I received word this morning that Alice (pronounced AL-i-see) Kabombo, my family's "housegirl" in Zambia, died last Tuesday of complications from malaria.
Alice came to work for my family when she was in eighth grade. Her family couldn't afford to pay for her education, so she quit school, knocked on my parents' door, and asked for a job. At the time, Mom wasn't sure about the ethics of having a full-time maid, but hired Alice so she could make sure this bright young girl finished school.
For the next eleven years, Alice was one of the foundations of my childhood. She was there when my sister was born, and carried Martha around on her back for the first two years of Martha's life. I can still hear Alice humming as she worked, and feel the warmth of her touch. Any time Mom couldn't find Martha and me at dinner time, she knew to look for us sitting around Alice's cooking fire.
Later, Alice trained as a nurse's aid, and worked with AIDS patients in rural villages around Jembo Mission. She gave these sick people vitamins and love, because that's all she had to offer. But it was enough.
Alice never married, but adopted a niece and nephew, both of whom she put through university. And when I visited her in 1999, her cooking fire was still a place for friends, neighbors, and family to gather.
One of my strongest memories from childhood is of seeing Alice falling down and wailing at Brother Munsaka's funeral. The other mourners kept picking her up, but she would fall back down and writhe in grief. It was so frightening seeing this rock of my childhood in such a state.
Alice was buried at Jembo Mission last Tuesday. Since Zambian funerals last seven days, I'm sure there are still people wailing for her. Today, I join my tears with theirs.