I walk down the beaten
shoulder of the nearby two-lane highway, kicking up dust as I dodge rocks, jump
gutters, and avoid getting hit by minibuses. On my way to Four Seasons—a high
end shopping complex—a man rides up to me on his bicycle. With a smile and firm
handshake, he explains that he is unemployed and asks me for a job. A beat later,
a group of children chase me with their hands open and eyes wide, begging for
my spare kwacha. When I arrive at the café, I am greeted by a sea of foreign
faces paying international prices for imported food and Western flavors. I get
my bill for Kw 5000 and carefully count out five 1000 Kwacha bills—each
equating to $1.41 USD (the largest bill in this currency)—from my bulging
wallet. I elect to walk the 15 minutes home instead of calling one of the many
drivers at my disposal, and am greeted at my door by two guards, who salute me
as I walk through the metal, barbed-wire gate.
In a nation dubbed as
“the poorest country in the world,” the average GDP per capita in Malawi is a
little over $225 USD. In the capital city, Lilongwe, water and electricity is
rationed—with scheduled blackouts and water shortages. But in the country as a
whole, only 7% of people have electricity. A girl is 500 times more likely to
have a child before the age of 18 than go to college. And bad rains this year
are projected to leave over 8 million people without food.
But as I navigate my
new environment, I am constantly preoccupied with my inherent privilege. In 17
short days, I have joined an elite class of this society. I run in different
circles than most Malawians—frequenting different restaurants, living in a
different neighborhood, driving different cars, and working in different parts
of town. It is as if I am a mere shadow in this city, observing the lives of
others without really experiencing what it’s like to live here. My skin color
automatically betrays my wealth. My plane ticket alone is more than many
Malawians will earn in a decade. And for that, I am afforded every luxury this
city has to offer.
Being here, in
Lilongwe, is so different from any international experience I’ve had before.
Perhaps I went to bigger cities with more infrastructure. Or perhaps my
biracial features allowed me to escape more unnoticed in Asia than in Africa.
Or maybe I haven’t visited places with such deep-rooted colonialism. But I can’t
shake the feeling that this is somehow wrong. Why am I afforded 7 guards on my
property and have a fleet of trained soldiers available 24/7 should I need
them? Why is it expected for expats to employ one Malawian (who work as
nannies, cooks, drivers, and gardeners for a monthly salary of less than I spend
on a single night out) per member of their household? Why is this place so
overrun by foreign well-wishers, here to provide services—albeit that are well
needed—for a few years before going back to their home countries? And why is
there such a clear class barrier between races?
There is nothing I
have done to deserve this elevated treatment more than being born with white
skin in an affluent country. I am no more talented or driven than the young
leaders I’ve met in Malawi. But for some reason, I can travel over 10,000 miles
from my home just because I want to, while others cannot. I see the appeal of
the expat life: it’s comfortable. But am I really, truly learning as much as I
can by sitting in my well-lit apartment with imported furniture, high-speed
wifi, and hot showers? Is just being aware of privilege enough? Or am I
betraying my own values by melding into this easy, upper-class life?
