The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind. Bryan Mealer

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СКАЧАТЬ plant a few small plots, in addition to our normal maize fields. But without the help of seasonal workers, it was up to me and my cousins to help keep our farm running.

      THE YEAR AFTER UNCLE John died, my uncle Socrates lost his job as a welder at Kasungu Flue-Cured Tobacco Authority when the estate closed. He and his family were forced to leave their quarters there and move back to our village, to a large shed near our house.

      Uncle Socrates had seven daughters, which was good news for my sisters, but to me, their arrival didn’t mean much one way or another. However, as we unloaded their things from the ten-ton lorry, I saw something leap from the truck bed.

      Out of nowhere, a large dog appeared at my feet.

      “Get away!” Socrates shouted, kicking the air above the dog’s head. It yelped once and scampered off. Once at a safe distance, it sat down and stared at me.

      “That’s our dog, Khamba,” he said. “I figured we’d bring him along to watch the chickens and goats here. That’s what he did best at the estate. Maybe it’ll remind him of home. We’ll sure miss it there.”

      Khamba was the most unusual thing I’d ever seen: all white with large black spots across his head and body, as if someone had splattered him with a pail of paint. His eyes were brown and his nose was peppered with bright pink blotches. He looked exotic, like something from another land. Plus, he was big—much taller than the dogs around our village, but certainly just as skinny. In Malawi, dogs are kept only for security, and as a result, they aren’t fed like their cousins in the West. Malawian dogs eat mice and table scraps, when there are any. In all my life, I’d never seen a fat dog.

      Khamba sat there watching me, his long white tail fanning the dirt behind him. His long tongue hung out the side of his mouth, dripping saliva. As soon as Socrates went inside, Khamba came over and mounted my leg.

      “Get away!” I shouted, making a swatting motion with my hands. The dog scurried against the house.

      “Go chase some chickens, you stupid animal!”

      His tongue came rolling out again, slobbering on the dirt.

      The next morning when I awoke, I tripped over something as I stumbled out toward the latrine. There was Khamba, lying square in my doorway, ears perked and waiting.

      “I thought I told you to leave me alone,” I said, then realized what I was doing. I couldn’t let anyone catch me talking to animals. They’d think I was mad.

      Walking back from the toilet, I met Socrates coming out of our house with my father. He smiled and pointed at the dog now attached to my shadow.

      “I see you found a friend,” he said. “You know, the good Lord blessed me with seven children, but they’re all girls. I think Khamba is happy to have found a pal.”

      “I’m no friend to a dog,” I said.

      Socrates laughed. “Tell that to him.”

      AFTER THAT, I GAVE up trying to get rid of Khamba. It was no use. And to be honest, he wasn’t all that bad. Since I’d never had a dog of my own, it was nice having someone around, especially someone who didn’t talk or tell me what to do. Khamba slept outside my door each night, and when it rained, he’d sneak into my mother’s kitchen and curl himself in a corner. And without being told, he assumed his job as watchman over the goats and chickens, protecting them from the rare hyena or packs of mobile dogs that wandered wild and ate off the land. He also chased the goats through the compound, causing them to bleat and cry and kick up the dirt. When he did this, my mother would lean out of the kitchen and pitch one of her shoes at his head.

      “Get that dog out of here!” she’d shout.

      It was all a game to Khamba. He constantly tortured the chickens and guinea fowl, too, and even seemed amused when the mother hens flared their wings at him, hissing and giving chase.

      But above all, what Khamba enjoyed most was hunting.

      By this time, going hunting in the fields and dambos began to replace many of the games I used to play at home. I’d started by tagging along with my older cousins like Geoffrey and Charity, who also lived nearby.

      Mostly we hunted birds. We hid in the tall grass by the dambos, which is so high during the dry season it can swallow a man whole. We’d wait until the afternoons when the birds came there to drink, then positioned a few sticks baited with ulimbo, a sticky sap that worked as a sort of glue. Once the birds stepped on the stick, they’d get caught and flap around, making all kinds of wild noises. Before they could break free, we’d jump out of the grass with our pangas, shouting:

      “Tonga! I’ve got it!”

      “Tamanga! Get it fast, so you don’t scare off the others!”

      “I’ll cut its throat!”

      “No—I want to pull off its head!”

      We’d fight over who did the killing—usually taking turns cutting off the bird’s head, or holding it between our fingers and—thop—pulling it like a tomato. We’d clean the insides, remove the feathers, and store them inside sugar bags we slung around our necks. Once home, we’d make a fire and roast the birds on the red embers. Fortunately, our parents never made Geoffrey and I share our hunting meals, and some nights during summer, we’d come home with eight birds and have quite a feast.

      My family never had much money, and trapping birds was often our only way of getting meat, which we considered a luxury. The Chichewa language even has a word, nkhuli, which means “a great hunger for meat.”

      It wasn’t easy to satisfy this hunger, and sometimes these missions proved to be treacherous. For one thing, the best ulimbo sap for trapping birds came from the nkhaze tree, which grew very thick with branches covered with thorns. One had to squeeze inside the nkhaze with his panga and cut the trunk, being careful not to get the sap in his eyes. If he did, he went blind.

      One afternoon, Charity, Geoffrey, and I were out looking for ulimbo when we spotted the perfect nkhaze tree.

      “I’ll go!” said Charity. He was a kind of loud guy, who always wanted to be the leader. So we let him.

      Charity climbed into the nkhaze tree with his knife, being careful of the sharp thorns all around. He reached up and sliced the trunk, then held a plastic sugar bag against the dripping wound. But just as he was doing this, a great gust of wind shook the entire tree, slinging the ulimbo into his eyes. Charity burst out of the bush, screaming, “I’m blind, I’m blind! Help me! It hurts!”

      “What should we do?” I asked Geoffrey.

      A man named Maxwell, who once worked for Uncle John, had taught us about the nkhaze tree and what to do if the sap ever got into our eyes.

      Geoffrey turned to me. “You remember what Maxwell told us.”

      “Yah,” I said. “What?”

      “The only remedy is the milk from a mother.”

      “Oh, where are we going to find that?”

      “Your house.”

      It СКАЧАТЬ