The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind. Bryan Mealer
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind - Bryan Mealer страница 16
Название: The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind
Автор: Bryan Mealer
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
isbn: 9780007351923
isbn:
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 KHAMBA AND I walked home from the hunt, I knew I’d earned enough loot to gain myself an entry. As I got close, I heard Charity and Mizeck inside. I knocked and Charity swung open the door.
“What?”
“Guys, I got four birds just now! They’re here in my pockets. Can I come in?”
Mizeck appeared at the door. “What do you have for us?”
“Four birds.”
He smiled. “This is the type of man we need here at mphala. Good job.”
“We’ll make a fire,” said Charity.
I walked inside beaming. Khamba followed.
“Get that stupid dog out of here,” shouted Mizeck. “He’s going to think he lives here or something. Dogs don’t belong inside, don’t you know this? I bet you even talk to that thing.”
“Khamba,” I screamed, “get outside!”
I reared back my leg, and he scurried out the door, then looked at me confused.
“Just wait,” I whispered.
I began cleaning my birds, plucking off the feathers and shaking them from my fingers into a pail. I popped the heads off and scooped out the entrails. When I opened the door, Khamba was waiting. This was his hunting treat, a reward more treasured than life itself. I tossed each head into the air, and Khamba leaped up and grabbed them. One crunch and they were gone. The entrails were slurped in a gulp.
Back inside, Charity and Mizeck already had the birds laid over the coals. The sizzling meat smelled delicious.
“Guys,” I said, “I’m really starting to salivate!”
“Be quiet.”
Once they finished cooking my birds, they even allowed me to eat one. But as soon as I was no longer useful to them, the inevitable happened.
“Hey boy,” said Mizeck, “don’t I hear your mother calling?”
“What? I don’t hear anything.”
“He’s right,” said Charity. “That’s definitely your mother.”
My marching orders had been given. Without protest, I holstered my knife back into my waistband, called my dog, and together we returned home to a houseful of girls.
THE YEAR I TURNED thirteen marked the beginning of a new century, and gradually, I noticed a change happening in myself. I started growing up.
I stopped hunting as much and started hanging out more in the trading center, socializing and meeting new people. Gilbert was usually with me, along with Geoffrey and a few others. We’d go there and play endless rounds of bawo, a game that’s very popular in Malawi and East Africa. Bawo is a mancala game played with marbles or seeds on a long wooden board lined with holes. Each player had two rows of eight holes each. The object is to capture your opponent’s front row of marbles and prohibit him from moving.
Bawo requires a lot of strategy and quick thinking. I’ll admit, I was pretty good at this game and would often beat the other boys at the trading center, a small revenge since most of them had benched me in soccer when we were younger. If I never got mangolomera, at least I had bawo.
Each time I left for the trading center to see my friends, Khamba would perk up and try to follow me. He missed our trips together, but I forbade him to tag along. People would think I was backwards for walking with a dog. One time Khamba followed me to the trading center without my realizing he was there. When I got to the fig tree near the barbershop where we played bawo, someone pointed and laughed.
“Why do you need this dog behind you?” they said. “I don’t see any rabbits or birds around. Are you going hunting in the market?”
The other boys started laughing too. It was embarrassing. After that, whenever Khamba tried to follow, I had to get mean.
I cursed and shouted, but of course, he never listened. After a few meters, I had to pick up a small stone and hurl it toward his head.
“Now leave me alone!”
After a few times, he got the message. He’d still come to the trading center on his own, usually during July mating season, when the female dogs were in heat and roaming the villages. He’d see me and gallop over, wagging his long tail. I’d always stop him short.
“Get!” I’d shout, kicking the dust to scare him before anyone saw me.
Also, as I got older, the day-to-day fate of the MTL Nomads no longer determined my moods and emotions. Throughout my life, the Nomads had been more than men. I listened to every game on Radio One and imagined them as giants. When the Nomads lost—especially to Big Bullets—I became so upset I couldn’t even eat supper, not even if my mother served chicken, and I loved chicken. This following had become an obsession. During a game that year with Big Bullets, my heart started beating so quickly I was convinced I was dying (I think they’re called anxiety attacks). I thought, What am I doing to myself? Soccer is too stressful for my health. After that, I sort of stopped following the game altogether.
AROUND THIS SAME TIME, Geoffrey and I started taking apart some old broken radios to see what was inside, and we began figuring out how they worked so we could fix them.
In Malawi and most parts of Africa that don’t have electricity for television, the radio is our only connection to the world outside the village. In most places you go, whether it’s the deepest bush, or the busy streets of the city, you’ll see people listening to small, handheld radios. You’ll hear Malawian reggae or American rhythm and blues from Radio Two in Blantyre, or Chichewa gospel choirs and church sermons from Lilongwe.
Ever since the Malawi Broadcasting Corporation began, around the time of independence, Malawians СКАЧАТЬ