The Flatmate

I moved into a flat with a few other women within a few weeks of getting to Africa. I was at first alone because my roommate was away on a trip. This mystery woman was spoken highly of; relaxed, fierce, a good friend. I looked forward to meeting her, hoping she’d be someone who would befriend me but not coddle me either. The fact I was allowed to move into her room before she met me said it all. I knew she was the type of person who was just content to be where she was. The day she came home I was dealing with the same emotions I’d been dealing with since my arrival in Africa: fear, sadness, homesickness. Tears welled in my eyes, she took my hands and we walked away from the people nearby to talk. She gave me a hug. I felt at home with her. 

Over the summer, we became close friends. We called each other sister. In the mornings, we would walk to the base we worked at together. We’d stay up at night and drink her “nice tea” from her home country. That’s when we talked and got to know each other. We would talk about real life, not just work. She’d ask me about my boyfriend and the things we were talking about and thinking through. Talking, drinking tea, watching TV, cooking; aside from being in a foreign country, it was a fairly mundane friendship. She fought for me that summer, she didn’t want me to drift, she wanted me to be fully there and challenged me in small ways to do just that. She’d tell me I could do things I didn’t think I had the courage to do. And it wasn’t just me. I saw her do this with everyone she met. She wanted everyone to experience what she experienced: a deep love for the present moment, and an unshakeable contentment for whatever came.

About a month and a half after my arrival, news came that my grandmother was sick and not expected to make it. I was sad. My grandmother was the matriarch of our family, the best part of what we had to offer the world. I hated not being home; all I wanted was to be with my family mourning and grieving with them. Instead, I was a million miles away, hurting — but I was was not alone. When the news came, I was with my new friend. She did what she did best, she gave me space to grieve. She made me tea, she talked with me.

My roommate stood by me as the emails came with more news of my grandmother. She didn’t let me wallow. She knew there were things to do and, while she allowed me to grieve, I wasn’t permitted to drift. I was comforted with cups of tea and hugs when I got sad. I was loved, but I was also in that moment challenged with a decision. I could give up, drift away and and let the rest of the summer happen to me. Or I could take a page out of her rule book and lean in and be truly content where I was.

My roommate led a life of contentment, and it wasn’t a dramatic state for her. She just was content. She’d given up privilege and ease in her home country to live under the African sun where she had a cultural dress code different from her native home. In Africa she had to use a bucket shower, she had to wash her clothes by hand a lot of the time, she had to speak in an unfamiliar language. She had learned a culture different from her own, and she did it because she loved the people. She did it because where she was wasn’t important — who she was serving was what mattered.

I spent about two weeks on a separate trip. We spent a week in the north, and then travelled to the southwestern part of the country. Those two weeks away were fun, a little bit of a break from the day-to-day I had found myself in. I loved getting to see a different part of the world, but I was ready to get back to my flat. When I got back I told my flatmate that I was glad to be back home. And that was when I knew I had truly arrived. She looked at me with joy in her eyes and smiled — she knew too. That’s when I realized this wasn’t some big adventure for her — it was just life.

The morning I left I had to wake up before dawn to drive to the airport. She set her alarm the night before so she could tell me goodbye. She gave me a letter with pictures and things we had shared that summer. She included some of her nice tea.

That summer spent under the African sun was really quite amazing. I can’t really sum up my experiences in a way that conveys the gravity of it all, but the people I met and the stories they are living sum it up in a more than beautiful way. I’ve said before that people come and go in life in different seasons for different reasons. As I read over this story I feel I haven’t done her justice because that season I spent with her would have been dramatically less poignant without her there. But I guess that is often the way our lives go when we cross paths with amazing people. We experience these moments where, for a season, we take everything from others, and feel like we have nothing to give in return. Sometimes I think that’s okay because the person we take from doesn’t expect anything in return. My flatmate that summer was just that kind of friend to me.