The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind (10 page)

“Excuse me,” these outsiders would ask. “Where can I find Estate 24?”

“Don’t bother, friend,” the workers answered. “There’s nothing. And I should know—I work there.”

As the hungry
waganyu
made their way through the market, they passed by the homes of the wealthy traders, whose windows released the smells of stewed chicken and
nsima
at lunchtime, as if the belly of the world wasn’t howling to be filled. Because so many farmers were selling off their animals, chicken was practically free for people with money.

While the men looked for work, their wives and children gathered at Gilbert’s house hoping for a handout. About forty arrived each morning, and hundreds of others had passed through since the troubles had begun in August. Most stayed long enough to receive a walkman from Gilbert’s mother, while some arrived too weak to continue. They spread their blankets under the trees and cooked their
nsima,
leaving only after they had regained some of their strength. Others collapsed on the road and had to be cared for. The blue gum grove had become a patchwork of Gilbert’s family’s bedding.

A
ROUND THIS TIME,
P
RESIDENT
Muluzi was busy traveling the country in his usual fashion, giving out small handouts of money and showing that he was a Big Man. Massive rallies were held for loyal officials, complete with dancers, military parades, and lots of food. Everywhere the president went, he tossed the poor just enough flour or kwacha to make sure they remembered him come election day.

I’d seen him at Wimbe Primary School in 1999 during one of his whistle-stop tours. There’d been women’s choirs and Gule Wamkulu, with each dancer receiving fifty kwacha notes. The local politicians had also lined up to get their handouts. This was the first time I’d ever seen the president in person. He was bald and fat, and when he stood up and walked to the podium, his short legs seemed mismatched for his round body.

He’d said something like, “I’m ashamed to see this school broken in such fashion. We should tear the whole place down and start from scratch,
build it again strong and proud! Teachers’ houses also need to be shipshape, and students need new desks and books!”

Of course, the crowds cheered and applauded at this. But instead of buying us new desks, he sent men into our blue gum grove to chop down our trees to build them. Even then, there weren’t enough. The teachers never got new homes, and the only thing he did for the school building was give it a fresh coat of paint and a new iron sheet for the roof.

This was the same president who’d promised that every person in Malawi would get new shoes if he won the election. Well, you can imagine. After the people voted and Muluzi claimed his victory, everyone started asking, “Where are our shoes?” The president went on the radio and said something like, “Ladies and gentlemen, do I look crazy? How can I know the shoe size of every person in Malawi?
I never promised shoes.
” Our president was a funny guy.

Despite a growing anger about the missing maize surplus, the government said nothing on the radio. And despite the looming hunger, it offered no solutions. So when President Muluzi announced he was stopping in Kasungu to appoint a local chief, all the subchiefs from the district pleaded with Gilbert’s father to stand up and speak on their behalf. Like the president, Gilbert’s father was a Muslim, and that could work to his advantage.

“You’re a good speaker and one of his people,” they told him. “You must convince him to save us.”

The day of the rally, several thousand people stood in the sun, hoping to hear what the president had to say about the crisis. But instead of answers, they got dancing and speeches that dragged on for hours, speeches about how the president was a great and powerful man, and how he was kind enough to approve new development in the area, such as building new toilets in some villages and digging a few wells.

At the time, the president was also chairman of the Southern African Development Community, a kind of social and economic alliance between fifteen countries in southern Africa. During his tenure, there had been terrible wars in other parts of the continent, places like Angola, Burundi,
and Sudan. The genocide in Rwanda that killed more than eight hundred thousand Tutsi had then spilled into the Democratic Republic of Congo and started a war there. Muluzi had even hosted the leaders of Congo and Rwanda in Blantyre in an effort to broker peace. Given his good work across Africa, it was confusing why he failed to see our problems here at home.

Anyway, after an hour of dancing and singing, it was finally time for Gilbert’s father to speak. He left his seat, which was just in front of the president, and stood at the podium before the people.

“Your Excellency,” he said, turning to face the president. “I’d like to congratulate you not only for what you’ve done in Malawi, but all across the great continent of Africa. We’re hearing about all the things you’re doing in Congo and how you’ve had success. We’re very proud of our president. But please understand, we’re also at war here in Malawi, and that war is against hunger.”

He then asked the president to stop funding wells and toilets and use the money to buy grain. (Because really, how can you use the toilet if you never eat?)

The crowd erupted in applause that lasted so long that the next speaker had to stand there and wait until it was silent. When the crowd simmered down, this next speaker only heaped praise on the president, and the audience began to boo and hiss.

“Sit down, you have nothing to say!” they shouted.

“Chief Wimbe already spoke for us!”

“Foolish politician! There’s no politics in
nsima!
”

Shortly after, when the president got up to talk, several well-dressed officials approached Gilbert’s father and asked to speak with him. Knowing the president’s habit of giving handouts, the chief became excited, thinking,
They’re giving us money. My speech must’ve worked.

About six men led the chief behind a building near the stage, and once there, they confronted him.

“In what capacity were you speaking such nonsense?” one asked, looking very angry.

Before Chief Wimbe could answer, they knocked him to the ground and began beating him with clubs and batons. After several minutes, the thugs left the chief bleeding in the dirt and slipped away into the crowd. When a friend discovered Chief Wimbe a while later, he refused to go to the hospital, fearing the thugs would kill him in his bed. That afternoon when Gilbert came home, he discovered his father lying on the sofa, unable to move. By that evening, large black and purple bruises were visible all over his chest, stomach, and arms.

For the next several weeks, the chief remained on the sofa and in bed, trying to recover from his wounds. He then began sneaking to clinics across the district, keeping his whereabouts secret. After many tests and treatments, he never told anyone the results. Fearing Muluzi’s people would discover his actions, Chief Wimbe suffered in silence.

For me, this turn of events was frightening. Our chief was like our father, the man who protected our small area and represented us to the rest of the country. When we heard he’d been beaten, it was as if we’d all been violated, our safety no longer guaranteed. If the government treated our dear leader in such a way, with the hunger bearing down, I wondered if we people would fare much better.

D
ECEMBER ARRIVED WITH HEAVY
clouds, black as oil, that gathered for days over the village before finally releasing their rain. All across the district, farmers did their best to plant seed for the next harvest, yet many were so busy looking for food that their fields went unsowed. Our family was fortunate that we were able to plant a small crop of maize. We also managed to plant a half-acre of tobacco, which would be a lifesaver in months to come.

Each day while I weeded the fields, I’d see the
waganyu
moving slowly down the road searching for piecework, their clothes soaked with rain and covered in mud. Working for food was becoming harder now that the price of maize at the market was increasing every day. Three hours of work yesterday became six hours today, all for the same bag of flour.

The
waganyu
and others continued to gather at the home of Chief Wimbe, whom they knew would have extra food in storage, for the chief’s maize fields were huge and planted with plenty of fertilizer. It became Gilbert’s job to greet the hungry people and help his mother pass out
phala
at the back door. After he’d served one person, a new one would appear.

“Odi, odi,”
they’d say. “Anyone here?”

“Another one,” said Gilbert, “this one worse than before.”

Each day as they left Gilbert’s and continued down the road toward
our house, I imagined my father and me walking beside them, heads toward the ground, scouring the soil. I feared it wouldn’t be long. Back at home, our food was nearly gone.

Just the previous day, my mother had milled our last pail of grain, and I knew that meant only twelve more meals. When she’d gone, I opened the storage door and peered inside. The empty sacks sat in the corner like a pile of dirty clothes for the wash. I tried to imagine what the room had looked like when it was full, when our lives had been normal and fear didn’t live inside us. But I couldn’t summon the energy to remember.

That night, my father called us together in the living room.

“Given our situation,” he said, “I’ve decided it’s better if we go down to one meal per day. It’s the only way we’ll make it.”

My sisters and I understood, but still argued over the fine points.

“If we have one meal a day, when should it be?” asked Annie.

“Breakfast,” said Aisha.

“I like lunch!” shouted Doris.

“No,” my father said. “It will be supper. It’s easier to keep your mind off hunger during the day. But no person should try to sleep with an empty stomach. We’ll eat at night.”

So starting the next evening, we ate our single meal of the day. Again my father gathered us all in the living room, making it the first time we’d ever eaten together as a family.

In our Chewa culture—at least in the village—the daughter
never
eats with the father, and the son
never
eats with the mother. It’s not considered polite (what if you pass gas in front of your mother?). As early as I remember, I’d always eaten with my father and uncles, while my mother fed my sisters in a separate room.

In our culture, family life follows many rules that have been passed down by our ancestors. Family relations aren’t like they are in America, where daughters hug their fathers and sons hug their mothers. If people saw such a thing in the village, they’d wonder, “Where are their morals?” And children respect their elders of the opposite sex, no matter what. For instance, if I called my younger sister over and held out a hundred-kwacha
note, saying, “Run quickly to the shop and get some bread,” she’d bow to one knee before taking it. It’s like that.

So that night in the living room, my father and I sat on the floor with my sisters. A Nido can filled with kerosene flickered at the end of the wooden table, sending black soot spiraling through the humidity. My mother came in carrying a basin of warm water and a pitcher for hand washing, which is done before and after every meal. My sister Doris went around to each person, holding the basin under their hands while pouring with the other. When the hand washing was finished, my mother fetched a large bowl, then lifted the lid.

“Try to make it last,” she said, then joined us on the floor.

Instead of the mountain of
nsima
cakes I was so accustomed to, the bowl contained only one gray blob. It didn’t even look like food. Another bowl nearby contained some mustard greens. Soon the smell found our nostrils and we passed the blob from one person to the next, picking it apart like a yardful of hens. We didn’t even bother using plates. The way I calculated it, each person got seven mouthfuls of food. We finished the
nsima
in minutes and ate mostly in silence, happy that at least we were chewing something.

But there were no signs of happiness on my parents’ faces. In fact, I’d never seen them so terrified in all my life. You see, the week before we ran out of food, on November 22, my mother had given birth to another baby girl.

I
F OUR CULTURE DEMANDED
that children respect their elders, it also forbade us from asking questions, especially about things concerning the body. I’d noticed my mother getting fatter for months, but didn’t dare say a thing. When a woman gets pregnant in the village, it becomes taboo, an open secret never to be discussed. Only the woman’s husband and mother can ask her about her growing belly. And if a child was overheard even mentioning this aloud, he or she would surely be beaten. Talking about a pregnant woman was not only none of your business, but people believed it also left her open to a kind of bewitching. Many
pregnant women simply stayed indoors until the baby was born. When youngsters asked where their new brother or sister came from, the parents would say, “The clinic, where all children are bought.”

So when my parents came home with a new baby girl, my young sisters jumped with excitement, knowing they too had been purchased at the clinic. But my parents seemed too worried to even entertain their questions. For days, my new sister didn’t even have a name.

In the villages where health care is poor, many children die early of malnutrition, malaria, or diarrhea. In hungry times, the situation is always worse. Because of this, names often reflect the circumstances or the parents’ greatest fears. It’s quite sad, but all across Malawi, you run into men and women named such things as Simkhalitsa (I’m Dying Anyway), Malazani (Finish Me Off), Maliro (Funeral), Manda (Tombstone), or Phelantuni (Kill Me Quick)—all of whom had fortunately outwitted their unfortunate names. Many change their names once they’re older, like my father’s older brother. My grandparents named him Mdzimange, which means “Suicide.” He later changed it to Musaiwale, meaning “Don’t Forget.”

Despite the stress my parents were facing, my sister was born healthy—six pounds, two ounces. Whether it was due to her good health, or a kind of blind faith as we entered a famine, my parents named her Tiyamike, which means “Thank God.”

W
ITH ONLY HALF A
pail of flour remaining, I knew it wouldn’t be long before we’d join the
waganyu
and begin roaming the land. We needed some kind of miracle, or at least a good idea. The next morning, my father announced a brilliant plan—a gamble, a roll of the bones even riskier than magic.

“We’re selling all our food,” he said.

That same morning, my mother took our last bit of flour, mixed it with soy and a bit of sugar, and began baking
zigumu
cakes to sell in the market. The plan was to jump-start a small business, take advantage of the scarcity, and live on the profits—if there were any.

All day the smell of sweet cakes filled our compound, invading every room and drifting out into the fields. Several people stopped in the road, maybe hoping for something, and just took in the aroma. Even the birds became brave and gathered in the yard to sing a woeful tune. The smell seemed to enter my body like a spirit, slithering into my empty belly and stretching its legs, using its elbows to get comfortable. It was torture. Normally, my mother let me take the bowl and scrape the remaining batter with my fingers. Leftovers were so cherished that we kids had even given them a name: VP, after
“vapasi
pot,” meaning the bottom of the pot. We’d appear in the courtyard as my mother was preparing to wash the pot or give the scraps to the chickens, saying, “Mama, VP?” But this time was different. My mother had scraped away every last drop to use, as if wiping it clean with a sponge. No VP, only the bare pot.

That night my father built a crude stall from a broken table and an iron sheet, and he and my mother positioned it in front of Iponga Barber Shop. The next morning, my mother opened for business, selling her cakes for three kwacha each. The cakes were heavy and filling and cheaper than the buns and walkman that were also for sale. If a person had just some small change, but not enough to afford a bag of flour, the cakes were the only option. Some days, my mother sold out in less than twenty minutes.

Ever since the country had run out of maize, businessmen in the trading center had been crossing the border into Tanzania and buying it by the ton, then marking it up to sell. One of these traders, Mister Mangochi, was an old friend of my father’s. With the money my mother earned from selling cakes, my father cut a deal with Mangochi and bought one pail of maize. My mother took it to the mill, saved half the flour for us, and used the rest for more cakes. We did this every day, taking enough to eat and selling the rest. It was enough to provide our one blob of
nsima
each night, along with some pumpkin leaves. It was practically nothing, yet knowing it would be there somehow made the hunger less painful.

“As long as we can stay in business,” my father said, “we’ll make it through. Our profit is that we live.”

O
N A
S
UNDAY MORNING
not long after, when my mother was home preparing her things to sell, she noticed something odd. Two young men on bicycles were standing in our yard talking with my older sister Annie. My mother had never seen them before, and since my sisters weren’t allowed to speak to boys without permission, she went over to investigate.

“Mama, these are two teachers from the private school in Mtunthama,” Annie said. “They’ve come to visit one of their friends down the road.”

Annie asked if she could escort them. Annie attended the secondary school just across from the private school, so my mother suspected they all knew one another. She agreed, thinking nothing of it, and went off to the trading center. At the time, my father was visiting a friend at a nearby estate, and since it was Sunday, the rest of us had gone to the market. Only my sister Doris, who was nine years old, stayed behind to take care of the house.

When my mother returned home that afternoon, she discovered that nothing had been done to prepare supper.

“Why isn’t there a fire made?” she asked Doris. “Where’s your sister?”

“She went with the men.”

“She’s still not back yet?”

Doris shrugged her shoulders.

That night when my father returned home, he asked where Annie was. My mother said she didn’t know. She didn’t want to tell him about the boys, hoping Annie would just come home before it got any later. But after supper, when Annie still hadn’t returned, my father asked again. This time he seemed angry.

“Where is my daughter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. You’re her mother. Now tell me—”

“Please,
I don’t know.”

My mother became so worried she took her torch and went looking on the roads. She asked the neighbors, the people coming from the market, but no one had seen Annie. After some hours, she came home in tears and confronted Doris again.

“What did you see? Where did they go?”

Frightened, Doris then told my mother the truth. Just before Annie left with the two young men, she had packed a bag. Annie told Doris not to tell.

My mother rushed into Annie’s room and saw that all her clothing was gone, along with her schoolbag. The only thing left behind was her school uniform and books. Turning, my mother noticed something sticking out from Tiyamike’s diaper bag, which she kept in Annie’s room. It was a note, written in Chichewa: “I GOT MARRIED TO THE TEACHER. I’M SAFE, DON’T WORRY.”

My father came into the room, and my mother read the note aloud. When he heard this, he flew into a rage.

“Who is this man?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me right now who he is. I’ll go and find him!”

“I don’t know who he is!”

I could hear my father stomping up and down the yard, his nostrils flaring like an angry ox. I didn’t dare leave my room, for fear he’d whip me just for being there.

“You’re lying! You’re hiding her from me! Where is my daughter?! Go and get my daughter back. You know where she is!”

“I told you I don’t know!” my mother said.

Annie had just passed her Form Two exam and was preparing to enter her junior year in high school. My parents had been so proud, bragging to all the relatives and traders in the market. It was common for my father to sit my sisters down and tell them things like, “I saw a girl working in the bank in town, and she was a girl just like you.” My parents had never completed primary school. They couldn’t speak English or even read that well. My parents only knew the language of numbers, buying and selling,
but they wanted more for their kids. That’s why my father had scraped the money together and kept Annie in school, despite the famine and other troubles. Now she was gone without even saying good-bye.

“I’ve lost my daughter and all my money!” my father cried. “My daughter is a stupid girl. Wait until I find her!”

But he knew it was too late. He knew Annie was probably staying with her lover that night. Even if the arrangement failed and they didn’t get married, my sister had dirtied herself and shamed our family. She could never live at home again, and this crushed my father’s heart.

The man Annie married was a teacher named Mike. They’d met in Mtunthama months before and had fallen in love. Mike had actually visited the day before without anyone seeing and told my sister, “I’m coming here to pick you up. I don’t want you living in this village anymore.” The friend had come along as a ruse and taken the bag ahead. That way, no one would suspect anything if they saw Mike and my sister together. The two hid for the night at the friend’s house at Estate 34, then went to Mike’s home in Ntchisi the following morning.