Becoming a Real Zambian Woman Through My Hands...

Taken from a journal entry 05/10/2010
I sit in the blistering, afternoon sun drowning my linen skirts and button-up collared shirts in a big bucket of blue, soapy water, the soap stinging my roughed-up fingertips. I continue to scrub on clothes over my raw knuckles, breaking the skin as I wash. Blisters cover my skin from shucking hardened corn cobs with my family yesterday. The neighborhood children enthusiastically demonstrated how to efficiently pop the wax-like kernels off the cob which will then be taken by bike in a large, straw sack down to the hammer-mill to be magically turned into mealie meal and then whisked into boiling nshima. My fingertips are now calloused like that of an amateur guitarist.
The tops of my fingers are hardened, some of them scabbing, from the times I have been daring enough to grab the steaming pot off the firey charcoals, attempting to emulate my Zambian sisters who do this with relaxed skill. The charcoals have won the battle every attempt, and my fingers have taken the brunt of the war. The insides of my palms are ripping like stitches on a beaten baseball. My stitch-like scratches are outcomes from my struggle with the well. I lower the empty, yellow jerrycan down the dark, mysterious hole into the ground, staring into my own reflection as it lowers. I try to dunk the bucket under the water as deep as possible to minimize the amount of time I have to stare at my wrinkling reflection. I pull the coarse rope up with extreme might using every weak muscle in my scrawny arms. The rope reminds me of summertime at Horace Lake, the rope swing usually leaving burns on me and my cousins' smooth, white hands. My hand burns now are not outcomes from a fun, entertaining, summer activity like that of the Horace Lake rope swing, but more an outcome of survival; fetching the water so I can cook, drink and perhaps bathe before the sun goes down. After about six trials with the bucket, I have two large jerrycans filled to the brim to carry on my short walk home. I have yet to master carrying water on my head. My sister, Ba Rodrina, stands in front of her hut, with her hand on the hip of her tall, slender body analyzing my baby steps with her large, curious eyes, and encourages me, "You will get used, Ba Katherine." I laugh and reply short-winded, "Hopefully, Ba Rodrina, hopefully." Her curious eyes continued to stare at my gripping hands. Her hands don't look as mine do. They are broken in from hard work, soap scrubbing, and heart-felt cooking.
The hands of Zambian women are tough, symbolic of their dedication to family values. Through loads of handwashing, trials of rope-pulling, and the mastered art of handling fuming pots. My hands may never get used to the ways of a Zambian woman, but I will callous them until they look like that of a pro-guitarist.