Читать книгу The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind - Bryan Mealer - Страница 9

THE YEAR I TURNED thirteen marked the beginning of a new century, and gradually, I noticed a change happening in myself. I started growing up.

I stopped hunting as much and started hanging out more in the trading center, socializing and meeting new people. Gilbert was usually with me, along with Geoffrey and a few others. We’d go there and play endless rounds of bawo, a game that’s very popular in Malawi and East Africa. Bawo is a mancala game played with marbles or seeds on a long wooden board lined with holes. Each player had two rows of eight holes each. The object is to capture your opponent’s front row of marbles and prohibit him from moving.

Bawo requires a lot of strategy and quick thinking. I’ll admit, I was pretty good at this game and would often beat the other boys at the trading center, a small revenge since most of them had benched me in soccer when we were younger. If I never got mangolomera, at least I had bawo.

Each time I left for the trading center to see my friends, Khamba would perk up and try to follow me. He missed our trips together, but I forbade him to tag along. People would think I was backwards for walking with a dog. One time Khamba followed me to the trading center without my realizing he was there. When I got to the fig tree near the barbershop where we played bawo, someone pointed and laughed.

“Why do you need this dog behind you?” they said. “I don’t see any rabbits or birds around. Are you going hunting in the market?”

The other boys started laughing too. It was embarrassing. After that, whenever Khamba tried to follow, I had to get mean.

I cursed and shouted, but of course, he never listened. After a few meters, I had to pick up a small stone and hurl it toward his head.

“Now leave me alone!”

After a few times, he got the message. He’d still come to the trading center on his own, usually during July mating season, when the female dogs were in heat and roaming the villages. He’d see me and gallop over, wagging his long tail. I’d always stop him short.

“Get!” I’d shout, kicking the dust to scare him before anyone saw me.

Also, as I got older, the day-to-day fate of the MTL Nomads no longer determined my moods and emotions. Throughout my life, the Nomads had been more than men. I listened to every game on Radio One and imagined them as giants. When the Nomads lost—especially to Big Bullets—I became so upset I couldn’t even eat supper, not even if my mother served chicken, and I loved chicken. This following had become an obsession. During a game that year with Big Bullets, my heart started beating so quickly I was convinced I was dying (I think they’re called anxiety attacks). I thought, What am I doing to myself? Soccer is too stressful for my health. After that, I sort of stopped following the game altogether.

AROUND THIS SAME TIME, Geoffrey and I started taking apart some old broken radios to see what was inside, and we began figuring out how they worked so we could fix them.

In Malawi and most parts of Africa that don’t have electricity for television, the radio is our only connection to the world outside the village. In most places you go, whether it’s the deepest bush, or the busy streets of the city, you’ll see people listening to small, handheld radios. You’ll hear Malawian reggae or American rhythm and blues from Radio Two in Blantyre, or Chichewa gospel choirs and church sermons from Lilongwe.

Ever since the Malawi Broadcasting Corporation began, around the time of independence, Malawians have thought of their radios like members of their families. My father talked about the early days of MBC and hearing Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers from America and the wonderful sounds of Robert Fumulani. Back then, agriculture programs were very popular, and my father remembers President Banda—Farmer Number One—reminding everyone to clear fields, dig ridges, and plant before the rains, saying that doing so would make Malawians happy and successful. He also reminded people to apply manure! And for me growing up, I’ll always remember listening to the Sunday sermons of Shadreck Wame from the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian in Lilongwe, followed by the Sunday Top Twenty.

Unfortunately, until a few years ago, there were only two radio stations—Radio One and Radio Two—that were both operated by the government. This greatly reduced our window into the outside world.

From the first time I heard the sounds coming from the radio, I wanted to know what was going on inside. I’d stare at the exposed circuit boards and wonder what all those wires did, why they were different colors, and where they all went. How did these wires and bits of plastic make it possible for a DJ in Blantyre to be speaking here in my home? How could music be playing on one end of the dial while the preacher spoke on the other? Who’d arranged them this way, and how did this person learn such wonderful knowledge?

Through nothing more than trial and error, we discovered that the white noise was caused by the integrated circuit board, the biggest piece, which contains all the wires and bits of plastic. Connected to the integrated circuit are little things that look like beans. These are transistors, and they control the power that moves through the radio into the speakers. Geoffrey and I learned this by disconnecting one transistor and hearing the volume greatly reduce. We didn’t own a proper soldering iron, so to perform repairs on the circuit boards, we heated a thick wire over the kitchen fire until it became red hot, then used it to fuse the metal joints together.

We also learned how the radio picks up each band, such as FM, AM, and shortwave. To receive AM, the radio has an internal antenna because its waves are long, but in order to receive FM, the antenna must be outside and reach into the air to catch the smaller, more narrow waves. Just like light, if FM waves hit something like a tall tree or building, they’re blocked.

Since we learned everything through experimenting, a great many radios were sacrificed for our knowledge. I think we had one radio from each aunt and uncle and neighbor, all in a giant tangle of wires we kept in a box in Geoffrey’s room. But after we learned from our mistakes, people began bringing us their broken radios and asking us to fix them. Soon we had our own little business.

We operated out of Geoffrey’s small bedroom, located just behind his mother’s house. There we waited for customers, the floor below us strewn with heaps of wires, circuit boards, motors, shattered radio casings, and unidentifiable bits of metal and plastic that appeared along the way. Our usual exchange with clientele went something like this:

“Odi, odi,” someone said, standing at the door. It was an old man from the next village, hiding his radio in his armpit like a chicken.

“Come in,” I said.

“I heard someone here fixes radios?”

“Yes, that would be me and my colleague, Mister Geoffrey. What’s the problem?”

“But you’re so young. How could this be?”

“You mustn’t doubt us. Tell me the problem.”

“I can’t find the station. It won’t listen.”

“Let me see…hmmm…yes, I think we can manage. You’ll have it before supper.”

“Make it before six! It’s Saturday, and I have my theater dramas.”

“Sure, sure.”

IF WE WERE GOING to determine what was broken in the radios, we needed a power source. With no electricity, this meant batteries. But batteries were expensive, and Geoffrey and I didn’t earn enough from our repairs to keep buying them. Instead, we’d walk to the trading center and look for used cells that had been tossed in the waste bins. We’d collect maybe five or six, along with an empty carton of Shake Shake booze. Even after all these years, I was still finding uses for these stinking cartons.