Name: Sambalikagwa Mvona
PenName: Sambalikagwa Mvona
Genre: Fiction
Location: Blantyre, Malawi
A CHICKEN FOR KHUMZ
Of all market days at Lunzu, those at the end of the month are the most eventful. Lunzu remains the cheapest market for any food item, including maize bran, chickens and goats. It was written in one of the dailies that at the peak of the recent famine, a big goat could go for K1, 500.00 – the price of two chickens!
I was among those who had made an early trip to Lunzu that Sunday morning. I was greeted by stampeding feet from different directions. Women in dirty chilundu cloths – carrying beans, premature pumpkins and semiconscious chickens – trooped towards the market place. Goats of different colours emitted different sounds as they were being dragged by men in farm clothes.
Chickens cackling by the roadside competed with voices of minibus touts calling passengers to board Blantyre minibuses. Stylish cyclists, ringing their bells with exaggeration and waving proudly, competed with the slow moving traffic.
On arrival, I immediately caught the alert eye of one vendor displaying his black chicken in the air.
“K800! K700! K600!” he shouted with humour as he staggered with a large basket full of chickens.
I lifted several chickens by their wings in order to choose a fat one to be slaughtered for my only daughter who was coming with her fiancé that afternoon.
“I have K500, nothing more,” I started bargaining with him
“Okay, make it K550 and that’s my last price. You can’t get them anywhere,” said the vendor with finality.
Another buyer wanted to snatch the chicken but I beat him by seconds.
“It’s my chicken,” I protested.
“Musathamange magazi, madala (Don’t get over excited, my man). There are plenty of chickens here, not that small dove!” mocked the youthful businessman, sending everyone into laughter.
In a packed minibus to Blantyre, with a heavy bag of flour under my seat and the chicken in my hands, I started regretting having left wife asleep. I had reasoned that this aging beauty of mine would only raise transport the cost. Worse still, this old girl had started to behave oddly of late, often picking a quarrel with me for no apparent reason.
If it had not been for this daughter I would have thought of some harsh punishment, but definitely not a divorce at our age. I vividly remembered how I – a Junior Certificate Examination failure – won the most beautiful and educated girl, who attracted many suitors of high calibre, among them: teachers, agriculture advisors, forestry officers, postal clerks and even a university student. But with my sweet tongue and borrowed suits, I made her believe I was the boss at my work place.
When she discovered that I was a mere messenger, she was already advanced in pregnancy. And when a letter came inviting her to start a teacher’s course I simply hid it. I loved her so much I could not stand her leaving me for months.
Despite all the hard years and having given birth to six children, the girl was still beautiful. The only problem now was that she no longer respected me. But I was sure things would improve with the coming wedding in the family; my wife loved weddings.
Suddenly, a tough looking young man sitting next to me shouted at me: “Look! Your chicken has soiled my shirt.”
The corrugations on his forehead clearly showed how furious he was.
“I am very sorry, I didn’t mean eeer…”
He interrupted me with a slap across my face. I was so bad. But I could not dare challenge the bull. Although I was double his age, I was almost half his size. Chances were that even the best of my blows would not stir a single muscle of his body. I trembled and he saw it.
“That’s not an answer. I said your chicken has dirtied my shirt. How am I going to continue my journey in this state?”
Confused, I stood and then sat down. My eyes met with those of a woman I had admired as I boarded the minibus. I was humiliated. Was this justice for being inconsiderate to my wife? I should have allowed her to get some training. Women find many opportunities for development in their careers these days. Perhaps, we would have been going to Lunzu market in our own car.
“Some men are just too old to think. They have the brain of a chicken. For how can one carry on their lap a chicken in a bus?” the bull bellowed.
This sent a cheer in the whole bus. Encouraged by the cheer, the giant got me by the neck. He slapped me once again, bruising my lips. I instantly felt their weight due to swelling and some blood went into my mouth.
Fortunately, I was not without sympathizers. A lady passed a piece of pink tissue paper to me to wipe off the blood as a man pleaded my case.
“It’s an accident. Such accidents happen in overloaded buses. Where the bus is not overcrowded, people can put a chicken under the seat.”
But the bull challenged him. “I am Khumz, the toughest on fist fights. I can take you two at one goal!”
“Young man, you must understand. This man is like your own father. Can’t you see that he did not buy the chicken to dirty you? It was simply an accident. When you leave the bus, you can simply clean that part with water,” my sympathiser tried hard to calm this fierce young man, going to the extent of offering him advice on how to clean his shirt.
Someone at the back of the bus talked about young people of today who do not respect elders. But when the bull turned to look in that direction, the man immediately shut up. The bus was now coming to final stage.
“I hope there is a reporter to write the incidents in this bus for the Zam’maboma (news from the districts) radio programme,” two young men made fun of the whole situation as we disembarked from the bus.
To escape my enemy and avoid publicity I quickly heaved my bag, not forgetting my chicken, and sneaked away, heading for my last bus.
I reached home with a swollen face. My wife tried to ask me what had gone wrong but I just went straight to bed. How can you narrate your waterloo to a wife who has appointed herself as a critic to deride your every effort? I slept continuously for three hours when around half past twelve my wife woke me up.
“Mwayi is here with her fiancé,” she said excitedly.
Despite of my condition, I woke up immediately and staggered to the sitting room. If it had not been for the table and chair that supported me, I would have fallen. Sitting close to my daughter was my beloved Khumz, now introduced as George Khumbanyiwa.
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