LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

is the rainy season when the air is thick and hot. As more and more people arrived that morning, the house became crowded and sticky, and the sound of people wailing became too much for Geoffrey to handle. At one point, he stepped out looking even more confused than before, and walked over to where I sat.

      “Cousin, what next? What will happen?”

      “I don’t know,” I said. What could I say?

      For the rest of the day, Geoffrey would go inside, look at his father’s body, then come back out and cry. He did this until it was time for the funeral to begin.

      Chief Wimbe was out of town, so his messenger and bodyguard Mister Ngwata came to the house, along with other village headmen. For hours they sat under the acacia tree and discussed the funeral and what should happen with the family. When a powerful man dies, a lot of work needs to be done. In the event of a problem with the heir or transfer of property, it’s the chief who must decide an outcome.

      Finally everyone poured out of the house and gathered around the tree. Mister Ngwata stood and addressed them on behalf of Gilbert’s father:

      “We know this man has left behind some riches, and these treasures include his kids. We’d like to advise his brothers to take full control of these children. Make sure they finish their secondary education as they would have if their father had been alive. And in regards to the material wealth, we don’t want to hear of troubles in the family as a result. If anyone here wants to help this family, help the children with clothing and school fees.”

      Another person stood up to speak. It was Mister Jonesi from Kasungu South, speaking on behalf of Geoffrey’s mother’s side of the family.

      “This is a sad and tragic time even for our family,” he said, holding his hat. “We’re very concerned now. The deceased has left behind a wife, our beloved sister Enifa, and her four children. Our sister left our family long ago to join this village, so we ask the Kamkwamba side to please care for the kids and finish the job their dear father began. That’s all.”

      My father and his brothers then lifted the coffin and placed it inside their friend Kachiluwe’s truck. They jumped inside to hold the coffin in place as the truck rolled toward the graveyard. The crowd then followed on foot. The graveyard was located down the trail near Grandpa’s village. It was just a small place under a grove of blue gums, with tall grass grown up around a few concrete headstones. My father’s two sisters, Fannie and Edith, were also laid to rest there.

      Several men dressed in gum boots were already waiting when everyone arrived. These were the adzukulu, or grave diggers, who are hired to do the job of digging and burying. In Malawi, graves are not just six-feet-deep open pits like those dug in Western countries. Instead, every grave has a hidden compartment at the bottom—usually a smaller cubbyhole carved into the side of the pit—where the coffin slides in. It’s like having your own little bedroom in death. The purpose is to protect the deceased from the falling dirt, or really, to keep the family from seeing the falling dirt land on the coffin. For Uncle John’s grave, the adzukulu had dug the compartment at the bottom center of the hole—a kind of hole within a hole.

      Grunting, the adzukulu carefully lowered the coffin with ropes, into the smaller compartment. It was the exact size of the coffin. One of the gravediggers then jumped in and covered the hole with wooden planks and a reed mat. With its new floor, the open grave now appeared empty.

      I watched all of this happen as if in a fevered dream, head throbbing, a dull buzzing deep in my mind, as if the pressing sun overhead had revealed to me its voice. Once the grave was finally filled and covered with grass, I joined the mourners back up the hill. It was the loneliest feeling I’d ever felt.

      FOLLOWING UNCLE JOHN’S DEATH, things became more difficult all around. In addition to the sadness we all experienced, my father had to care for the business alone. It was the start of the growing season, and my father tended the crops through until harvest. He paid all the seasonal workers and settled all the accounts. Then, heeding the advice of the chiefs, he handed the entire business over to John’s firstborn son, Jeremiah, who was twenty years old.

      It’s custom for the firstborn son to inherit everything from his father, but it doesn’t always work that way. Often one of the brothers steps in and snatches control, leaving the family of the deceased at his mercy. This unfortunately happens all the time, and it’s the number one grievance brought before the village chiefs.

      Jeremiah lived at home with Geoffrey and their mother and often helped on the farm, but it was well agreed that he didn’t like hard work. Although he was very smart, he’d never shown much interest in school and could often be found drinking in the boozing centers. My father felt terribly nervous about handing him the family business, but he wanted no trouble from chiefs or relatives.

      “I don’t want anyone saying I’m a thief,” my father said. “If things go badly, I still did the right thing.”

      Of course, when Jeremiah heard he was being handed a family fortune, he was very surprised. He’d just assumed his father’s brothers would never trust him.

      “This is such a wonderful blessing,” he told my father. “Thank you very much.”

      But as soon as Jeremiah took control, he spent most of the season’s profits in the bars of Lilongwe and Kasungu. In November, when it came time to buy seed and fertilizer to plant new maize and tobacco, plus hire a new crew of workers, little of the money was left. As a result, the next crop was smaller. And when the tobacco was sold at auction, Jeremiah took the money and disappeared, returning only after most of it was gone.

      Uncle John had also owned and operated two maize mills in nearby villages that made a substantial profit. In addition, he owned eight head of cattle. The mills and cattle were also given to Jeremiah, but the following year, Musaiwale, the oldest brother, forcefully took one mill and half the cows. Within two years’ time, Jeremiah had lost both his maize mill and his cows.

      As far as my father was concerned, his brother’s business was gone. In farming, a man can lose everything so quickly. Given our custom, my father was forbidden to take back what he’d given away. Once you surrender control, you lose it forever. After the business collapsed, our family was left to survive on its own.

      FARMING HAD ALSO BECOME a tougher business in Malawi, thanks to the policies of a new president. In 1994, three years before Uncle John’s death, President Banda finally retired after losing the first elections he’d allowed to happen. Thirty years had been a long time in power, and the people were tired. Opposition against him had also grown ugly. Large crowds had gathered in the cities to protest his tyranny and harsh policies, and riots had erupted as a result. Before the election, Banda’s thugs had even attempted to scare people into voting for him again. One day in the trading center, more than three hundred Gule Wamkulu appeared on the road carrying empty coffins, promising to fill them with anyone who didn’t support the Life President.

      But the opposition had still won, and unlike most African losers, Banda agreed to leave quietly and not start a war. He even accepted defeat before the final votes were tallied. He knew it was time. Since Banda had been born and raised in Kasungu, he returned to his home at the base of Mount Nguru ya Nawambe—formerly the Rock of the Edible Flies, where our great Chewa warriors had defeated the Ngoni—and lived out his final days. A big, fat former cabinet minister named Bakili Muluzi then became president, bringing with him his own brand of troubles.

      Banda may have been a cruel dictator, but he did care deeply for farmers and the land. Our district is the most fertile in all Malawi, often called the “breadbasket” of the country, and Banda understood what was required to work the soil. He made sure that fertilizer was available to every farmer in the country who needed it. Seed was also cheap, allowing any Malawian to grow tobacco to sell. This meant that as long as it continued to rain, no family would go hungry.

      On the other hand, Muluzi had been a wealthy businessman before entering politics and believed government had no business dealing in fertilizer and seed. He wanted to be different from Banda in every possible way, and this included stopping all subsidies and making the farmers fend for themselves.

Скачать книгу