My phone rang while connected to the charging cable. I sat on a wooden bench outside a small shop in Lilongwe, charging my phone. Phone in hand, I waited for the battery to get to at least sixty percent. At home we did not have electricity on the day. I and most of the people in the neighborhood paid a 200-kwacha fee to charge our phones at the shop. As it rang, I glanced at the screen. My heart stopped. I did not recognize the number. The country code was Tanzanian. I glanced at the screen. My hands started shaking. Ten years had passed since I had any contact with my family since coming to Malawi.
When I left DR Congo, I crossed several borders. My aim was to make a short trip across the Congo-Burundi border. But we passed several countries before reaching Malawi. The clothes I had on were all I had. There was no time for packing. My phone somehow got lost during the trip. For several months I could not get in touch with my family and friends back home. When I finally managed to buy another phone in Malawi, I had lost all phone numbers. The ringing went on. I finally gathered enough courage, pressed the green button, and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I said, still very unsure of who the person was.
There was a crackling sound. Then, a voice, uncertain and distant, interrupted the silence.
“Is this… Ilunga?”
The voice was older and rougher, but it sounded familiar.
“Michael?” I murmured, and another pause followed.
“Yes,” he continued. “It’s me.”
The world around me faded. Everything and everyone—the people talking around me, the cars passing by—fell silent. My brother Michael was still alive. The last time I saw him was the night I left Bunia. Back then he was nine and still a boy and an annoying one. He used to ask endless questions and make rude remarks. As my father told me to flee from the unrest in our community, he stood behind the door watching. For months our community had turned insecure. Armed groups were moving through the neighborhoods, and young people were forced to join the groups. Girls were taken by the rebels without their consent. They were forced to sleep with the rebel men. My father was sure that staying would endanger us all. So he pushed me to flee and find safety on the other side of the border.
“Will you come back?” he asked me before I left.
I told him yes, unsure that I would end up going to a faraway place. I hoped to leave for just a short trip across the border. But I ended up traveling through multiple countries with other displaced persons and finally reached Malawi. There I was granted refugee status, which allowed me to rebuild my life. For ten years, I did not know what had happened to my family, as I never heard from them. Rumors circulated that violence persisted where my family was. Hearing that, it hurt a lot. I didn’t know if they were alive, nor could I imagine what became of them. There was no news; the silence continued. I learned to be patient as I waited for news, and each day brought silence. Now I had Michael on the other end of the phone.
“I thought you were gone,” Michael said.
“I thought you were gone too,” I told him.
We both laughed as we tried to escape the dominating emotions of what we were feeling and what we were discussing. Michael and I were separated for 10 long years. Each day, I longed for the days gone by. I had built a life for myself. But the hurt of not knowing what had happened to my family back home lingered. The call took me by surprise. Michael was there, on the other end, after many years of uncertainty. We both laughed out of joy that we still had each other. Each day without him felt long and unbearable. The feeling was euphoric.
“Your call was a gift from God,” I said to Michael.
The cracking sound from the poor network often interrupted our call. We both struggled with the same poor connection as we spoke. Little by little, he filled me in on the ten years we were apart. After my departure, our family had to relocate to Tanzania. They passed through numerous countries before securing temporary refuge. Things had been tough, but they survived.
“And Father?” I asked, holding my breath.
“He is alive,” he replied.
Relief washed over me, and I shut my eyes. For years I played out all manner of scenarios, both hopeful and chilling. To know that my father was alive was like flipping a switch that illuminated a pitch-black room. Michael found out that I was in Malawi. After months of searching, he finally found my contacts.
“I thought this number was probably disconnected,” he said.
“I was going to leave the call unanswered,” I replied.
He chuckled again.
“Response times on the phone are always ridiculously delayed.”
Hearing him remember little things about me made me feel closer to him despite the distance. As always, the street in Lilongwe was busy. Shops were open for business. A bike rattled as it passed me. The shop owner looked at me, wondering why my call was taking so long. But I barely cared. At that moment, the phone connection was the center of my world. Michael asked about my life in Malawi. I described my tiny rented room, the work I was trying to do, and the people I encountered. I didn’t share all the hardships, but he got the picture.
“We will see each other again,” he said with quiet determination.
His confidence surprised me. Before that phone call, I took each day as it was. The future felt uncertain. Distance and time separated us. But in spirit I was connected to my family. Eventually, the shop owner approached me and pointed to the charger cable.
“Battery full,” he said, smiling.
The moment I was dreading came; it was time to end the call. Michael must have guessed that too.
“We will talk again,” he blurted out. “Now we know how to find one another.”
“Yes,” I said.
Neither of us wanted to be the last one to hang up. Then just like that the line dropped. I held the phone for a while, looking at the black screen. I could hear the traffic again. Things went back to normal, to the time before the phone call. But something had changed. I had spoken to my brother after so many years. A bond I thought was lost forever was restored. For the first time in a long while, that gap between Malawi and Tanzania felt so crossable.
