They Call Me Bwana

They call me Bwana! How cool is that? I have wanted to be a bwana ever since I watched Ramah of the Jungle on Saturday morning T.V. I pictured myself crashing through thick jungle vegetation with dozens of porters transporting supplies so I could live in the manner to which I was accustomed. Well now I am bwana. We have a cook, housekeeper, gardener, and watchmen, all doing their best to keep me fat and happy.

But it’s not just the house staff that calls me bwana. It’s my friends from the Widows’ Fund, as well as the ordinary, every day man on the street. Sometimes they anglicize it and call me “boss” but it’s all the same. Still others call me mister (meester), or pastor/muliska/abusa, or muzungu, or gogo, or director, or, once in a great while, Paul.

But frankly I prefer bwana. It has a nice ring to it don’t you think?

Of course all you have to do to earn this esteemed title is to be white, male, and over 18. The reality is, I’m a babe in the dangerous jungle of Malawian cultural norms. What’s more, bwana is close to the Tumbuka word mwana which means child. Maybe that’s why I like it. Some days I feel more like a mwana than a bwana. But, thank goodness, so far nobody calls me Mwana.