When I first started writing my new slightly erotic romance novel, Love in Malawi, on June 18, 2012, I didn’t know that Hillary Clinton, the 67th United States Secretary of State, would soon be visiting Malawi. She announced a major expansion of U.S. government investment in Malawi on Sunday August 5th during a visit to the Lumbadzi Milk Bulking Group.
During Clinton’s visit she’d lauded the impact that U.S. Government support has had on improving HIV/AIDS awareness. She said, "I'm also proud that we see a partnership with the President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief, so people can also receive HIV testing and counseling services here."
That was such an excellent reveal. But during her short bee-swarming visit, nothing was acknowledged, revealed or discussed about the prevalence of the schistosomiasis epidemic in north-east Malawi, a parasitic disease caused by several species of worms and snails in the drinking water wells in the village of Karonga that is infecting villagers and especially the children in the orphanage.
Don’t be afraid, schistosomiasis is not expected to infect drinking water in the U.S.
While enjoying my travels throughout Africa and volunteering at Lion Conservation in South Africa, I was always devastated and even worse than that I was repulsed by so much unnecessary poverty in the towns and villages, conditions that us privileged Americans, even lower income families from impoverished inner-city and rural neighborhoods, would not survive in for one month.
Over the years I’ve learned to externalize and free my lifestyle from stupid politics, material greed, corporate manipulation, and most of all I learned not to listen to and let the media determine my lifestyle by championing breaking news with exclusive reporting about economic recessions and city, state and even country economic collapses. The U.S. Constitution insures our freedom. I refuse to be led down a road with many forks in it that lead to educational, social and intellectual propaganda. Government employees who determine policy and facilitate laws, spending and taxes are usually near-sighted visionaries and are shocked after devastating facts reveal their inequities in governing.
Thus, Love in Malawi.
My novel, Love in Malawi, even though it is mostly about the discovery of what love is between people and how it works its magic inside the minds of those who uncover true and respectable love, behind those scenes is the acknowledgement and efforts to correct the schistosomiasis epidemic with the construction of a fresh water well for the village of Karonga, Malawi.
My goal is to finish writing Love in Malawi by Christmas, and not exploit the beautiful conditions with BDSM or dominate and submissive relationships; well, maybe just a little. After all, the underlying significance of living is about love and loving, and giving satisfaction to those you love and respect.
Below is a short excerpt from Love in Malawi:
Learning more about the Malawians and finding information about Kanzi’s family is my primary focus. The clear water project is secondary, and that brings up the subject of Evelyn Hartung, one of the three young doctor interns.
Instantly falling foolishly head-over-heels for her was a given for me and I’d tried not show it. I couldn’t let that happen. I had just extracted myself from my long-term relationship with Camryn Hunter. Firing up a new relationship with a girl from down under, so close to ending one love would be a whirlwind disaster. With Evelyn I had way too much in common for living in different parts of the world. Yet knowing that she speaks Swahili and that she gave up three summers volunteering in Uganda makes her even more irresistible. Her startled expressions when we’d met in the airport, like I was her dream come to life and she refused to admit it, was too obvious.
However, that innocent smile, deep brown eyes, wavy brunette hair and shapely figure were food for hungry eyes. She took my arm in hers, pierced my eyes with hers and pulled me out of my past and placed me into the present by saying, I hope to discover a deeper life, nurturing good people to become great citizens. That alone killed me. When she explained, African people are misunderstood. Others seem to categorize the diverse African cultures into a singular society. The geography appears distant and harsh, trapped in time. That put her into my heart. I’d instantly chewed up and swallowed her words. Yet I don’t want to mistake her as being a sheep in wolf’s clothing. I think she’s more like a feral cat, accepting kindness only when she’s ready for it.
After turning off my laptop I closed the small opening in the mosquito curtain and lay back on my new soft bed. Swirling thoughts came to me in pictures, in color nonetheless; they were like silent videos interpreting what my relationship was to be in Karonga then the mosquitos began buzzing on the other side of the bed netting.
Below is another excerpt from Love in Malawi for those who want eroticism:
“WAIT ONE minute while I do this,” Bonnie said.
She stepped off the bed with Christien’s boxer briefs in both hands, comically struggling to pull the elastic waistband over his Empire State Building erection, stripped the briefs down his muscular legs and over his cute feet, all the while her Sydney Opera House multi-venue performing arts center between her legs itched and twitched to be entered. After extracting the round packet from her pocket she dropped her khaki shorts and butt-floss on the floor beneath her hiking books. “Oh my shoes,” she giggled, and tipped them off to the side, leaving on her white socks.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Christien said, still on his back, hands folded behind his head, his pole ready for the mounting.
“Why can’t you believe we’re doing this,” Bonnie puckered her lips, “we’re here and now and this is what we’re doing.”
She jumped on the end of the bed, leaned forward and grabbed Christien’s penis with one hand, measuring its height. She took two hands full and the head protruded above. Not too short and not too long, the shaft was just the right height for her oven.
After positioning the metallic packed between her fingers she twisted it with both hands and the lubricated condom popped out into her right palm. Seconds passed and the scintillating pink supple rubber adorned Christien’s penis.
“I have to name it,” Bonnie whispered. “I christen thee Bennelong Point and she kissed the tip of his penis. “And I christen myself as Sydney Harbor,” and padded her vagina. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
Christien’s smile was Machiavellian yet direct. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean like we could be sleeping, resting our bodies for the long, rough day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Fucking you my prized Christien Neville will be my style of rest for tomorrow.”
Now he was a prize that Bonnie had already unwrapped and he felt more like a possession, a prop, just a plaything that will be discarded after he unravels at the seams.
Like a seasoned rock climber she smartly muscled her way back on top of Christien, her smooth calves caressing the side of his thighs, her sensitive, tight Sydney Harbor hovering over his Bennelong Point. How easygoing and indulgent he was, rubbing her calves, feeling her silky skin, yielding to her velvety, baby maker between her legs. He reached down to help her with the guiding process but she objected.
“I’ll do this myself,” she breathlessly whispered.
“Love in Malawi”
By Ben Campbell