Saints and Laborers

Put on the Gospel armor, each piece put on with prayer; where duty calls or danger, be never wanting there.

“Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus”

The other day, after Wednesday’s worship service, I saw Tendai Tagwira. When I first met Tendai, back in ’93, she had just begun primary school. I saw her again in 1995 and 2000, during which years she was a quiet, polite, and highly articulate child. This year I met her as Dr. Tagwira, a most recent graduate of Zimbabwe’s medical school. Of course I asked about her internship, and she replied that she would be assigned to a public hospital in either Harare or Bulawayo. In either case she will be dealing with lots of HIV/AIDS cases—so I suppose she’ll need that Gospel armor, even if (as a thoroughly scientific physician) she calls it “surgical gloves.” And I guarantee you that “where duty calls or danger,” Tendai Tagwira will not be wanting! You see, Tendai comes from good stock. I know her folks.

Tendai’s mother is named Margaret. While working for her Masters degree in Public Health, Margaret Tagwira spent the better part of a year serving a village, out in “the communal areas.” The communal areas are territories that even the greediest white people did not bother to steal. Communal-area land is bare, rocky, dry—and in some cases, almost vertical. A village in the communal areas typically has only two latrines, segregated by gender; it may also have a single, reliable water-point, or it may not. If you make it to the communal areas in your 4X4, children will stare as if you had beamed in from a Star-Trek galaxy. In other words, the communal areas are parts of Zimbabwe that do not appear in the tourist brochures, and if they receive any medical care at all, it is through the heroism of Zimbabwe’s public-health workers, from the hands of people like Margaret Tagwira. Today Margaret works mostly at Africa University. Her major field is subsistence-nutrition, and she knows an awful lot about raising mushrooms.

Tendai’s father is probably my best friend in A.U. And he’s one of the real old-timers, having taught at the University since it opened its doors back in 1992. By graduate training, Professor Tagwira is a soil-scientist, earning his PhD in a unique program run jointly by the University of Zimbabwe and Michigan State University. Because of his academic reputation, Prof Tagwira has received plenty of high-dollar job offers from universities in South Africa and the USA. But he sticks with A.U., where he makes less money in a month than a beginning Wofford teacher makes in a day. (In case you think that living in Zimbabwe is super-cheap, I should tell you that a can of Coca-Cola costs about two bucks, and a gallon of black-market gasoline might run as much as $10. Bread, I admit, would be much less expensive than in the USA. But then, of course, there is no bread in Zimbabwe.)

Margaret and the Professor (uh, he’s my dean, and, friendship not withstanding, a lecturer in Zimbabwe never calls a dean by first-name; otherwise, the known universe would disappear) have four children of their own, and they have adopted two more. These good parents swear that, regardless of economic collapse, all six kids will receive full University educations. I hope that, like Tendai, the other Tagwira children will get lots of scholarship aid.

Anyhow, I was awfully glad to see Tendai. She still has her daddy’s great, big smile (“her sweet smile…”; that’s kind of a Wofford joke), and she’s a real doctor now, even if she does paint her toenails that gaudy purple. I’m glad for her, and I’m glad for Zimbabwe.

Now let me shift continents—because I don’t want you to assume that I consider sainthood a purely African virtue. For reasons I shan’t explain, I had to make an America-run last week. In logistical summary I can report that the world is big, that Delta Airlines gets an A for flying & a C- for cabin hospitality, that Spartanburg has great Chinese food, and that I missed seeing most of the people I really wanted to see. In psychological summary I’ll admit that a whirlwind visit to the States can engender culture-shock. I mean, from the politeness of southern Africa, I descended to the highways of Atlanta. In this concrete jungle I watched a dangerous predator in a black Toyota cut off a speeding ambulance, despite siren & flashing lights: thus I was caused to wonder (and not for the first time), “Where is Billy Sherman now that we really need him?”

Despite the perils of the road I made it to Wofford College, where, for all too long, I sat in my office, bemoaning my fate, cursing my loneliness, and generally enjoying my well-developed sense of white-boy guilt. Then I saw my first American saint, the good Dr. Hettes, who showed up with a Care Package of printer-cartridges and dry-erase markers from Wofford’s Biology Department. Then along came Terry Ferguson, who dragged me off, bodily, to get a flu shot (for which he offered to pay). When we’d returned to my office, Terry asked me, “Do you really need my help in Zimbabwe?” I admitted that, for various A.U. projects, I did very seriously need the assistance of a geologist. “Then let me use your computer,” Terry said. He sat down, pulled out a credit card, booked a ticket on the spot, and handed me his flight itinerary. (Terry had already bought three laptop computers for the A.U. Faculty of Agriculture. I hope we get paid back for ‘em. In any case, my gratitude to Terry knows no bounds.)

OK, folks, I have one more personal note. My work load here has escalated a bit, and I’m way behind from my America-trip. Therefore, for at least a little while, I need to be teaching and “wildlifing” real hard, and those activities probably won’t leave much time for blogging. I’ll certainly try to write more before November is too old, but in the meanwhile I hope you saints and laborers will forgive my neglect.