Malawi Dictation: Gule Wamkulu

I go with two nurses to drop off supplies to a small village lying in the dust next to railroad tracks. The red dust fields match the red brick houses match the rows of red mud bricks spread in the sun to dry. We drive haltingly down the dust paths, and if not for the window glass I could easily reach out and touch men scooping mud, women hacking branches, men grilling potatoes on sheets of tin propped above wood fires, children carrying staffs of sugar cane on their shoulders.

We are just starting to turn into the hollow of the village center when a man jumps in our path and crosses quickly, lurking off to the side. His body is covered with white powder, black smudged designs, and his ankles are tied with cuffs of rustling dry grass—but what makes him truly transformed is the huge skirt of dried grass tied above his eyes and shagging down past his neck. I don’t know how he can see. In one hand he holds a wide flat knife.

He circles around at the edges of our sight, appearing in the gaps between houses and bushes as we unload the supplies. He has a skill for finding the exact dynamic path that will allow him to take just one step backwards and vanish, though he chooses to be seen. Through his way of hovering at the edge, he creates an active tension that makes it impossible to forget about him. All the village women have come to watch us unload and help tally the goods. We’re waist deep in an ocean of children’s eyes that watch every movement, taking in whatever is going on. I don’t think anyone is too comfortable with me, and this provokes in me an acute hyper-sensitivity to the speech of my demeanor. My long skirt that grazes my toes, the twitches of my fingers by my side, the sun that collects as pools of white on my black shirt, the smallest movements of my lips and eyes. I’m thrown out of my mind, and into the surfaces of me that can be seen. I start to realize their unease has something to do with the dry grass man, who every so often hoists up his knife and yells “Arrrrgaaaah!” while he circles. People laugh a bit or glance at him nervously when he does this, then look at me.

I fold my skirt back into the car and we’re on to the next stop. I hear the driver chuckling and look out my window—and find myself staring into tiny round holes for eyes, cut out of cardboard that men wear for masks. The cardboard is smoothly curved around their faces, tapering down a few inches below their natural chins to make snouted shapes. The masks are painted white-green, white-blue, or grey. Otherwise they are blank, except for the tiny black holes for eyes. Their heads rotate to keep their eyes on my eyes as we pass.

“Have you ever seen them?” asks the driver.

“No!”

“Do not worry, they are actually people. Now they are not people, but tomorrow they will be people.”

A few feet down the road, I see the dry grass man sitting alone by a tree, his arms lying straight out on folded knees, head drooping. He looks like he’s sulking, or brooding. A person in a costume sitting alone is a compelling sight. The impression that strikes you is of unnatural loneliness, because a costume is for others to see. I can’t figure out why he is sitting outside the village, off on his own. It seems very strange, until I discover the assumption that is causing all the dissonance. Finally I understand that the only way it makes sense is if it is not a costume at all.