Hello friends and family,
There’s no way to soften this: last week, someone attacked me in my village.
I was biking to the clinic when I saw a man standing on a pile of garbage by the side of the road. He was whip thin, graying, and, strangely enough, holding a brick in his hand. I’d met him before: he was one of a handful of outcasts who hung around the market and pestered me for money. But unlike the other beggars, who are mostly just drunks, he was “not quite right” in the head. He often mumbled about how he: “knows every white man, including your brother, Isaac,” or that he has, “12 wives and 40 daughters at home.” He’s clearly intelligent—his English is impeccable—but he’s not all the way there. The villagers refer to him euphemistically as, “that confused man.”
As I passed by him, I smiled and called out, “morning!” He didn’t return my greeting or my smile. Instead, he drew his hand back and threw the brick at my front wheel. His aim was dead-on, and the brick hit the side of my wheel right above ground, causing my tire to slide and go out from under me. My bike went sideways and I crashed into the ground. I caught my fall with my hands and cut my left one on the sharp rocks and glass on the ground.
For a moment, I laid there in the dirt, unable to grasp what had just happened. Then I stood up, wheeled on the guy and yelled, “what the fuck was that!” He said nothing and started walking down the trash-hill. I repeated, “what the fuck was that!”
“You never come see me.” He said. There was no anger or malice in his voice. If anything, he sounded a little hurt. “You said you would visit me, but you did not.”
“I don’t give a shit if I haven’t visited you!” I yelled. “Don’t fucking throw rocks at me!”
“Ah!” He said. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t care, don’t ever fucking do that again! Ever!” I said. He didn’t react to that. He just continued to walk past me like nothing had happened. I waited until he was far away from me, then I pulled out my water bottle and rinsed the blood off my hands. There was a lot of it.
When I looked up, around 30 villagers were approaching me. They had clearly seen or heard what had happened and were as incensed as I was. A middle aged farmer in a nice shirt walked up to me and asked: “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine.” I said, patting my hand clean with some tissue paper. The cuts were still bleeding.
“Achh, this man.” He said. “Has he apologized?”
“Nope.” I said.
A few of the other men had cornered my assaulter. They were pushing him back and forth, edging him towards me, and yelling that he should say sorry. He had been indifferent a moment ago, but now he started to look a little remorseful, something approaching an apology. He was probably just acting guilty so that the other guys wouldn’t beat him, but I wondered whether, in his “confusion,” he didn’t realize what he had just done.
He was pushed closer to me and he mumbled, “I am sorry, Colton.”
I couldn’t tell if he was sincere, and frankly I didn’t care. I didn’t respond, I just stared back at him and waited for him to meet my eyes. He didn’t. After a moment, some of the women started pushing him around and yelling, in Bemba, things like, “what the fuck was that!”
I was grateful that the villagers had my back, but I worried that the situation would escalate and this guy would have the living hell beaten out of him. So I put on my best I-swear-I’m-not-mad smile and spoke to the man who came up to me first.
“What’s your name?” I asked?
“John.” He said.
“Thank you ba John.” I said. “I really appreciate you.” I held out my right hand and he shook it. Maybe if the villagers saw that I was chipper, they would calm down and wouldn’t make things worse. But maybe they wouldn’t. After a quick inspection of my bike—the crate mounted in the back was broken, but everything else was intact—I got on it and headed off to my clinic. It was hard to keep blood off of my handlebars, but I managed.
I stopped by the market to buy my morning snacks. The vendors like to tease and banter with me, but they could tell from my scowl that I wasn’t in the mood that day. They handed me my food and I went to the clinic.
As I write this, I’m away from my village, visiting the new cohort of volunteers in Lusaka. I’m sad to say that I’m nervous to return to my village. What will happen when I see this guy again? Will he be normal or manic? Will he aim for my head next time?
The good news is that Peace Corps has my back. They’ve been both responsive and accommodating. That said, there is only so much they can do. They can’t drive this guy out of my village and they can’t watch me wherever I go. At the end of the day, I’m the one responsible for my safety. Well, me and my village. I know they have my back, and they’re the biggest reason that I’m going back.
P.S. I’m totally fine now, by the way. My hand is almost fully healed and I repaired my bike crate. I’m still pretty pissed, though.
I’m so grateful the village has your back!
Sorry this happened, Colton. It may be hard to appreciate, but the fact that he hit your wheel instead of your head should be understood as a positive sign that there's hope for this guy.
I would encourage you to learn more about mental illness; this man pretty clearly is in need of professional psychiatric treatment. If there's any way you can help him get it, that might be the happiest ending imaginable here.
That would be much better for you both than a community beat-down or getting tossed into the local jail. Maybe as a side project? I'm sure he's not the only one who needs help...