The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind. Bryan Mealer

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       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 was delicately placed inside, yet I never gathered the courage to enter the house myself.

      January 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?