*The following letter is addressed to Jaymi Gooden, residing in the USA.

It is from Khalidwe, a
young Malawian girl who was Jaymis host-sister while she visited Africa three years ago.

Muli bwanji, Mlongo?

Its been three years since you were here but it feels much like yesterday. Khalidwe.
Mother still calls you Khalidwe. I say, Mayi, her name is Jaymi and she is from America. She
says, Hush child. I named her Khalidwe. I will call her Khalidwe. Mother still has the phone
number you gave her the day you left. She keeps meaning to call you but Father wont let her. He
says it is too expensive. She keeps meaning to write but she has not yet learned your tongue,
Mlongo. It seems that there is not enough hours in the day. Mother gathers water early in the
morning, just before sunrise. She heats it for the morning bath. Samba, she tells me. Samba,
Khalidwe. The day after you left I thought she was talking to you, then I realized my name is
Khalidwe too, just like yours! That day, I thought of the many things we shared during your trip
to Malawi: our dinner, the blanket, your pink bandana, and my name. We shared many things,
Mlongo. When I think about it, it makes me smile. Mother sometimes catches me smiling to
myself. Khalidwe, your head is no use to me in the stars, she says. Help me with breakfast
when you are done bathing.
After breakfast, Mother checks on the chickens. Then she tends to my grandmother and
together they dress the little ones. They talk with Father and my uncle to see what needs to be
bought at the market. I ask Mother if I can go too. It is Saturday and school is not in session.
Uncle says itll be too crowded and Ill only be in the way. I finished all my school work
yesterday but decide to practice some more of your strange language, Mlongo. I walk around the
yard pointing to objects, saying them first in Chichewa and then repeating them in English.

Nkhuku. Chicken. Mpira. Ball. Chingwe. Rope. Thanthwe. Rock. What strange words you speak,
Mlongo. No wonder Mother cannot learn them. But I am learning and I learn quickly. Every
word I write now was taught to me in that school you and your friends help to build while you
were here. I am now 13 and am nearly done with my early learning. I want to continue but there
is no high school for many miles. Mlongo, why didnt you and your friends build another
school? Is it too much money? I can send some to your home in America if you like. I earned 20
Kwacha from running errands for the neighbors. I dont know how much more well need to
build a school but that should cover most of it, right? If not, I can speak to some of the elders. It
is not my place but if Im lucky Mother wont find out and curse me.
Also, one of the elders grandsons favor me. We call him Chisomo. Grace. He is kind to
me and very smart. He asked Father for my hand in marriage twice under the customary
patrilineal-something-act. I asked Father what that meant and he said that if I were to marry him
I would have to move away to live with his family. I cried at this news. Father soothed me. You
are too young to be married. Youre not even eighteen, child. It is against the law, and Chisomo
knows that, he said. I heard Mother snort behind him as she prepared nsima and beans. That
law is as useless as a three-legged goat. Everyone knows a young girl can be coerced into
marriage if impregnated. All eyes shot to me and stayed there for what felt like forever. My
tears stopped, replaced by anger and insult. I pulled away from my father and stomped away. I
heard Uncle chuckle behind me. Well, she may not be pregnant but whoever does get her
pregnant is going to have his hands full when she gets old enough to speak her mind.
Im not an idiot, Mlongo. I know what happens to girls who have a child out of wedlock.
They are looked down upon. Everywhere they turn people stare and shake their heads in
disapproval. They might as well point out a finger and shout, There she is! The woman with no

shame and no husband to take care of her or her child! They might as well strip her naked in
broad daylight like they did to the other woman. Did you hear, Mlongo? Last week I went to the
Lilongwe market with Mother and Father and there was a woman. She was alone and
unaccompanied by a man. Mistake. She wore nothing but a big t-shirt with nothing else
underneath. Big mistake. People whistled and said dirty words to her. Another lady I recognized
as part of the Anankungwi approached her and tried to calmly get her off the street before she
caused trouble. The half-naked girl said, Nobody has the right to dictate what I wear. There is
freedom in dressing, dont you know? No, I didnt know that and whoever told her that deserves
to be whipped with at least six sticks because they got her in big trouble. An angry mob
ambushed her and stripped her naked and said more dirty words. I heard an elderly man who was
standing next to Father in the street say, This was what she wanted to show off: her body to
everyone. So, they were simply helping everyone to see it. Father didnt say anything. I looked
from the naked sobbing woman curled up in a ball on the street up to my mother holding our
daily purchases. Mayi, I said. Hush, child, she softly commanded and continued walking
after nudging my father to do the same. Mayi, I tried again. Mother stopped and looked down
at me. We cant back her actions. She deserved it and if ever she prays, she should thank God
for being spared, she was going to be raped.
She deserved it. Tell me, Mlongo, do people dress like that in America and if they do, are
they stripped and left sobbing in the street, broken and humiliated for it? I hope not. I saw awful
people do awful things last week, say dirty words that would have me bent over at the whipping
bush if they so much as teetered on my lips. There is freedom in dressing. Thats what she said.
That night when everyone was sleeping, I stripped from the waste up and stepped into the
backyard. I examined myself with the small hand mirror Father had bargained for me that day.

So this is what it was like to be free. I didnt feel any different. I didnt understand this womans
freedom. I started dancing. I pretended you were there with me, Mlongo. I imagined you fully
naked. I stripped off the rest of my chitenje and we danced together. Something extraordinary
happened. The pink bandana you gave me the day you left the village, the one you wore
everyday while staying with us, appeared on your head. I paused and smiled. I fetched the one
you gave me from out of the corner of my room and quickly tied it on my head. I went back out
into the yard, picked up the mirror and my smile widened at my reflection. Mother never let me
wear it in public. She said it was dirty and although we were poor, we werent that poor--whatever that meant. I put the mirror back down, all of my Mothers prior protests fading in the
back of my head, and started dancing with you again. I couldnt care less what was proper or
poor-looking at that moment and neither could you, Mlongo. We were just two Khalidwes,
dancing naked in the yard, clothed in nothing but the pink bandanas on our heads and the
moonlight on our back. We were free.
I have an idea, Mlongo. I got it the night I went to sleep, exhausted from our dancing. Im
going to continue school. I am standard 8 right now, but after that I am going to go to high school
and then Im am going to go to a university and study to be a lawyer. Others should be free too.
Free to wear big t-shirts and pink bandanas. What do you think Mlongo? Do you think I can do
it? Not many girls in our village go past standard 8, but I will. I will be a fearless fighter, just like
Vera Chirwa. Have you heard the tale of Fearless Fighter? I will tell you now, Mlongo.
Vera Chirwa was imprisoned and tortured for twelve long years for defying the British
government. Uncle says that Malawi used to be under British control and Africans, especially
girls, were denied certain rights. But Vera was not so weak. She fought for her education and she
became an activist. She was sent to prison for twelve long years where they tortured her and

detained her without a fair trial. Still she fought and what happened, Mlongo? I will tell you now.
She became the first Malawian woman ever to qualify as a lawyer. I will meet her and she will
help me be a lawyer too. We will fight for human rights in Africa together. Write to me, Mlongo,
and tell me where to start.
When you write, tell me everything about the women in America. Do they wear big tshirts like the woman in the market? Are they proposed to at the age of 13? Do they leave their
home for their husbands? Can they walk in your markets by themselves? Are they looked down
upon if they are with child before the proper time, or are they later coerced into marriage like
Mother said? Do they take orders from their uncles and other males in their families? Do they
rise with the sun like me and Mother, or do they sleep like pigs in the mud all day? What do the
women in America do for money? I had a sister just like you a long time ago. She was older than
me by many years but I remember her well. I do not know why but one day she ran away. She
would send us money every month and Father and Uncle would send it right back to wherever it
came from. I heard Uncle say, It is a whores pocket change. Let her keep it. Is it bad to be a
whore in America? Its bad to be one here. But some girls get paid for it like my sister.
I think you can get paid for anything if you are good at it. I will be paid to be a lawyer.
The Fearless Fighter can help me. Before you know it, everyone will be able to wear big t-shirts
and pink bandanas. Then, when I am done I will journey to America to find you, Mlongo, and we
will dance under your moon this time.

Zabwino Zonse,
Your Mlongo,
Your Sister

Works Cited
Chaaban, Jad and Wendy Cunningham. "Measuring the economic gain of investing in
girls: the girl effect dividend volume 1." 8 August 2011. WorldBank.org.
Electronic. 5 5 2014.
Chirwa, Vera. Fearless Fighter: An Autobiography. London: Zed Books, 2007. Print.
Mvula, Peter M. and Paul Kakhongwa. Beyond Inequalities: Women in Malawi.
Zomba: University of Malawi Centre for Social Research, 1997. Print.
Odhiambo, Agnes. "I've Never Experienced Happiness: Child Marriage in Malawi."
International Organization Research. 2014. Electronic.