I remembered the fireplace. It had been our abode. I thought of how we used to gather there, under the moon and bright stars, to listen to the melodious tales that Gogo Nalitchowa had a gift for telling. The fireplace was just a stone’s throw from Gogo’s house, making it easy for her to quickly go there and back. Her tales were sermons on culture and philosophy. Like rats escaping a cat invasion, we would hastily assemble by the fireplace, some with empty stomachs and others with vegetable soup stains on their shirts that attested to satisfied bellies. This was our informal school, and Gogo was our teacher. She was a woman who, deep in her bones, believed in social security and a better future for us all.
Gogo’s appearance at the fireplace was always saluted with smiles that exposed our yellow teeth, stained green with the vegetables we ate for most of our meals. Gogo sat in her usual place. A queen, she was tall, slim and light-skinned, and her hair was very dark with grey patches signalling the years that had elapsed. You could easily imagine her participating in beauty contests when she was young and winning prizes. Her glowing face had traditional scarification markings that gave her an enchanting look that likely had a trail of men following her. Half of her few remaining teeth were yellow, mounted on dark gums that indicated her fondness for smoking and consuming raw tobacco.
“Mwandida, go and get me my pipe,” she said while tying her chitenge. After a deathly silence and a few murmurs that indicated Mwandida’s absence, she called her again with a loud voice: “Mwandida!” Mwandida, who had just appeared, got the message with a frown and made a U-turn to Gogo’s hut to collect the pipe.
Gogo’s domicile was a melange of styles, a simple round hut that was made of local materials: mud, wooden poles, and a glass roof. From afar, it looked like a sleepy old chap with a hat on his head. The door was made of glass and had no wooden frame. The only way to close it was to suspend a pestle horizontally on a cord at the centre of the insecure door. Her belongings were evidence of her poverty. Gogo had her cherished clay pot, like an artefact in a museum. She did not have enough clothes to fill a sack bag, and her bed was a mat with an old blanket with frayed edges that seemed to be waving goodbye. The roof was black as ebony, and soot decorated the hanging sacks that contained preserved vegetables, muti, processed ground nuts, and bananas that were left there to ripen.
“Today is a happy day,” she started. “I am about to tell you the story of my life, the only memory I revere. It is my love story.” She grinned, indulging herself in the sweetness of the memory.
“It all started in the year that the whole village had a bumper harvest.” Traditionally, time is measured spontaneously in relation to events. We calculated the years: the bumper harvest was some 30 years ago. “In summertime, my mother would send me to peddle clay pots at the market. On this destined day, I was at my usual vending post, my clay pots were arranged attractively, and I was eagerly waiting for clients. It was a stunning day. People were going up and down the market, buying and selling. Town criers were trying to entice people to board the buses that went into town. It was a noisy environment as we were all chanting slogans to attract customers.
“‘Hello, madam!’ a deep voice called. I disregarded the greeting, knowing I was not the only ‘madam’ at the market. The greeting was repeated, and this time I briefly made eye contact with the speaker, which confirmed that he was the messenger and I was the receiver. ‘Hello, madam, are the clay pots so hypnotic that they knock you unconscious? You even nosedive away from your potential customers.’ I reluctantly turned in the direction of the voice. I was not brought up to ignore people, so the comment displeased me, and I said sorry. ‘How are you? And how may I help you?’ I asked. ‘I am Chapola,’ he replied.
“When I raised my head to look at him, my heart stopped beating. My eyes were in agreement with my heart’s reaction. This was love at first sight. It was chaos inside me, but I didn’t want Chapola to know that he had deranged all six of my senses. I tried to hide my bodily response to his appearance, but my mouth betrayed me: it was open, and yet no words came out. ‘Hello, madam,’ Chapola said in a calm voice to awaken my body and bring it back to consciousness. ‘I like that clay pot over there; it is my mother’s favourite kind, but we have not been able to find one around here. How much is it?’ he asked, pointing at a uniquely designed clay pot in my stock. At this point, my heart made room for my mind and I listened to it. I said K 1.00 even though the real price was K 2.00. My mind told me, ‘You have to make sure he does not leave without the pot,’ so my strategy was to lower the price. He said, ‘That is such a low price. Can you put it aside for me? I will pay for it, but have to sell some hoe handles first.’ I do not remember how many times I said yes.
“‘I am Chapola from Mwanvu village. And you?’ he asked. ‘I am Nalitchowa from Kadzibwa,’ I replied with a smile. ‘What a coincidence! We are from neighbouring villages. Would you mind dropping the pot off at my mother’s compound?’ he asked as he put down a bundle of hoe handles. ‘I still have to sell these.’ I agreed to do as he asked. My goal was to find out if he was engaged or not, and meeting his mum was a bonus. So I headed off.”
Gogo paused to fill her pipe with tobacco. Most of us were dozing off. Those who slept with their mouths open left a trail of saliva on those who gave them a shoulder to lean on. Mothers started sending some of us to bed. The fire was slowly dying, and Gogo added some wood to keep it going and set some aside for later. Out of her chitenge came a bunch of bananas, which she shared with the persevering people who were eager to listen to the rest of her story. We ate the bananas, and across from us, Gogo alternated smoking and eating. As she chewed on the bananas, she blew out smoke through her nostrils like the exhaust pipe of a diesel car.
We were all interrupted by Mbiyang’ambe, who was divorced and found solace in drinking beer. He was singing his usual song:
Palibe… Palibe… Palibe manda ambeta palibe,
okufa adzalowadzenje limodzi kwatha tatedeeee¹
Rumour had it that Mbiyang’ambe’s wife had divorced him for the greener pastures of Mr Mwanaalilenji’s homestead. Mr Mwanaalilenji had been the first man in the village to buy a new bicycle and a radio. He grew all kinds of crops in his fields and owned lots of livestock. One of the men in the village testified that when Mr Mwanaalilenji’s team were playing, he would prepare sweet beer for the audiophiles who gathered at his home, as he was the only one with a radio in the entire area.
We turned our attention to Gogo again, waiting for her to go on with her beautiful tale. She continued, “I went to his compound, and a woman came to greet me. She introduced herself, and I did the same. ‘I was instructed to drop by and give you this clay pot,’ I said. ‘Ooh, that is so kind of you,’ said Chapola’s mother as she took the pot with a smile and a gesture of gratitude. ‘I was feeling vexed because I had been left destitute. May the ancestors smile on my son. He is my only son, and he has been taking care of me since his father died,’ she said with evident pride.
“Those words enlivened me. It was clear Chapola was a hard worker and responsible. I said goodbye, but the woman said, ‘Wait, my daughter.’ She went inside and got me a cup full of sweet beer. ‘The sun is scorching. Let this cool you down and give you the energy to complete your journey.’ After gulping the sweet beer, I was energised. I said goodbye and headed off with so much joy.
“I arrived home a jovial soul. My mother perceived my radiant face and knew that a chance encounter with a special person had brightened my day. ‘Have you found us an in-law?’ she inquired. ‘No, Mama,’ I answered, going to the kitchen to prepare myself a meal. I had so much appetite that day. Ndaziona, our neighbour, came over and reminded me that we were going to a chimtali dance rehearsal that afternoon. I told her to give me some time as I had to fetch water from the well for my parents to bathe with, and then I had to wash the dishes. Ndaziona said she had to do the same, and so we would be ready to leave around the same time.
“At the rehearsal, Mwawinanji, our troop leader, said Mwanvu village had challenged us to a chimtali dance competition. I was so excited; it felt like the wind was blowing in my favour. We rehearsed all day and decided on matching dance outfits for the big competition: a blue chitenge with white details, a blue blouse, and blue headscarves.
“On the day of the competition, I saw Chapola in the audience. I danced my soul out and shook every part of my body that could attract a man.” Gogo said this with a loud laugh that ended in a raspy cough. “It paid off because at the end of it, Chapola walked me home and proposed to me on the way,” she continued between coughs. “Fast forward a few months, and we got married. Our married life was a hard path, as only a year later, Chapola lost his mother. We worked through the grief together, and we became stronger as a family. We adopted three orphans because we never had children of our own.
“The following year, there was a massive drought that reduced our harvests.” Gogo continued in a sombre mood, as if the drought were currently happening. “But we had enough for the family since we had plantains in our fields, and we used to share the bananas harvested with those who were in dire need of food…”
I was jolted out of my reminiscences by a shout from the village chief. He was gathering the villagers to break the news of what had happened to our Gogo Nalitchowa. Our faces were tangled with fury. Gogo had been murdered by a mob because people believed she was a witch. The sad part was that most of the young people who killed her had parents who were raised by Gogo herself. Today, she had been condemned to an early grave.
Remembering her tales around the fireplace left me flooded with tears and fear. How could humanity fall so low? How could old age, which is a gift of perseverance, responsibility and prudence, be regarded as a sign of witchcraft? My mind was dark and my heart ached. How did Gogo deserve this? I could not speak, and I could not lessen the pain that my whole body felt. How could the children she cherished turn into the beasts and scavengers who had mercilessly killed her with stones and clubs? Was it that they had forgotten?
I could not shake the memory of her begging for mercy, a helpless old woman covered in blood that was oozing from her wounds slowly, for her veins were as old as she was. She had raised her hand in the hope of being pulled up and protected, only to be hit again by a large stone, and then she was dead. This is the sole memory that I was left with, and it has become the architecture of my reality, the yardstick by which I measure the world.
1. There is no special graveyard for those who die alone.
