"Come back to me." Those were my last words to her. She responded by giving me a hug, as though she knew it was a promise she could not keep. Later that night there was a knock at my door, her daughter Bertha asking me if we could try and phone the hospital where she had been taken. As we stood on the hill, the cell phone searching for network, I hugged Bertha and told her it was going to be ok. I think we both knew it was a promise I would not be able to keep.
I will never forget the first time I met her, my friend, Mrs. Ennis Mpongo. She was the first woman I met in Chifusa. Eight months pregnant, she stood in her white nurse uniform in front of the Rural Health Center. She was tall with brown skin shining in the sun and heat. I immediately liked her. The way she called me "dear", the way her laugh came out heartily, the way she worked hard and loved without condition.
We did life together. She taught me how to plant a garden, I brought her tomatoes. She translated for me at meetings, I assisted her with quarterly reports. We biked to neighboring villages to talk and treat patients with TB, malaria, and HIV. She found me in my house on rainy days and would chat for hours. I made her try American foods, she taught me how to cook nshima. She named her baby girl after me, I held her when that baby died. She wept with me at the loss of my grandma. She is not here to hold me as I weep for her now.
She made me laugh! I remember a time when I made her soup and put 'Mrs Dash' spices in it. Anytime I looked away she would pick out the spices. Finally I caught her and asked her what she was doing. Not wanting to embarrass me, she said, "Oh, Pego, it's ok, when you are first learning to cook here lots of dirt can get in." 'Mrs Dash' does look a bit like dirt.
She was one of the most generous individuals I have met. People would come to her house at all times for treatment, food, a bicycle, advise, or just the pleasure of her company. She would always send one of her kids to make sure that I had eaten when I came back from a long day of working. She gave birth to 4 children, but she was mother to many. At the time of her death she was caring for her children plus 5 nieces and nephews.
She was my closest friend here, but also like a mother to me. As I sat in her house last Monday crying, I caught a glimpse of a card that I had made her- "Buzuba bamama kabotu." Happy Mother's Day. The card was still sitting on her shelf. She would write me notes that started, "Daughter Pego". If I ever needed advise on an issue in the village I went to her. If I was scared, lonely, or sad I went to her.
I didn't ever go to the hospital to see her and it is killing me. I called to get updates from the nurses but wasn't able to talk to her directly. I was in a taxi once to go and then got out and walked home. In that I have failed her. The last I heard was that she was doing better and recovering at her parent's home in a village 7 hours away.
Last Monday I came back to the village from Choma. I sat on my doorstep and wrote in my journal "Feeling a bit lonely without Mrs Mpongo around". I finished writing and started to get ready for bed. Then I heard the wailing. Sobs cutting through the dusk air with their sorrow and I knew before I say Bertha's tears, before I heard the actual words. I knew my friend, my teacher, my helper, my comforter, was gone.
And I miss her. I want her to be here now. I wanted to eat Christmas dinner with her and her family. I wanted to be the one that said 'see you later' come August. I wanted to take her around in the US and somehow show her how much she meant to me here in Zambia.
Our last day together, before she left for the hospital, she looked at me and said, "I know God is with me". And He was...He is. Her suffering in this life has ended. Her Maker called, "Come Back to Me", and so her life begins.
