Azungu

In Malawi white people are called ‘azungu’. It is a positive word, originally a greeting with which you welcome foreigners. Walking down the street children point and wave at me in enthusiastic surprise, chanting “Aaaah-zuuung-guuuh!!” When I wave back at them, their joy is complete. They have a story to tell each other for the rest of the week. Browsing in the market salespeople call out to me to attract my attention: “Azungu!”, “Madam!”, “Azungu!” I am white and therefore rich, a good customer to have. They can try and charge me ‘azungu prices’. My 200 euro salary does not make me feel rich, most of my Malawian neighbours are certainly wealthier than I am, but they do not know this. As far as they are concerned all azungu are millionaires. They have seen the movies. They have seen the diplomats and aid workers in their big four-wheel-drive all-terrain vehicles. They have seen the gadgets even the poorest looking azungu tourists adorn themselves with. They know everything about azungu they need to know. Sometimes this knowledge leads to truly amazing behaviour. What to think of the young men that walk up to me in the street, brashly demanding: “Azungu, give me your bicycle!”. This happens a lot. “Azungu, give me your money!” Recently I have started to challenge people who do this. I say: “What do you think you are doing, approaching a total stranger in this manner? You don’t talk to rich Malawians this way, do you? Do you think that just because I am azungu you can walk up to me and shout ‘Give me! Give me! Give me!’?” This response baffles them. Because what else are azungu for but to give, give, give? It is not their fault that they think this. We have taught them this. Without realising it, without wanting it, we have taught them this. Unknowingly we have taught them things about azungu we are quite unaware of.

One Saturday evening when Mayeso arrived to start work, he noticed that I had done a lot of work in the garden, collecting rubble and putting it on big piles. Perplexed he stammered: “You have really surprised me, Madam, you have really amazed me.”

Confused I asked him: “Why is this?”

“Because I did not think you could work hard.”

Even more confused I said:“Excuse me? Why not? I am healthy. I have arms and legs. Why should I not be able to work hard?”

“Because you are weak. You look like a baby.”

By now I was stunned: “I beg your pardon?! I look like a baby?? You mean just me or all azungu?”

“All azungu. You look like babies. Because your bodies are soft, like babies. They do not look as if they could work hard, like we do. But you, you are active, Madam! You are like an African! That is why you have amazed me.”

I must say I was amused at the ease with which he was insulting me. He did not seem to realise it. It was all delivered in the friendliest of explanatory manners: The sky is blue, papaya’s grow on trees, azungu are like babies. It is no surprise that he should think this. All azungu that come to live in Malawi are told we must have staff to do our manual labour for us. Cleaning, gardening; it is our social obligation to provide employment for poor local people. They, clearly, draw their own conclusions. It reminds me of a ni-Vanuatu colleague who thought that white people were inherently smarter than the ni-Vanuatu because all white people went to university. For those were the only white people she ever met. I explained to Mayeso that azungu in their home countries do not have staff like they do when they live in Africa. At home they do all the work themselves.

He nearly fainted: “No! This cannot be true! You are not strong enough!”

When I added that they do all the work themselves because they cannot afford to have staff - what with having to pay a living wage and all – things moved outside the realm of the comprehensible altogether. I did not want to upset him too much: I asked him to start digging the flowerbeds. Order was restored.