LITMIR.BIZ

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When will I have power?’

      He considered this for a second and said, “Give it three days to work its way through your veins. Once it’s complete, you’ll feel it.”

      “Three days.”

      “Yes, and whatever you do, don’t eat okra or sweet potato leaves.”

      “I’ll remember,” I said.

      “And lastly, tell no one,” he added.

      I walked out of the forest, looking down at my wounded, blackened hands, which by now had begun to swell. They looked tough. I imagined my arms swinging heavy at my sides like two thick hoe handles. A rush of confidence filled my lungs.

      That evening, I hid in my room and spoke to no one. I went to bed feeling good. I’m a big man now, I thought, drifting off to sleep. A big man.

      Three days was a long time to wait, but it worked with my plan. It was summer holiday, and the following morning I was supposed to travel to Dowa to spend time with my grandparents. Dowa was the perfect place to polish my powers before returning home a legend.

      Well, three days crept by so slowly I thought I might die from boredom. I loved my grandparents dearly, but there wasn’t much to do at their house. As I said, my grandmother was a tough lady who’d made her own bricks and was always putting me to work.

      On the fourth day, I awoke and immediately felt different. Sitting up in bed, my arms felt light, yet hard as tree trunks. My hands were as solid as two stones. Heading outside, I took off running down the road to test my speed. Sure enough, I felt the wind in my face like never before.

      That afternoon my uncle Mada invited me to watch a District League soccer game at the town pitch, and I went in hopes of testing my powers. The game was Dowa Medicals versus Agriculture, and as expected, the place was packed. As is our custom, the women looked after the children on one side of the field, while the men and boys huddled closely on the other, smoking cigarettes and shouting insults at the officials.

      I had no interest in the game. I scanned the crowd until I saw a boy, perhaps my age, standing near the far corner of the pitch. He appeared to be alone, so I made my move. I cut through the crowd toward him, and as I walked past, I crushed his bare feet with my sandal. He let out a cry.

      “Excuse me, you just stepped on my toes!” he shouted, hopping in pain.

      I looked at him with two dead eyes.

      “I said you stepped on my toes. It hurt.”

      “So?” I said.

      “Well, it’s rude, don’t you think?”

      “What are you going do about it?”

      “What am I going to do?”

      “You heard me. Why don’t you do something, kape.” A kape is a drooling idiot.

      “Okay, fine,” he said. “I’m going to beat you.”

      “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

      We began dancing around in circles, and I wasted no time. I unleashed a flurry of punches so fast my arms became a blur in front of my eyes. I gave him lefts and rights and uppercuts for good measure, my two iron fists moving so quickly I couldn’t even feel them smashing his face. Not wanting to kill the poor chap (I’d forgotten my potato vines), I finally backed away. But to my amazement, the boy was still standing. Not only was he standing, he was laughing!

      Before I could release another deadly round, I felt a terrible pain in my right eye, then another, and another. Soon I was lying on the ground while his fists pounded my head and face, and his foot stomped my stomach. By the time my uncle raced over and pulled him off me, I was crying and covered in dust.

      “What are you doing, William?” my uncle shouted. “You know better than to fight. This boy is twice your size!”

      Humiliated beyond anything I could imagine, I ran home to my grandparents and stayed inside until it was time to go home. And once there, I immediately found Shabani and confronted him.

      “Your magic doesn’t work! You promised me power, but I was beaten in Dowa!”

      “Of course it works,” he said, then thought for a second. “Listen, did you bathe the day I gave it to you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, that’s why. My medicine doesn’t allow you to bathe.”

      “You never said that.”

      “Of course I did.”

      “But…”

      As you can see, I was clearly cheated. My first and only experience with magic had left me with a sore eye and hands that throbbed from bad medicine. With my luck, I thought, they’ll probably become infected and fall off. I began imagining myself a handless beggar in the market, unable to even use the bathroom. The fear of this occupied my mind for hours at a time. I’m telling you, it would be terrible!

       CHAPTER THREE

      In JANUARY 1997, WHEN I was nine years old, our family experienced a sudden and tragic loss.

      One afternoon while tending the tobacco with my father, Uncle John collapsed in the field. He’d been sick for several months but refused to see a doctor. That day, when my father helped him to the clinic near the trading center, they diagnosed him with tuberculosis and told him to go immediately to Kasungu Hospital. Uncle John’s pickup wasn’t running at the time, so my father ran to borrow a friend’s car. Before he left, he placed his brother’s bed mat under the cool shade of the acacia tree where he could rest. Uncle John’s wife, Enifa, stayed by his side and kept him company, and soon, many others from the village joined them.

      Not long after my father left, I heard a loud commotion under the tree, then panic. It was Enifa who began screaming first. I looked over and saw her push through the crowd, gasping for breath. Others around the tree soon began to wail and cry, holding their arms to heaven. I then felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw my mother, her face twisted as if she’d bitten something sour.

      “Your uncle John is no more,” she said. “He has passed.”

      It was then my father returned with the car and learned the tragic news about his brother. Several men had to hold his body up.

      It was the first time I’d ever seen my parents suffer, and the sight of it frightened me more than any magic ever could. My uncle John was dead and his body lay under the acacia. I’d never seen a dead person, but I was too afraid to go look for fear it would never leave my mind. Soon I saw Geoffrey emerge from the crowd. He was crying and walking in circles as if he’d lost his direction. I didn’t know how to behave, or what to say to him. I wanted to take my cousin and go away, down to the dambo where we could play and I could think. I didn’t like the way I was suddenly feeling. You know, in our culture, when a loved one dies, you’re expected to wail and cry to properly show your grief. I can’t explain why, but I didn’t feel like doing this. And after seeing everyone else, especially my father with his eyes red and face swollen from tears, I began to feel ashamed. So sitting there alone, I forced myself to cry, focusing on my dead uncle until I could feel the tears run hot down my face. Before they could dry, I went and joined my cousin to show my respect.

      LATER THAT DAY, MY father’s two brothers, Musaiwale and Socrates, arrived from Kasungu, along with other family and friends who’d heard the news. Members of the church also came to Uncle John’s house and stayed all night and the following day. They pressed inside the two rooms and sang “This World Is Not My Home” while others quietly shuffled in and out to pay their respects. Uncle John’s body lay on a grass mat on the floor covered with a brightly patterned chitenje cloth. The next morning a simple wooden coffin arrived from Kasungu and the body

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