Читать книгу The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind - Bryan Mealer - Страница 7

WHEN MY FATHER, TRYWELL, was a young man, he was quite famous. These days he’s a farmer, just like his own father and the father before him. Being born Malawian automatically made you a farmer. I think it’s written in the constitution somewhere, like a law passed down from Moses. If you didn’t tend the soil, then you bought and sold in the market, and before my father gave himself to the fields, he led the crazy life of a traveling trader.

This was when he lived in Dowa, a small town southeast of Masitala perched high in the brown hills. Back during the ’70s and ’80s, Dowa was a vibrant place where a young man could go and make some money. At that time, Malawi was under the control of Hastings Kamuzu Banda, a powerful dictator who ruled the country for more than thirty years.

Every Malawian grew up knowing the story of Banda. When he was a young boy in Kasungu, living in the shadow of the great mountain where the Chewa defeated the Ngoni, Banda had walked barefoot one thousand miles to work in the gold mines of South Africa. Later, he was given a scholarship to universities in Indiana and Tennessee, where he earned a degree in medicine. He was a doctor in England before he returned to Malawi to deliver us from British rule. He became our first great leader, and in 1971, under his extreme pressure, our Parliament gave him the title Life President.

Banda was a tough man. He demanded that every trader in Malawi hang his picture in his shop, and no other photo could dare hang higher. If you didn’t have the image of our Dear President on the wall—dressed in his three-piece suit and clutching a flywhisk—you would pay a hefty price. It was a frightening and confusing period in our history. Banda also forbade women to wear pants or dresses above the knee. For men, having long hair would get you tossed in jail. Kissing in public was also forbidden, as were films where kissing was portrayed. The president hated kissing, and even today, people are scared of smooching in the open. On top of that, policemen and the Young Pioneers—Banda’s personal thugs—were always snatching up people who dared criticize his policies. Many Malawians were jailed, tortured, and even tossed into pits of hungry crocodiles.

Despite all of this, it was an exciting time to be a trader. My father tells stories about hitchhiking in pickups across the countryside to Lake Malawi, where he bought bundles of dried fish, rice, and used clothing, to sell back in the Dowa market. Lake Malawi is one of the biggest in the world and nearly covers the entire eastern half of our country. It’s so vast it has waves like an ocean. I was twenty years old before I ever saw this lake with my own eyes, despite having grown up only two hours from its shores. But once I stood on its banks and looked out across its endless-looking water, my heart was filled with a great love for my country.

Once at the lake, the traders would travel to the cities of Nkhotakota and Mangochi aboard the steamer ships Ilala and Chauncy Maples, where good food was served, and traders drank and danced on the decks through the voyage. At the lake my father bartered with the Muslim businessmen, known as the Yao, who populate that part of the country.

The Yao arrived in Malawi more than a hundred years ago from across the lake in Mozambique. The Arabs from Zanzibar convinced them to become Muslim, then recruited them to capture our Chewa people and put us into bondage. They raided our villages, killed our men, then sent our women and children across the lake in boats. Once there, the slaves were shackled by the neck and made to march across Tanzania. This took three months. Once they reached the ocean, most of them were dead. Later on, the Yao captured and traded us to the Portuguese in exchange for guns, gold, and salt.

If it weren’t for the great Scottish missionary David Livingstone, the Yao and Chewa might still be at odds today. Livingstone helped end slav-ery, opened Malawi to trade, and built good schools and missions. Young men became educated and earned money, and once these economic opportunities were available to all, our two tribes had little reason to fight. Today we consider the Yao our brothers and sisters. My mother herself is a Yao, and I am half Yao.

My father has told me many stories about the small town of Mangochi, located on the southern tip of the lake, just near the mouth of the Shire River. The way he describes this place makes it sound like the great bazaars of northern Africa I’ve read about in books. The streets were filled with traders from all over Malawi, Zambia, Tanzania, and Mozambique, all their different languages and songs mixing with the smell of sweating bodies, spices, fried fish, and roasted maize. Pocketfuls of money were quickly emptied in the boozing dens, and by professional ladies of the night, who lured traders into their rooms for hot baths, expensive food, and other pleasures I didn’t understand until I was older. Often, traders got carried away in such places and ran out of money. My father remembers seeing men running away with nothing but their underpants.

Many of these same traders also had wives and children back home, in addition to the prostitutes. This was well before my father met my mother, back when he was young and too busy traveling to be tied down with a woman or family. He had a few girlfriends, sure, but he generally stayed away from the bar girls. And because of his reluctance to do this, the people in the market started calling him the Pope.

“Eh, Papa,” they’d tease, using the Chichewa word. “What happened? Did you fall off the pawpaw tree and break your testicles? Don’t listen to your mother—these girls don’t really burn!”

My father endured this teasing, because what else could he do? And after a while, that name caught on with so many people that hardly anyone remembered where it came from.

MY FATHER WAS A giant man, but his tolerance for alcohol was even greater. One night he and his friends settled down in the Dowa General Grocery at 5:00 p.m. As my father tells it, he drank fifty-six bottles of Carlsberg beer, and at 2:00 a.m. walked home to tell the story. These drinking sessions sometimes led to fistfights, which my father welcomed like sport.

After a while, he became one of the most famous traders around, but not just for his cleverness in business, or his ability to drink crates of beer. My father was legendary for his strength. In Malawi we like to say, “One head cannot lift up the roof.” Well, my father must not have been listening.

Every July 6, we Malawians celebrate our independence from England, much like our brothers and sisters do in America on July 4. And like in the United States, the way we celebrate is with great parties filled with lots of music, dancing, and delicious grilled meats. It was on such a holiday that Robert Fumulani, the holy father of Malawian reggae music, came to sing at Dowa District Hall, and my father—then twenty-two years old—was determined to go.

Robert Fumulani was my father’s most favorite singer. Fumulani’s songs often described the struggles of the poor, his lyrics straight from the warm red Malawian soil. My father had seen Fumulani perform many times already, in Kasungu, Lilongwe, Nkhotakota, and Ntchisi, and each time, the singer wore his signature white shirt that made him look sharp.

Well, if you can imagine, the line to see Fumulani on Independence Day began forming early, right around the time my father stepped up to the bar at General Grocery. Hours passed, and by the time he stumbled outside, the beautiful sounds of Fumulani’s voice could be heard all over town. The concert had begun.

My father rushed over to the hall, where he found a line still waiting to get inside. If you’ve ever stood with us Africans at airports or bus depots, you know we’re never good with lines. What if we miss something? So wasting no time, my father pushed his way to the front, but was stopped at the door by a policeman.

“The concert is full,” the policeman announced. “No one else allowed inside.”

My father presented his ticket, but the policeman still refused. Being a bit drunk and bold, my father pushed the policeman aside and quickly mixed into the crowd. Once there, he discovered what a great party it was! There onstage was Robert Fumulani and his Likhubula River Dance Band, with the singer dressed in his smart white shirt and his guitar strapped to his neck. In the back, workers tended to giant barbecue and kanyenya stands loaded with delicious goat and beef. And of course, there was lots of Carlsberg.

Overcome with excitement, my father squeezed through the mob of sweaty bodies until he reached the front. Fumulani was singing one of his most beloved songs, “Sister,” about his estranged wife.

“Lady,” he sang, “don’t insult me today just because I’m poor. You don’t know what my future holds…”

As if hypnotized by this wonderful music, my father began to dance. But he wasn’t doing just any dance—he was a man possessed, a man who knows in his heart that he is the greatest dancer on earth. His arms and legs became as graceful as a gazelle’s, and his giant body sprang in the air like a flying grasshopper. Oh, what moves! But when he opened his eyes, he realized the music had stopped. Everyone on the floor now stood in silence. Robert Fumulani, the blessed father of our national music, stared down, looking angry.

He pointed to my father and called out, “Someone remove this drunkard from the floor. He’s ruining my show!”

The crowd shouted and hissed, “He is here! Take him away!”

My father was crushed. How could this be? He was just having a good time, and now he was being called down like a child by our dear hero. Feeling betrayed, he straightened himself and pointed to the stage.

“Mister Fumulani,” he yelled, “I have an invitation to be in this room. And like every Malawian here celebrating their proud independence, I am doing the same. I’m not the only person here who is drunk, you know. Besides, isn’t it your job to sing and entertain?”

A line of policemen and Young Pioneers now circled the dance floor, waiting to pounce.

“Mister Fumulani, I only wish to dance in peace,” my father said, then turned to face the police. “But since you’ve asked these men to remove me, I say let them come!”

The policemen swooped in and swallowed my father in a swarm of fists and elbows. The crowd rushed in behind. From the look of things, it appeared my father had been properly handled.

But suddenly, one by one, the policemen began flying off the pile as if wrestling a cyclone. They twisted in the air like sacks of flour and limped off in pain. When the last policeman was pitched to the wall, the room erupted in cheers.

There stood the Pope in the center of the crowd, shaking his mighty fists.

“Who is next?” he shouted. “I’LL FIGHT YOU ALL!”

A pack of Young Pioneers then tried their luck, only to be pitched off the same way. For half an hour, the cops and government thugs tried everything to shackle my father’s hands, and each time, they failed. Too exhausted to continue fighting, my father finally agreed to be arrested and spend the night in jail (“Only because I respect the rule of law,” he told them). However, he had one condition: that first he be allowed to enjoy his Independence Day barbecue. So after devouring a plate of delicious kanyenya, the Pope washed his hands and walked out with the police.

And that is the story of how my father fought twelve men and won.

Soon the story spread across the district and my father became famous. People congratulated him in the bars and markets of the lakeshore, and business improved as a result. This fame also attracted many of the thieves and robbers who lurked in the markets. “You’re so strong,” they said, slapping him on the back. “Let us use your strength to make us all rich!”

But my father was no criminal. He just wanted to work hard for his money and drink his Carlsberg. However, if anyone wished to fight, that could be arranged.

ALTHOUGH HIS FRIENDS HAD no idea, for quite some time the Pope had been keeping his eye on a particular girl. She appeared at the market at the same time each morning, only to disappear in the crowds. An hour would pass, and she’d reappear, carrying a bundle of vegetables or bag of flour, then make her way home to the neighborhood down the hill. These brief moments became the most important part of my father’s day, and he made sure he was always at his stall where he could watch her. Even though he’d never heard her voice, something about her seemed to change something inside him. This girl, as you probably guessed, was my mother, Agnes.

Well, my father must not have been very smooth, because my mother was well aware of him staring, the way he gazed at her like a puppy at the henhouse door, never sure what to do. She’d asked around and knew his reputation. For some odd reason, these stories of fighting and misbehaving made her excited. Each day she couldn’t wait for her mother to send her to the market. Even before entering the rows of wooden stalls, her heart would pound like the chiwoda drums of her childhood dances. Making her way across, it took everything inside her to keep from grinning. But my mother couldn’t let on; she was no easy fish to catch.

This game of staring continued for several months, and my mother wondered if this man would ever make his move. If he was so strong and brave, then why on earth was he frightened of her? (As my father tells it, she was always too far away to chase after, and also, yes, he was terrified.)

Finally, my mother decided to test this big, powerful man.

One morning, my father saw her enter the market, and as usual, he quickly became lost in the sight of her. But this time she did something different. She took a new route through the market—one that was bringing her straight in his direction.

My father became nervous, but knew the time was now or never. This is my big chance, he thought, but what will I say? He didn’t have time to think, because in a matter of seconds, my mother was right upon him. It was the closest she’d ever been, and the sight of her skin made his heart go mad, as if it was trying to run away.

Somehow, he found his courage and leaped over his stall. As she passed, he shouted, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!”

My mother spun around. My father was standing there in the row, arms open, those same eyes now meeting hers.

“I’ve loved you my entire life,” he said. “And I want to marry you.”

Struggling to stay composed, my mother said, “I’ll have to think about that one,” then turned and ran away.

Well, my father didn’t give her much time. That very afternoon he was at her house, asking again. The next day, the same thing. My mother’s older brother Bakili warned her about my father. Bakili was also a trader in the market and knew my father’s reputation.

“He’s always in the bars, drinking and fighting,” he said. “Sister, this man is not a good husband.”

“I don’t care,” my mother said. “He’s so strong, and I love him.”

Bakili then told their parents. My grandmother Rose was a tough woman, so tough she’d built the family home with her own hands while my grandpa worked as a tailor in the market. She’d even built the furnace and molded the bricks herself, which is not an easy job, and even today, not the job of a woman.

Hearing the news, my grandmother and grandfather confronted my mother.

“Now tell us the truth, Agnes. Are you serious about this man?”

“Yes,” my mother said. “Double serious.”

As it turned out, my grandfather had proposed to my grandmother in much the same way, after seeing her dance in a village competition. “The way she was dancing just stole my heart,” my grandfather said. “And I said to myself, ‘I’m going to marry her.’ ” He’d sent a young village girl to inform my grandmother he wanted to speak with her, only to have my grandmother confront him personally.

“You want to talk to me?” she said. “Then talk to me. What do you want?”

“For you to be my wife,” he answered.

So what could my grandparents really say now? Six months later, Agnes married my father, and the following year, my sister Annie was born. But even with all these new developments, my father remained the Pope.

Well, the Pope’s drunken lifestyle soon began to take its toll. My mother grew increasingly tired of him coming home drunk and smelling of booze, and often they’d argue. It was a dark period all around, a time that saw several of my father’s closest friends die or go to prison, while others simply vanished.

First his friend Kafu picked up gonorrhea, known as the “bombs,” from a prostitute in the bars. The veins that led to his testicles became swollen and rotten. One day, they exploded and Kafu died. Another friend named Mwanza was beaten to death in the pub over a girl. The new prostitute in town had made the mistake of flirting with both Mwanza and his friend. Well, they couldn’t decide who was taking the lady home at the end of the night, so they decided to fight. It began innocently, but before anyone knew it, Mwanza was dead in a pool of blood. Of course, the prostitute fled before the first punch and never returned.

In Dowa, there was a famous preacher named Reverend JJ Chikankheni, who happened to be one of my father’s most loyal customers. Reverend JJ led one of the biggest Presbyterian churches in Dowa, along with twenty-five smaller prayer houses across the district. He’d often stop by my father’s stall and buy a bag of rice and the two men would chat. One day, the reverend looked deep into my father’s eyes, as if scraping the bottom of his soul.

“Kamkwamba?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Do you know that God loves you, and that you disappoint Him every time you drink and fight and cause trouble?”

“Thanks, Reverend, but…”

“The good news is that even though you disappoint Him, He’s ready to receive you. He wants you to turn to Him.”

“Thanks, Reverend,” my father said, trying to be polite. “Whatever you say.”

A few nights later, my father was drinking as usual in the pub when a man walked up and knocked over his beer. The man was drunk and looking to fight the biggest guy in the room. Well, my father gave him what he wanted, and more. In a matter of seconds, the man lay on the floor with blood gushing from his ears. My father had to be pulled off the man, having nearly beaten him to death. The police soon arrived and arrested my father.

“You’ve really done it this time,” the officer told him.

The head prosecutor in Dowa was a church deacon named Mister Kabisa, who was also one of my father’s loyal customers. When Kabisa heard my father was in jail awaiting a trial, he paid a personal visit.

“Kamkwamba,” he said, “I’ve always advised you not to indulge in these unnecessary fights. Someday you’ll be killed or kill someone else, and look what happened here. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to lose you.

“You’re supposed to go to court today and stand trial,” Kabisa continued. “You’ll probably lose and be sent to jail, perhaps even Zaleka prison. You’ve heard about the conditions there. Chances are you won’t make it out alive.”

Mister Kabisa then leaned in close and looked into my father’s eyes the same way Reverend JJ had done, as if searching the dark corners of his heart.

“But I don’t want you to go to prison. There’s a better path for you. I’m willing to tear up these files and release you, but you have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” my father said.

“Turn your life over to God.”

Of course, my father happily agreed just to get out of jail. But what the man said stayed in his mind. All that evening and the following day, it never gave him peace.

The following night while asleep, my father was visited by a dream. All he saw was darkness, nothing but an endless expanse of black. He felt confused and scared. It was as if he’d gone blind and couldn’t shake himself awake. Then came a voice, piped in like a loudspeaker from heaven. It said: “These things will destroy you. Turn to me.”

When my father awoke in the morning, his entire body was trembling like a baby bird’s. The dream, plus all the advice and warnings of the past week, seemed too great a message to ignore. He woke up my mother, who lay sleeping beside him, and said, “My wife, today I’m turning to God. I’ve seen the signs, and now it’s time to change.”

That same morning, instead of going straight to work, my father stopped by the church to see Reverend JJ. The preacher was in his office.

“I’m here,” my father said. “I’m ready.”

My mother didn’t recognize this new man who began coming home each night after work, this man who suddenly had lots of money for food and medicine for his kids. She was so happy, but still couldn’t believe her good fortune. Each night for weeks, she’d still say, “Come here!” when he walked in the door, just to sniff his breath.

WHILE MY FATHER HAD been traveling, trading, and boozing, his older brother John had built up a booming business. Back in the late ’60s and early ’70s when President Banda was building all the big estates near Wimbe and Kasungu, there was lots of work for the local men. Building contracts were like gold, and Uncle John happened to know some of the managers who were hiring these subcontractors. Working as a kind of headhunter, John became the middleman, finding the right skilled, trustworthy crews to do the jobs. Because his judgment was always good, the estates paid him handsomly.

After several years of working for the estates, Uncle John saved enough money to start a farm imports business, buying and selling maize seed and fertilizer to the local farmers. He even had a small storefront in the trading center. This business became successful, and after a few years, he sold it and bought fifty-nine acres of land from Chief Wimbe, which he used to grow maize and burley tobacco—a kind of mild tobacco that’s cured in the open air under handmade shelters.

Since Uncle John had money for good fertilizer, the tobacco from his farm was top quality. His fields never had any weeds and the leaves were deep green while growing, drying like the color of milk chocolate with fine traces of red. His tobacco fetched a high price each year at the Auction Holdings Limited in Lilongwe, where the farmers sold their hundred-kilogram bales on the auction floor. One good bale of tobacco would pay for seventeen more bags of fertilizer, enabling his farm to stay strong, given the good weather.

In 1989, when I was one year old, Uncle John came to Dowa for a friend’s engagement party and stopped by for a visit. That night he and my father went for a walk.

“Why don’t you come back to the village and farm with me,” John said. “Things are going well.”

“I can see,” said my father. “But farming takes too long. I’ve gotten so used to the trading. How can I start something new?”

“It takes a long time, true. But if you invest that time and just a little money, the payoff is huge. Look what I’m making from tobacco. That kind of profit is impossible with trading. How much are you clearing each month with your rice and secondhand clothing? Five percent?”

“Four percent,” my father said. “Soon I won’t even be able to feed these kids. If I eat, my business suffers.”

“Well, come back home, young brother. There’s a big place waiting for you.”

My father then told John he’d stopped drinking and turned his life to God.

“Then, think of this as a chance to start over,” he said. “Consider this a sign.”

“Okay,” my father said. “You’ve convinced me.”

BY NOW WE HAD three kids (my sister Aisha had been born not long before) and my father saw this as an opportunity he couldn’t resist. A few weeks later, after selling his stall in the market, he strapped all our belongings—our clothes, pots, pans, and the family radio—to the top of a UTM (United Transport Malawi) bus. We traveled four hours north to the Wimbe trading center, where my relatives were waiting to greet us. They helped us move down the road to Masitala village and into a one-room house near Uncle John.

This is where my father became a farmer and my childhood began.

NOT LONG AFTER WE arrived, Uncle John acquired some additional land from Chief Wimbe, so he gave my father a one-acre plot about two kilometers from the house. There we could grow our own burley tobacco to sell, along with maize and other vegetables to eat. Maize is just another word for white corn, and by the end of this story, you won’t believe how much you know about corn.

When we first arrived, Uncle John was busy planting his tobacco, which was the first item that needed my father’s help. My father would wake up early before the first cock and go down to the grassy marshes in the valley, which we called dambos. Because tobacco seeds require loads of water for them to break ground, many farmers plant nursery beds by the dambos where they can easily water them daily. Each farmer has his own plot by the marsh—nothing official with papers or signatures, just a piece of ground you always know is yours. Not only is there water, but the soil in the dambo is deep black and full of nutrients that a little tobacco seedling requires to grow strong.

Making nursery beds is done just before the rainy season when the sun is the hottest. The work is hard and dirty, and my father quickly felt exhausted. During those first weeks, he’d dream of his stall at the trading center, how he used to just sit and chat with friends and customers, how he’d knock off at lunch for an hour to see his family, even take a quick nap before returning to work. It would have been easier to just tell his brother he’d made a mistake and return to Dowa, but my father buckled down and pressed on. He’d seen how much money Uncle John was earning, and he wanted the same for himself. Often he’d work so hard and late in the day that his brother would come looking for him, thinking he’d tripped and drowned in the dambo.

“Take a break, brother,” he’d say. “Leave some for tomorrow. Reserve your strength, you’ll need it.”

“Just a bit longer,” my father would say, his body covered in mud from head to toe.

WHEN UNCLE JOHN HAD visited Dowa and mentioned having a big place for my father, he wasn’t talking about the living arrangements. With five people, our little house quickly became crowded.

After ten long hours of working in the sun, my father would come home and then start working on building our new house. Weekends were also spent this way. The bricks were fashioned out of grass and clay, which was pressed into a wooden mold about seventy-five centimeters long.

To get the clay, my father dug deep pits near the fields that swallowed his entire body. He’d scoop buckets of clay that weighed a hundred pounds, hoist them onto his shoulders, and climb out using steps he’d carved into the wall with a hoe. He’d then cart the pails two kilometers back to the house, dump them, then do it all over again.

After molding the bricks, my father spent days in the valley hacking the long-stemmed grasses to be used for roofing, then tied them into round bales. Sometimes John sent a few seasonal workers from his fields to help with the building, but my father did it mostly alone. After two months, we had a two-room house. Later, he’d say it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Well done, brother,” Uncle John said as he passed, joking with my father, who was about to collapse from exhaustion. “This is a good house. You know, every man needs a good house.”

We lived in this house for three years until our growing clan became too big. Before long, there were five kids in our family, with me the only boy. By this time my father had earned enough on the farm to hire some men to construct two new buildings. The first one had a family room and master bedroom, plus a grain storage area. The other building, just across a narrow open corridor, had a kitchen, plus a separate bedroom for me and my sisters.

My bedroom became my fortress against the squabbling girls, a hideaway where I could be alone with my thoughts. I became a terrible daydreamer, partly because as I got older, the folktales of my childhood began to pale in comparison to the fantastic goings-on at the farm—things more real and incredible than any fiction my father could have imagined himself.

ONE OF THE SEASONAL workers Uncle John hired to help with planting and harvesting was named Mister Phiri, a man of near-heavenly strength. Uncle John didn’t even use tractors to clear the land and trees. Instead he sent Phiri, who was so powerful he’d walk from tree to tree and rip them from the earth, as if they were weeds.

Everyone knew Phiri’s secret was mangolomera, a form of magic that delivered superhuman strength. Mangolomera was the ultimate self-defense, a kind of vaccine against weakness. Only the strongest wizards in the district could administer this potion—a kind of paste made from the burned and ground bones of leopards and lions, and mixed with roots and herbs. The medicine was rubbed into small incisions made on each knuckle, usually by a magic razor. Once mangolomera was in your blood, it could never be reversed and was always gaining strength. Only the toughest men could manage this ever-growing power, or else quickly self-destruct.

Phiri was so strong that no person or animal could challenge him. Once while working in the fields, a black mamba snake slithered over his foot and prepared to strike. But Phiri wasn’t afraid. He took a simple blade of grass and whipped the snake on the back, leaving it paralyzed. He then grabbed it by the head and snapped its spine. People said he carried another mamba in his pocket as a charm, and this snake was too afraid to bite.

But Phiri’s power was so potent and always growing that it made him constantly want to battle. When this happened, my father had to intervene.

One afternoon I was playing in the yard when I heard a frightening noise coming from the fields, like the sound of twenty leopards roaring. I raced down to find Phiri nose to nose with another worker named James. Phiri was breathing heavily and ready to attack. His hands were in fists and the veins in his arms bulged like tree roots. When he opened his mouth to scream, the earth below our feet seemed to tremble in fright. Someone said Phiri had given James money to buy some items in Kasungu. But James wasn’t educated and couldn’t read or count, so the shopkeepers cheated him and kept their pay.

Before I knew it, Phiri began punching James. Phiri was short and thick, and James was tall and also very strong. The two traded blows back and forth, and for the moment, James was holding his own. But I knew it was only a matter of time before Phiri’s mangolomera exploded and crushed poor James.

Around that time, my father also heard the commotion. Fearing for James’s life, he rushed over to break up the fight. Although mangolomera never weakens, it can be neutralized for short periods of time using the green vines from a sweet potato plant. You know how Superman becomes weak at the sight of those shiny green crystals? The same is true for magic people and sweet potatoes, I don’t know why.

Anyway, the second Phiri saw my father arrive, he shouted to him, “Mister Kamkwamba, PLEASE…some vines for my head! I don’t want to kill this man!”

Seeing no vines nearby, my father instead ran over to Phiri and wrapped him up in his arms. Phiri kicked and screamed like a tethered tiger, but my father held on tight. He took him to our garden and pulled several long stems, then wrapped Phiri’s head and elbows. Within seconds, Phiri’s heart cooled down, and he collapsed from exhaustion. That day, seeing my father wrestle something as dangerous as mangolomera made me believe every story I’d been told about the Pope’s awesome power.

The next morning, Phiri arrived for work looking and feeling okay. However, James reported being sick and had to miss the entire week. His hands and arms were so swollen he couldn’t move, and his legs wouldn’t even carry him. I’d watched James defend himself well, so this wasn’t the result of Phiri’s blows. Phiri’s magic had been so strong it had simply rubbed off like poison.

PHIRI HAD A NEPHEW named Shabani who went around boasting that he was a real sing’anga who possessed mangolomera. Gilbert and I suspected he was just a lot of talk, but we were never completely sure. Shabani was a small boy like us and not that powerful, yet he boasted like a man with biceps the size of anthills. This made us wonder. Since Shabani never went to school, choosing instead to work the fields with his uncle, he was usually hanging around the house when I returned in the afternoons.

At the time, I was nine years old and not very strong. I wasn’t the most athletic chap, either. Despite an incredible love for soccer, I wound up on the bench most every match. Bullies stalked and tortured me in the schoolyard. It was a time of crippling humiliation.

One day, after hearing another of my pathetic stories, Shabani took me aside.

“Every day you’re complaining about these bullies, and I’m tired of hearing it,” he said. “I can give you mangolomera. You can become the strongest boy in school. All the others will fear you.”

Of course, possessing superpowers was my most frequent daydream. I’d imagine myself a Goliath on the soccer pitch, with legs like rocket launchers. With mangolomera, bullies would crumble at my touch and wet themselves from fright.

My father had always warned us against playing with magic. Now as Shabani stood there, smiling like a mongoose, I saw my father looking down at me, standing next to Jesus. I then felt my head shaking yes, and my mouth beginning to move.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

“We’ll do it in the blue gums behind Geoffrey’s house,” Shabani said. “Meet me there in one hour, and bring twenty tambala.”

I arrived in the forest first and waited in the dark shadows, my mind racing with all the possibilities. Shabani then appeared through the trees. He held a black jumbo that sagged at the bottom, containing something heavy, something powerful.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yah, I’m ready.”

“Then sit down.”

We sat down in the dirt and leaves and he opened the bag.

“We’ll start with your left hand, cutting the knuckles and inserting the medicine into your veins. Then we’ll do the right.”

“Why the left hand first?”

“You’re right-handed, man. Your right hand is the strongest. I’m giving you equal power, so your punches will be deadly from both sides.”

“Oh.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a matchbox.

“In here are the blackened bones of the lion and leopard, along with other powerful roots and herbs.”

He fished out a wad of paper that contained more black ash, which he began mixing with the other potion.

“These other materials are very scarce, found only on the bottom of the ocean.”

“So how did you get them?” I asked.

“Look boy, I’m not just another person. I got them from the bottom of the ocean.”

“Okay.”

“I stayed there for three whole days. If I wanted to, I could take every person in your stupid village and put them into my scarf and sling them over my shoulder. Don’t play around with me, bambo. If you want this kind of power, it will cost you lots of money. What I’m giving you is only a small taste.”

I didn’t even see him pull out the razor. It just suddenly appeared, and before I knew it, he’d grabbed my left hand and dug into my first knuckle.

“Ahh!” I screamed.

“Be still and don’t cry!” he said. “If you cry it won’t work.”

“I’m not crying.”

One by one, my knuckles began to swell with bright drops of blood that poured down my hand. Pinching the powder between his fingers, he rubbed it into the bloody wounds. It stung like hot coals. Once he finished with both hands, I exhaled with relief.

“See, I didn’t cry,” I said. “Do you still think it will work?”

“Oh yeah, it will work.”

“When? When will I have power?’

He considered this for a second and said, “Give it three days to work its way through your veins. Once it’s complete, you’ll feel it.”

“Three days.”

“Yes, and whatever you do, don’t eat okra or sweet potato leaves.”

“I’ll remember,” I said.

“And lastly, tell no one,” he added.

I walked out of the forest, looking down at my wounded, blackened hands, which by now had begun to swell. They looked tough. I imagined my arms swinging heavy at my sides like two thick hoe handles. A rush of confidence filled my lungs.

That evening, I hid in my room and spoke to no one. I went to bed feeling good. I’m a big man now, I thought, drifting off to sleep. A big man.

Three days was a long time to wait, but it worked with my plan. It was summer holiday, and the following morning I was supposed to travel to Dowa to spend time with my grandparents. Dowa was the perfect place to polish my powers before returning home a legend.

Well, three days crept by so slowly I thought I might die from boredom. I loved my grandparents dearly, but there wasn’t much to do at their house. As I said, my grandmother was a tough lady who’d made her own bricks and was always putting me to work.

On the fourth day, I awoke and immediately felt different. Sitting up in bed, my arms felt light, yet hard as tree trunks. My hands were as solid as two stones. Heading outside, I took off running down the road to test my speed. Sure enough, I felt the wind in my face like never before.

That afternoon my uncle Mada invited me to watch a District League soccer game at the town pitch, and I went in hopes of testing my powers. The game was Dowa Medicals versus Agriculture, and as expected, the place was packed. As is our custom, the women looked after the children on one side of the field, while the men and boys huddled closely on the other, smoking cigarettes and shouting insults at the officials.

I had no interest in the game. I scanned the crowd until I saw a boy, perhaps my age, standing near the far corner of the pitch. He appeared to be alone, so I made my move. I cut through the crowd toward him, and as I walked past, I crushed his bare feet with my sandal. He let out a cry.

“Excuse me, you just stepped on my toes!” he shouted, hopping in pain.

I looked at him with two dead eyes.

“I said you stepped on my toes. It hurt.”

“So?” I said.

“Well, it’s rude, don’t you think?”

“What are you going do about it?”

“What am I going to do?”

“You heard me. Why don’t you do something, kape.” A kape is a drooling idiot.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “I’m going to beat you.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

We began dancing around in circles, and I wasted no time. I unleashed a flurry of punches so fast my arms became a blur in front of my eyes. I gave him lefts and rights and uppercuts for good measure, my two iron fists moving so quickly I couldn’t even feel them smashing his face. Not wanting to kill the poor chap (I’d forgotten my potato vines), I finally backed away. But to my amazement, the boy was still standing. Not only was he standing, he was laughing!

Before I could release another deadly round, I felt a terrible pain in my right eye, then another, and another. Soon I was lying on the ground while his fists pounded my head and face, and his foot stomped my stomach. By the time my uncle raced over and pulled him off me, I was crying and covered in dust.

“What are you doing, William?” my uncle shouted. “You know better than to fight. This boy is twice your size!”

Humiliated beyond anything I could imagine, I ran home to my grandparents and stayed inside until it was time to go home. And once there, I immediately found Shabani and confronted him.

“Your magic doesn’t work! You promised me power, but I was beaten in Dowa!”

“Of course it works,” he said, then thought for a second. “Listen, did you bathe the day I gave it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s why. My medicine doesn’t allow you to bathe.”

“You never said that.”

“Of course I did.”

“But…”

As you can see, I was clearly cheated. My first and only experience with magic had left me with a sore eye and hands that throbbed from bad medicine. With my luck, I thought, they’ll probably become infected and fall off. I began imagining myself a handless beggar in the market, unable to even use the bathroom. The fear of this occupied my mind for hours at a time. I’m telling you, it would be terrible!