Growing up, Embangweni felt like home to me, mainly because I enjoyed so many unforgettable holidays there. I come from a small town where watching football on an open community ground was the only entertainment. So whenever someone mentions Embangweni, I go way back in time. I don’t think of it as a place on a map. It brings a lot of memories.
Embangweni is a trading center in southwestern Mzimba District, in the northern region of Malawi. It is where Loudon Mission Station was founded in 1902 under the Livingstonia mission led by Dr. Robert Laws. The area still holds those nostalgic brick buildings and quiet monuments that reflect its rich history. Whenever I think of it, I remember being nine years old and traveling during school breaks. I think of the bus windows, Christmas songs, and the games we played when we were there.
We can leave places behind, but we never truly forget memorable experiences. As years pass, roads keep changing, and some people move on, yet certain memories remain intact; they stay carefully preserved inside us.
The holidays following the final term of the school year were always the happiest time of the year. They always came in summertime, so they meant freedom from homework and early morning alarms. More importantly, those breaks meant one thing for our family: we were going to visit our aunt in Embangweni.
My younger sister and I looked forward to those trips long before the school term ended. The excitement would build days before we traveled. We packed our own clothes, and our mother would simply check that we had enough. She made sure we had enough clothes, jerseys for the chilly mornings, a small towel, and a few snacks for the journey. She never forgot a single detail. Looking back now, I wonder at how brave she was.
Today, few parents would allow two little girls to board a long-distance bus by themselves, constantly worrying about any possible danger. But those were different times; people shared a quiet trust. Even the conductors knew they were carrying someone’s precious children and took care of them without being asked. It was an unwritten rule of the road.
At departure time, our mother would walk us to the bus station at dawn. The station was always busy. Vendors called out to customers, selling roasted maize, boiled eggs, fritters, bananas, and soft drinks. Porters rushed past with heavy bags balanced on their shoulders. Engines rumbled as buses came and departed, carrying people to different corners of Malawi. To my young eyes, it all looked magical.
Our mother would hold our hands tightly as we walked through the crowd. Before we boarded, she reminded us of the same gentle instructions she offered on every trip:
“Stay together,” she said.
“Listen to the conductor.”
“Don’t lose your bag, I beg you!”
“And greet your aunt properly when you arrive.”
We listened attentively, although we knew the routine by heart. When the conductor finally called passengers to board, our mother helped us up the steps onto the bus. She made sure she placed our bags safely in the overhead rack and spoke quietly to the conductor.
“These are my girls,” she said softly. “They’re traveling to Embangweni.”
The conductor smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, Mama. They will arrive safely.”
Those simple words were all she needed. She bade us farewell, stepped off the bus, and stood outside our window until the engine started. We waved to each other excitedly through the glass while she smiled back. Only now, as an adult, do I realize she likely stood at that station long after the bus disappeared around the bend, praying for our safe arrival.
As children, however, we never thought about such things. The journey itself was part of the adventure. My sister and I could hardly sit still. We counted the passing trees, guessed the names of the rural villages, and simply stared out the windows at the beautiful Mzimba scenery.
We passed a thick green forest. We could see the hills in the distance, with sunlight sparkling on the streams. As we passed the kids in the villages, they waved at the bus. Women carried baskets, some with bundles of firewood, effortlessly on their heads. Men pedaled bicycles slowly along the red dirt roads. Everything felt vibrant and full of life.
Eventually, someone would start singing. It was never planned. One of us would softly hum or sing the first line of a Christmas carol, and before we knew it, we were singing as though it were December, even if Christmas was still months away.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…”
Then another song.
“Joy to the world…”
Followed by another and another.
Passengers smiled, some joining in softly while others simply listened and stared out the window. To us, those carols did not belong only to Christmas. They belonged to happiness, to long journeys, school holidays, and the excitement of knowing our aunt was waiting for us on the road. Those songs became the soundtrack of our childhood. Every mile brought us closer to Embangweni and to another holiday that we believed would never end.
By the time the bus reached Embangweni, the afternoon had softened. The excitement grew stronger as we looked out the windows, trying to spot familiar faces. There she was. Our aunt stood patiently near the bus stop, smiling before we even got down.
Her greeting was something else; my aunt really knew how to make someone feel at home. She never greeted us with a simple handshake. She gave us a warm hug, held our shoulders, and looked us up and down as if she were making sure we hadn’t changed too much since the last holiday.
“You have grown, Nyembezi,” she said.
We laughed every time because she said it at every visit. We could walk to her house because it was not far from the station. The air was so fresh, birds sang from the tall trees, and we could hear goats making noise at nearby homes. We walked along narrow footpaths, greeting everyone we met.
“Mwadzuka.”
“Monile.”
People smiled back; some called our aunt by name, while others asked who the little visitors were. Before long, everyone seemed to know that her nieces from Mzimba had arrived.
Her home was simple, welcoming, and always full of life. It was never empty. Every time you went into the kitchen, you saw a pot on the stove; children ran in and out of the yard; neighbors stopped by without an invitation. Looking back, I realize homes like hers were built as much on generosity as on bricks and mortar.
As evening fell, the kitchen filled with the rich aroma of fresh nsima and pumpkin leaves in peanut sauce. They also prepared roasted chicken for our arrival. We sat around the fire, sharing stories from Mzimba town and listening attentively as the elders spoke of the history of Loudon and the traditions that have held the community together. Later, we could see a sky filled with stars that felt much closer than they did at home.
Those days in Embangweni were filled with simple pleasures: fetching water from the borehole, learning local games from our cousins, and gathering in the yard to play katambalale. We would sit in a line on the bare ground, chotambala, which means legs stretched straight out in front of us. One child would walk down the row, sliding her hand over our legs while leading the song:
“Katambalale!”
And all of us sitting would chorus back at the same time: “Yaya, sanapse!”
The song went over and over, round and round, until we picked a partner and decided who would walk down to the borehole to fetch water with her, or who got the first turn in a game of fillaball.
Though many years have passed, the roads have changed, and life has taken us in different directions, the spirit of Embangweni remains firmly secured in my heart. It taught me the beauty of community, the comfort of family, and the warmth of a true home.
