Chapter Two
I don’t remember the entirety of my first journey, the day we moved from Kasungu Boma to Nkhamenya; I only have fragments of it. The night before, I overheard my parents talking through the half-open door of their bedroom. Candlelight seeped through the gap and lit half the corridor that led to their bedroom. I hid behind the dark side and eavesdropped quietly. They were talking about Father’s promotion. Something about starting a pilot branch. At the time, I didn’t understand what that meant, but I knew that our lives were about to change.
The following day, Mother started packing all our belongings. My big sisters, Yamikani and Silvia, assisted with sorting the kitchen utensils and packing them in big boxes and sacks for easy carrying. Jane slept quietly behind Mother’s back, sucking on her thumb. Everything was happening so fast. By evening, the whole house was empty. All the furniture, utensils, clothes, and bedding had been packed and sealed.
“Mama, where are we going?” I asked curiously.
She just stared down at me and smiled. I could see something shine in her eyes like a thousand stars twinkling. She did not say a word. She just turned around and continued moving a big sack towards the front door that led to the porch. My sisters helped with carrying it outside, where a big truck was parked. My father was busy loading everything into the truck. When he saw me, he just smiled and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Hurry up! It’s getting late,” advised Father.
Most of the furniture had been loaded already; only a few things remained. My sisters were arguing about who should carry the charcoal. Neither wanted to get dirty.
“Girls, don’t waste our precious time on silly arguments. Get moving!” shouted Mother as she balanced a big bucket of kitchen utensils.
“It’s Yami, she doesn’t want to carry anything!” reported Silvia.
“Eeeeh! Did I say so?” snapped Yamikani.
“Stop it already! Both of you,” Mother intervened.
My sisters always argued about silly things. “That’s how most girls are,” one of my mother’s friends used to say when she came over for a chat. Mother loved to invite all the women in our neighbourhood for some afternoon tea. They were so loud and loved gossiping. I didn’t like them. They used to tease me for my small bones.
“Please put some meat on him,” they always said, laughing.
Now that we were leaving, I felt relieved. I was happy that I would never hear their annoying voices again.
My sisters were struggling under the weight of the bag of charcoal when a cooking stick fell from Mother’s bucket. I ran to pick it up. The sky had grown darker, and I couldn’t see the ground clearly. My flip-flops, which had become slippery from the sweat on my feet, tripped me and I fell into a puddle of mud. Everyone stared at me before they burst into laughter. My clothes were covered in mud.
“We don’t have time to change; all the clothes are already packed,” said Mother, carrying the last basin of kitchen utensils. “Here, take this!” She handed me a small cloth to wipe myself with and a wrapper to keep warm.
The truck was already idling. My sisters quietly sat on some luggage at the back of the vehicle. It was happening. My heart pounded fast with excitement. I could feel the rush of blood warming my face. It was my first time going to a new place. I didn’t know what would happen afterward. It didn’t matter to me. I was just excited about the journey. Just before we were about to leave, I realized I had not packed my toys.
I rushed to the kitchen, where my toys were perched on a shelf near the roof, covered in soot. I reached with a broomstick and pulled them down with all my strength. I didn’t have time to choose which toys to bring; I could hear my mother calling from the car, her voice barely audible over the roar of the engine. I grabbed two toy cars my father had made from wire. They were tangled together; there was no way to separate them. I walked out of the kitchen, my sweaty hands gripping the cold wire tightly. I couldn’t wait to show Father’s creations to the new kids I was about to meet.
The car started off after Father’s prayer. We always prayed before starting anything. Father always said we should put God first in everything we do. I could barely see the house disappearing behind in the mirror. I was so excited for the journey ahead, but the thought of leaving my home made me a little sad. I still miss the scent of Heji trees and the sweet floral aroma of the yellow Heji flowers that bloomed in winter. I still miss the sour smell of soaked maize women dried behind our old house. I just sat in silence while my parents bantered about the fastest route to the M1—the road that connects Malawi’s southern and northern regions, passing through the central region.
“We should use the one that passes through Juma,” suggested Mother.
Her voice was deafeningly loud, as if she were trying to outpitch the engine’s roar. My mother always spoke loudly. So did my elder sisters and every other woman I knew. They always spoke like they were shouting at each other.
“That’s a shortcut, yes, but we need to buy something for the children to eat, so let’s use the Chankhanga road,” Father insisted with a calm and firm voice.
Chankhanga was a primary school built near the road that diverted from the M1. They kept arguing about the time, food, and the roads. I closed my ears and hummed a tune from church. I don’t remember how that conversation ended. I only remember that we did not stop anywhere to buy food. I guess my mother won.
The journey to Nkhamenya took ages. The sun had disappeared behind the hills to the west. Trees and marshes stretched endlessly from either side. The road was narrow and deserted. Cyclists and groups of people on foot could be seen occasionally in the headlights, carrying hoes and bamboo buckets locally known as madengu.
“Where are they going?” I asked curiously.
“They’re coming from their farms. Most of these are fields,” explained Father while pointing into a dark nothingness. He started explaining about the lives of the people who resided in those lands. Most of them were farmers cultivating different crops. “They are the ones who feed the people living in the towns,” continued my father. He spoke as if he knew them closely.
“Your grandfather, my father, is also a farmer,” jumped in Mother.
This time, she was speaking calmly. Jane was sleeping quietly, her palms covered in a beautiful, fluffy baby blanket. The engine was humming quietly now, and we all waited for some minutes before Mother spoke again. She started telling us the story about how our grandfather survived a near-death experience before he retired as a civil servant.
Back in the ’60s, before we were born and our parents had not met yet, my grandfather was a pioneer. I don’t know what he did, but that’s what my mother said they used to call his work. It was the time when Dr. Kamuzu Banda, the first president of Malawi, was still alive. My grandfather was one of the people who served closely to the president’s political party. After the death of Banda, most of his party members and supporters were hunted and killed. Others were arrested without due process. My grandfather was one of the latter. While in prison, all of his fellow inmates were murdered by the reigning government in cold blood, one by one, like chickens. When it was my grandfather’s turn to meet his demise, a letter came from above demanding his release. He was forced to retire and return to his home village in Kasungu, where he became a farmer for survival.
We all kept silent for some time after listening to the story.
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” spoke the driver for the first time in a while. “Most Malawians are not farmers by choice; it’s the government, man!” he declared.
My parents started laughing at the driver’s way of reasoning. The adults had turned to warmer banter when suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes. Had it not been that we were carefully fastened with the seatbelt, we could have flown out of the windshield, thanks to my hyperactive imagination.
Another car had stopped a few inches away from the truck’s bumper. The driver hit the horn rapidly, and a man walked out of the car in front of us. He was covering his head with a piece of cloth. He jogged his way to the truck, barely visible in the windshield. He knocked on the window on the driver’s side. The driver hesitated for a moment before he rolled it down. A chill swept through the cabin from the open window as if it were waiting for us. It was dark on either side of the vehicle where the headlights could not reach. The cabin smelled of car exhaust, gasoline, and asphalt.
“What’s going on?” whispered Mother with a worrisome expression.
She held me tightly. I could sense unease in her question. My father, as if he had the same question, just shrugged his shoulders. The conversation between the driver and the strange man was inaudible. We all just sat quietly listening to the steady thrum of the idling engine and the insects chirping and croaking in the nearby marsh. For what seemed like ages, we waited for the truck driver to finish talking to the man.
“Accident,” he said at last after the man had gone. “There’s an accident a few cars from here,” he explained while swallowing the last syllable in one big gulp.
“How bad is it?” asked Father.
“Well, it might take a few hours to clear the path. I hope the police arrive soon.”
“Any survivors?” asked Mother.
The driver became quiet for a moment before answering. This time, there was worry in his tone. “It was a mini truck carrying people to a wedding and a minibus.” He paused. “15 injured so far and 7 people won’t be sitting upright anytime soon.”
“It could’ve been worse. These roads are not good, especially in this weather,” said Father.
“For real,” sighed the driver.
We just sat in the car and waited for the path to clear. I was getting bored. The croaking sound in the bush was growing louder. My friends used to tell me that green frogs made such noises when they slept. I remember one of the older kids saying that travelling with a frog on the road meant safe travels.
“It’s true. The green ones bring luck, man,” he used to say whenever we were playing in the gardens close to our old house.
He also mentioned something about big brown bumpy frogs. What did he say? Something about bad business. Whatever, I was getting myself a frog right now just for the heck of it. I wanted to go out there. I reached for the door on our side and tried to open it. My mother grabbed my hand to stop me. Her hands were warm and soft, but the grip was so firm it could crack my knuckles.
“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” she whispered.
“I want to pee,” I said.
She could tell the lie through the sentence, but she went along with it. She handed sleepy Jane to Father and opened the door for me. I hopped out of the car and landed on wet shrubs. I jolted at the heavy raindrops that hit me by surprise on my back. Mother just stood behind me, her arms folded in the rain like she wasn’t surprised. When did it start raining? Had it been raining all this time? I wondered. The air was chilly, and it smelled of damp leaves and swampy water. The wet shrubs brushed against my legs, leaving itchy scratches while gritty sand bit my bare feet. I limped a few steps into the dark before I stopped. All I could hear was the sound of a thousand raindrops sputtering on the tarmac and the thickets. The sting and the itching were so unbearable that I almost forgot the reason I was outside in the first place. I wanted to go back into the warm seat of the truck cabin, but wait, I had a mission to fulfill—the frog. I could hear them snoring all around me. I squatted down where the noise was loudest and searched blindly with both of my hands. I could only feel the sharp edges of stones and the bumpy surfaces of twigs. The smell of wet earth and dead leaves filled my nostrils. Raindrops were punching my face from every direction, and I started to feel like I was drowning.
“C’mon, one frog for the road,” I whispered to myself.
My hands were covered in mud, rain tickled my face, but I couldn’t wipe it off. I looked behind my shoulder, and I could still see Mother standing firm, unshaken by the rain, one of nature’s reliefs. I continued rummaging through the mud blindly until my neck began to cramp. Who knew finding luck was this exhausting? I didn’t want to give up, but time wasn’t on my side. Soon we would be departing, and I wouldn’t have the frog with me. The thought made me sad, and I started slowing down on the search like a machine powering down, when suddenly I grabbed something slippery and soft. It felt cold and elongated like one of the twigs. I couldn’t feel any legs as it wriggled to break free from my grip. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what it was. All I remember is flinging it away into the dark and jolting into the air like a scared cat.
What was I thinking? I asked myself while my heart hammered rapidly in my chest. I coughed, choking in the rainwater on my face.
“Done?” asked Mother when I joined her from my little life lesson.
I didn’t respond. I swear I must have seen her laughing. I climbed back into the seat, my clothes all wet and covered in mud.
The road was cleared a few hours later, and we continued our journey from the small detour.
“So, you went to search for frogs again,” Mother said, like she already knew what I was doing in the rain.
Everyone in the car started laughing so loud, it began to annoy me. I pouted and sank into my seat.
I don’t remember anything else from that night or the rest of the journey. I just remember waking up in a new house the following morning, half-naked. I could still hear two frogs croaking in turns. One in my left ear and another one in my right. I turned towards the left only to see the face of Yamikani, before she smiled and croaked like a frog in front of my face. Silvia responded behind me in unison.
“Aaah!” I jumped off the bed. “What are you guys doing?”
My big sisters just stared at me, then at each other, then back at me, before they broke into laughter and started croaking over and over.
“It’s not funny! MAMA!”
This time, Yamikani was dying of laughter, and Silvia was flat on her stomach with hysterics. That’s when I realized that the frog business from the previous night was not done with me.
