The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind. Bryan Mealer

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СКАЧАТЬ I knew it, Phiri began punching James. Phiri was short and thick, and James was tall and also very strong. The two traded blows back and forth, and for the moment, James was holding his own. But I knew it was only a matter of time before Phiri’s mangolomera exploded and crushed poor James.

      Around that time, my father also heard the commotion. Fearing for James’s life, he rushed over to break up the fight. Although mangolomera never weakens, it can be neutralized for short periods of time using the green vines from a sweet potato plant. You know how Superman becomes weak at the sight of those shiny green crystals? The same is true for magic people and sweet potatoes, I don’t know why.

      Anyway, the second Phiri saw my father arrive, he shouted to him, “Mister Kamkwamba, PLEASE…some vines for my head! I don’t want to kill this man!”

      Seeing no vines nearby, my father instead ran over to Phiri and wrapped him up in his arms. Phiri kicked and screamed like a tethered tiger, but my father held on tight. He took him to our garden and pulled several long stems, then wrapped Phiri’s head and elbows. Within seconds, Phiri’s heart cooled down, and he collapsed from exhaustion. That day, seeing my father wrestle something as dangerous as mangolomera made me believe every story I’d been told about the Pope’s awesome power.

      The next morning, Phiri arrived for work looking and feeling okay. However, James reported being sick and had to miss the entire week. His hands and arms were so swollen he couldn’t move, and his legs wouldn’t even carry him. I’d watched James defend himself well, so this wasn’t the result of Phiri’s blows. Phiri’s magic had been so strong it had simply rubbed off like poison.

      PHIRI HAD A NEPHEW named Shabani who went around boasting that he was a real sing’anga who possessed mangolomera. Gilbert and I suspected he was just a lot of talk, but we were never completely sure. Shabani was a small boy like us and not that powerful, yet he boasted like a man with biceps the size of anthills. This made us wonder. Since Shabani never went to school, choosing instead to work the fields with his uncle, he was usually hanging around the house when I returned in the afternoons.

      At the time, I was nine years old and not very strong. I wasn’t the most athletic chap, either. Despite an incredible love for soccer, I wound up on the bench most every match. Bullies stalked and tortured me in the schoolyard. It was a time of crippling humiliation.

      One day, after hearing another of my pathetic stories, Shabani took me aside.

      “Every day you’re complaining about these bullies, and I’m tired of hearing it,” he said. “I can give you mangolomera. You can become the strongest boy in school. All the others will fear you.”

      Of course, possessing superpowers was my most frequent daydream. I’d imagine myself a Goliath on the soccer pitch, with legs like rocket launchers. With mangolomera, bullies would crumble at my touch and wet themselves from fright.

      My father had always warned us against playing with magic. Now as Shabani stood there, smiling like a mongoose, I saw my father looking down at me, standing next to Jesus. I then felt my head shaking yes, and my mouth beginning to move.

      “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

      “We’ll do it in the blue gums behind Geoffrey’s house,” Shabani said. “Meet me there in one hour, and bring twenty tambala.”

      I arrived in the forest first and waited in the dark shadows, my mind racing with all the possibilities. Shabani then appeared through the trees. He held a black jumbo that sagged at the bottom, containing something heavy, something powerful.

      “Are you ready?” he asked.

      “Yah, I’m ready.”

      “Then sit down.”

      We sat down in the dirt and leaves and he opened the bag.

      “We’ll start with your left hand, cutting the knuckles and inserting the medicine into your veins. Then we’ll do the right.”

      “Why the left hand first?”

      “You’re right-handed, man. Your right hand is the strongest. I’m giving you equal power, so your punches will be deadly from both sides.”

      “Oh.”

      He reached into the bag and pulled out a matchbox.

      “In here are the blackened bones of the lion and leopard, along with other powerful roots and herbs.”

      He fished out a wad of paper that contained more black ash, which he began mixing with the other potion.

      “These other materials are very scarce, found only on the bottom of the ocean.”

      “So how did you get them?” I asked.

      “Look boy, I’m not just another person. I got them from the bottom of the ocean.”

      “Okay.”

      “I stayed there for three whole days. If I wanted to, I could take every person in your stupid village and put them into my scarf and sling them over my shoulder. Don’t play around with me, bambo. If you want this kind of power, it will cost you lots of money. What I’m giving you is only a small taste.”

      I didn’t even see him pull out the razor. It just suddenly appeared, and before I knew it, he’d grabbed my left hand and dug into my first knuckle.

      “Ahh!” I screamed.

      “Be still and don’t cry!” he said. “If you cry it won’t work.”

      “I’m not crying.”

      One by one, my knuckles began to swell with bright drops of blood that poured down my hand. Pinching the powder between his fingers, he rubbed it into the bloody wounds. It stung like hot coals. Once he finished with both hands, I exhaled with relief.

      “See, I didn’t cry,” I said. “Do you still think it will work?”

      “Oh yeah, it will work.”

      “When? 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 СКАЧАТЬ