I ask whether they have an 8 year old named Thomas Johnson in the wards. I hear a click on my phone and the patient registrar comes on the phone. The nighttime rides can be pretty long, and bumpy. That being said, I decide to call the city hospital just to see how Maggie’s doing. “Yeah, she came in last night with her brother-we referred him to the main hospital.” Jay turns his head around and I prepare for more twin talk. “Hey,” I say to him as he sticks one foot into the car. “Sorry!” I say and then remember that he was the doctor on call last night. Lost in my thought, I then run smack into Dr. Maybe she’s in line? I stand on my tip toes to get a better view and almost crash into a 3 year old. Between eating French fries and watching Disturbia, Maggie had mentioned taking Thomas to the clinic. Her youngest brother, Thomas, wasn’t feeling well last night. I peak into the throng to see if I can spot Maggie.
The crowds are especially thick today, the veranda flooded by mothers with babies and toddlers tied to their backs. I step outside again, and am met with a throng of people at the pediatric clinic. Pediatric clinic at Neno District Hospital Both of us hail from the city (Maggie’s originally from Blantyre, Malawi’s financial capital) and have both found out that while you can take the girl out of the city you can’t take the… well you know the rest. But it’s not the birthdays that earn us the nickname-rather, it’s our affinity for high heeled boots in the middle of rural Africa, and our penchant for watching music videos of Rihanna and Chris Brown together at sunset. Maggie is not really my twin my birth in Beverly Hills and her concurrent birth here in Malawi makes that physically impossible.
“Your twin?” Claire asks, shaking her head. “Hey, have you seen Maggie? The Head came to my house looking for her. “ Bo bo ( what’s up)?” I shout into the room. I pass the Emergency Room and peak into the Rehab Clinic my Malawian roommate, Claire, is running. My house is right across the street from the Neno District Hospital, and I quickly skip across the dusty road to the main entrance. Road leading from Ivy's house to the hospital It’s morning in Neno, Malawi, one of the poorest districts in one of the poorest countries in the world, and instead of celebrating my one year anniversary at Partners in Health (PIH), a global health non-profit, I’m becoming the poster child for Ophidiophia. The sun is just starting to rise over the mountains, a beautiful sight if I wasn’t so terrified. Where in the world is Maggie? Maybe she ran to fetch water? The staff houses fade into the distance and I bang on the door of the mud and thatched roof dwelling of Magdalene Johnson. I take half a second to let my life flash before my eyes and then whip around and sprint back into the village. Jay-Z pulsing through my iPod, I round the corner of the maize fields and come upon something distinctly green and succinctly unhappy. It’s 6:00am and I’m doing my daily run through the African bush.
The following is excerpted from an article in which Ivy describes an event that revealed both how much she shares with her closest Malawian friend and colleague (her "twin") and how wide a gulf separates the experiences of those born in the United States from their peers in poor countries like Malawi. Ivy Kuperberg worked for a year for PIH's partner organization in Malawi, Abwenzi Pa Za Umoyo, as the assistant to the project's Country Director.
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