll ever find a budget that's so fascinating. Twenty thousand is a lot of money. It's like, twenty thousand soda pops. [laughter] You and I, we can smile. Not everyone can. This is what money is for.
I don't want just my little shelf -- I want a bookcase, no, a library of these books, full of these beautiful people, my flower children. I want a garden of children of all ages, that stretches farther than human vision can reach. [pause]
We weren't wrong. We just didn't understand, that money is needed too. Money power. It really does help. Because there's "No one you can save that can't be saved." [long pause]
[singing:] "Love, love, love. Love, love, love. Love, love, love."
Thank you. [applause]
End
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