LITMIR.BIZ

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this secret. My mother told Charity, “For my services, I get all the birds you kill on your next hunt.”

      Charity agreed. The next day he brought four birds in a sugar sack and dropped them in the kitchen.

      HUNTING WITH MY COUSINS had taught me the ways of the land: how to find the best spots in the tall grass and along the shimmering dambo pools, how to outwit the birds with a strong, smart trap, and the virtues of patience and silence when lying in wait. Any good hunter knows that patience is the key to success, and Khamba seemed to understand this as if he’d been hunting his entire life.

      Our first outings began with the start of the rainy season, when the showers are heavy all morning and replaced in the afternoon by a sweltering, pasty air. When the land is wet and filled with puddles, the dambos don’t attract as many birds. This is when we hunters rely on the chikhwapu, a giant deadly whip—or a kind of slingshot trap without the stone.

      After the rains stopped one morning, Khamba and I set out to make our trap. I carried a sack on the end of my hoe made from a mpango—a kind of long, brightly colored scarf used by women to hold everything from their hair to babies on their backs. The sack contained a long bicycle tube, a broken bicycle spoke, a short section of steel wire I’d clipped off my mother’s clothesline, a handful of maize chaff we called gaga, and four heavy bricks. As always, I also carried the two hunting knives I’d made myself.

      The first was a Rambo-style commando knife I’d made from thick iron sheets. First, I’d traced a fierce-looking pattern on the metal with a pencil. Using a nail and heavy wrench, I poked holes all along the lines, perforating the metal so it popped out with a good pounding. I then ground the metal against a flat rock to smooth the edges and produce a sharp blade. For a handle, I wrapped the bottom of the blade in enough plastic jumbos to get a full, even grip. Then I melted the handle over a fire.

      My second knife was more like a stabbing tool made from a large nail I’d pounded flat with the wrench and ground to a sharp edge. I’d fashioned its handle in the same way as the first. I kept both knives tucked snugly in the waistband of my trousers.

      Packing my gear, I set off with Khamba down the trail behind Geoffrey’s house that led to the graveyard, down into the blue gums where the trees were taller and provided good shade. The hills of the Dowa Highlands—which separated us from the lake—rose beautifully before me, capped in gray, dripping thunderheads. A new storm was on its way, so we had to work quickly.

      I found a good spot off the main trail, near a tall blue gum that would cast a long shadow once the sun broke through the haze. Using my hoe, I cleared away the grass and vines until the red mud was exposed—a surface of about four feet in diameter. Taking my knife, I sawed off two thick branches from the blue gum and stripped their bark, then whittled both to sharp points. I pushed the poles into the moist soil about two feet apart, then pulled them to test their firmness. They held.

      I cut the bicycle tube into two thin strips and attached both pieces to the section of steel wire. I then tied the rubber strips to the blue gum poles. When finished, it resembled a giant slingshot with a thick steel center. This was the kill bit.

      Stripping bark off several nearby trees and lashing it together, I fashioned a long rope about fifteen feet long. I then cut a small, eight-inch section off it and attached it to the steel bit. I tied a short stick to the other end, making the knot fat and round. Gripping the stick like a handle, I pulled back the rubber bands as far as they’d stretch, then wedged the handle between two posts—a second stick and the bike spoke—using the fat, round knot to hold it in place. The long rope then led back into the trees and acted as the trigger. Once it was set, I stacked the four bricks several inches in front of the trap, then sprinkled the maize chaff in the middle. This was the kill zone.

      When the birds landed to eat the chaff, I’d pull the rope and release the sling, slamming the birds into the wall of bricks.

      “Let’s hunt,” I said, and Khamba followed me into the trees.

      We hid behind a small thombozi tree that allowed me to see clearly without being spotted. As soon as we got there, Khamba lay down beside me and stared keenly ahead. He never moved, never barked. After about half an hour, a small flock of four birds swooped over and spotted the bait. They fluttered down and began pecking at the dirt. My heart began to race. Khamba’s ears perked up and his mouth began to quiver. I was about to release the rope when I saw a fifth bird land just behind the others. It was giant, with a fat gray chest and yellow feathers.

      Come on, I thought, a little more to the right. That’s it, come on.

      After a few long seconds, the fat bird nudged his way into the group and started to feed. Once they were square in the kill zone, I pulled the rope.

       WHOO-POP!

      The birds disappeared in a cloud of feathers and chaff.

      “Tonga!” I shouted, and Khamba and I dashed out of our blind.

      Four birds lay dead against the bricks, while a fifth had managed to fly away. The large bird was still flapping against the mud, so I picked it up before it revived. Its body was warm and soft in my hands. I could feel its tiny heart fluttering against my palm. I pinched its head between my two fingers and twisted its neck.

      I picked up the others and dusted off the mud. Normally I’d carry a sugar bag, but today I’d forgotten. I stuffed the limp birds into my pockets.

      Once the trap was reset, I waited for another half hour, then finally gave up.

      “It’s time to eat,” I said.

      Khamba and I then set off for mphala.

      MPHALA MEANS “A HOME for unmarried boys,” which is exactly where my cousin Charity lived. It was more like a clubhouse, situated on our property just across from Geoffrey’s house. James, the seasonal worker who’d fought Phiri, had once lived there. But after he’d been laid off, it remained empty. Charity had taken over the house with his friend Mizeck, a big fat guy who’d dropped out of school and now worked as a trader. Although they both still lived with their parents—Charity’s house was near Gilbert’s in the blue gum grove—they slept at the clubhouse at night.

      In the corner, someone had built a bed from blue gum poles and maize sacks stuffed with grass. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, along with mango peels and groundnut shells and other strange pieces of rubbish. One wall featured a poster of the soccer club MTL Wanderers—otherwise known as the Nomads—which were my favorite team in the Malawi Super League, and possibly the whole world. A poster of their chief rivals, Big Bullets, adorned the opposite wall, and I can’t tell you how much I hated Big Bullets. A fireplace sat in the corner—just a large shallow pot with holes poked in the sides for ventilation and filled with charred maize piths and wood. A small window above ventilated the smoke, but not very well. It also let in the room’s only light, a thin beam of sunshine that was polluted with hanging dust. The air stank like dirty feet. To me, it was the greatest place in the world.

      Because I was young and annoying, I was mostly forbidden from entering the clubhouse, unless, of course, I earned my entry. A few times I was allowed in after helping steal mangoes. Charity would make me wear a mpango sack around my neck and sneak into the neighbor’s compound. With my knife in my teeth, I’d climb the trees and quietly snip the mangoes and drop them into the sack. I’d take them back to mphala and they’d let me inside. It was like paying dues.

      Once inside, the conversation was lurid and often confusing for my eleven-year-old mind. Much of the talk was about girls, and I was lucky if they forgot I was there. One time, Mizeck stopped midway through a story about a certain girl he’d seen in town and said to Charity, “We should take care, we have a child among us. This boy can’t handle such stories.”

      I started pleading. “I’m not a child. Come on guys, carry on. I’m a big man. I know some things about girls.”

      “Oh yeah, and what do you know?”

      “I know…I know what you know.”

      As

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