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In front of me, Howard holds the terminal building door and we duck in. An ear-splitting boom of thunder is followed by a fork of silver white lightning. Zambia, a landlocked country, lies just beneath the equator. This is the heart of the tropics. And this is home. Even without my family.
We clear customs close to midnight, and our driver is waiting for us near the rustic baggage claim. He doesn’t attempt to make conversation during the twenty-minute drive to our hotel, a tall, modern-looking building that could be any Inter-Continental Hotel in the world. Turns out it is an Inter-Continental Hotel.
We check into our rooms, same floor just a few doors down from each other. After stripping off the traveling clothes I vow to never, ever wear again, I fall into bed.
I sleep like the dead and am awakened by my alarm at nine. I call Howard’s room to see if he’s up, as we have our first interview at eleven at Darlene’s art gallery in downtown Lusaka.
We agree to meet downstairs in the restaurant within a half hour. I wash my hair and blow it dry, and although it looks appalling, I’m so excited to be here and starting the day that I don’t care.
Our driver’s in the lobby by ten-thirty, and he has us at Darlene’s small gallery office in twenty minutes. Lusaka might be the capital of Zambia, but it’s small and cozy in size compared with Los Angeles.
Darlene is warm and welcoming and absolutely delighted to meet me. “I’ve been a fan of yours for years,” she says, giving me a big Texas squeeze. “Before I moved here permanently, I watched your show every night. How’re you doing? How was the flight?”
Darlene’s incredible. The interview is electric. She’s absolutely passionate about helping Zambian women support themselves and their family with handmade arts, and although she misses her friends and family back home, she’s convinced she’s doing what she’s meant to do. And I think I’ve found my calling, too.
This is what I’m meant to do.
Real stories, real women.
I’m on cloud nine as we arrive at Zambia’s Population Services International office after Darlene’s interview. Richard Harrison, the director of the Zambia office, is out of the country, but his assistant Jean welcomes us warmly. I’ve read all of PSI’s press materials on the flight, and as Howard sets up the camera and hands us both microphones, I ask Jean about PSI’s programs.
“We’re very focused on malaria, reproductive health, child survival, and HIV programs,” she answers, taking a seat in one of two chairs we’ve put together for the interview. “Our objective is promoting products, services, and healthy behavior so that low-income and vulnerable people can lead healthier lives.”
It’s not until we’re ten minutes into the interview that I realize YouthAIDS, the group for which Ashley Judd serves as ambassador, is affiliated with PSI.
When I mention Ashley, Jean’s eyes light up. “She’s been tremendous. She’s a tireless ambassador, and her efforts are bringing needed recognition and funding to YouthAIDS and PSI services.”
“Don’t the statistics ever overwhelm you?” I ask.
She smiles again, yet her expression strikes me as both sad and wise. “They would, if I let them. But I won’t give myself that luxury. Life is very short, and very precious. I feel a responsibility to my community. If I can help make a difference, then that is what I want to do.”
“Where do you find the strength?”
She starts to answer and then stops. Her dark eyes glisten, but she waits to speak. “I look into the faces of children. They hope for so much. They’re so innocent. They do not know all the things we know— ” Her voice breaks and she waits again until she is sure of herself. “If I can help save one of them, then I have done a very good thing.”
I don’t even know that I have tears in my eyes until the camera is off and Howard is reaching for our microphones. I hand him the microphone and blink, and a tear falls.
“Good interview,” he says.
I hug Jean.
Howard and I part ways on our floor outside our rooms. We’re both thinking a nap sounds pretty good, and we make plans to meet for a drink before dinner in the lobby’s lounge. Our pilot, Chance, is scheduled to join us for dinner and talk about our next few days at Victoria Falls.
I’m sound asleep when a door slams and wakes me. Startled, I sit up. It takes me a moment to place where I am. Hotel. Lusaka.
With a glance at the clock, I see I’ve been sleeping for hours. I have only a few minutes before I’m to meet Howard and Chance.
Chance, I repeat silently as I take a quick shower and change into my orange tunic and white slacks. It’s the same outfit I wore to the baby shower at Shutters, only I’ve pulled my hair into a ponytail and am wearing flat sandals.
Howard’s not in the lounge, but I spot Chance right away. He’s leaning on the bar, talking to the bartender. Very blond and very tan, he’s not a pretty boy. With his weathered skin and stocky, muscular build, he reminds me of a South African rugby player.
Chance spots me as I enter the darkened lounge, and he studies me for a moment before pushing off the bar.
“Chance,” he says, meeting me halfway across the lounge. He’s taller than me, but I wouldn’t describe him as big. No, he’s average height. Compact. Strong. With an open face and a friendly smile.
“Tiana Tomlinson,” I answer, shaking his hand. “My cameraman, Howard, should be down soon.”
“I don’t know what kind of pictures you’ll get with this,” he says, gesturing to the windows, which are slick with rain. “Last year was the wettest rainy season in thirty years, and so far this year’s not much better.”
He has a distinctive accent, although it’s neither English nor Afrikaans. “Where were you raised?” I ask him.
“Kenya.”
“Is that where you live now?”
His smile broadens. “They told me you were a reporter.”
A reporter. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called that, and I flush with pleasure. “I’m sorry. I’m always curious about people.”
“No, it’s fine.”
We walk back to the bar where Chance’s beer sits, and he asks me what I’d like to drink. It’s five-thirty here, which means it’s cocktail hour. “White wine,” I answer.
The bartender asks if I have a preference.
“The house white would be fine.”
The house white is a Stellenbosch, from the heart of South Africa’s wine country. The winery is less than ten miles from my home.
I’m again swamped by emotion— love and grief, longing and need. I lost my childhood overnight. Left my native country at sixteen. Reinvented myself as a smart, ambitious American young woman. It wasn’t such a stretch. Dad was American, and I was ambitious. But now my mother’s Africa reaches for me, and I want to fall into it, embrace it, reclaim my past.
They say you can’t go home again. But what if you could?
Over drinks we talk about Kenya and South Africa, Zambia and Botswana. We talk about the rainy season— which is now— and the rise in ecotourism, trying to pass the time until Howard appears.
In midthought, Chance breaks off. “Is that your cameraman there?”
I turn to the doorway and the figure silhouetted against the light. “No.”
But I know him.
I watch Michael O’Sullivan enter the dark lounge as though he were a gunslinger entering a western saloon.
He’s dressed in jeans and a white linen shirt that he hasn’t bothered to tuck in. A lock of black hair falls forward on his brow as he looks around, taking in the lounge seating, and then walks to a group of men gathered around a low table.
One of the men who were seated gets to his feet and vigorously pumps Michael’s hand. It’s a warm welcome, and the group is delighted to see him. They pull up a chair for him and he sits down, shaking hands with everyone as he does so.
“Fancy him, do you?” Chance teases as he leans on the counter to order another beer.
“I know him.” And then as I cont
inue to stare at him, Michael suddenly turns and looks straight at me.
I don’t know what to do now. I can’t exactly pretend I don’t know him or that I haven’t seen him. For God’s sake, I kissed the guy.
So I do the only thing that I can do in this situation. I walk over to say hello.
“Michael.”
He rises and then leans down to kiss my cheek. His hair is still damp, his skin is warm, and I catch a whiff of soap and shaving cream. “So you’ve arrived.”
It’s just a kiss on the cheek, but I go hot all over. “Safe and sound.”
“Good.”
And then he smiles, and I think he’s never looked more attractive. Faded jeans that cling to his quads. Loose white linen shirt that shows off the makings of a tan. Strong hands. Great face. Dammit.
I become aware of the group of men waiting for his attention. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I shouldn’t keep you.”
“No, please, let me introduce you, especially as you’ll be seeing most of them during the next few weeks.” He gestures to the men he’s joined. “Tiana, I’d like to introduce you to my esteemed colleagues and very good friends. Dr. Paul Zarazoga, Dr. Ranjeev Kapoor, Dr. Jon Danovich, Dr. Marques Mukajere, and Dr. Tomas Voskul.”
