The sound of keys is forced into the rim lock, followed by the opening of the door. Inside it is pinch dark. Very dark! The stout policeman is standing on the doorway. He signals me to follow him. Is this the way out of here? One question after another made jingles in my mind. Inside there, it’s hell. I don’t want to propound that I have the whole lot of shrewdness, but when it comes to facing these issues, point black is the only way I believe can help snap a true picture. You see inside there its broil as if you are bread ready to be supplied in town the following morning.
At times when you are inside there you tend to lose hope. Sometimes in the pretence you look callous. That is but just one of the very many ways for surviving in those rooms.
The very first day I stepped in those cells, under the cloud of consternation, I thought the world was against me, I was deplored of my sentencing. The conditions inside there are perplexingly perilous where diseases are transmitted at superhighway velocity. It’s by sheer lucky that Ebola is some miles from here.
I will not tell you the reason why I found myself behind those bars, may be its high time the investigative journalists did their noble gamble once again on me, because I believe if I can divulge, even succinctly in clues, the reason why I was behind those bars those responsible may throw me in jail again. I said gamble? yes. If journalists touch the wrong nerve you know the price that these scribes pay. Its hell man!
“Ah!” I sighs a relief, wind blowing all over my face. Rooted at the gate, yet fidgeting, I don’t know which way to take. Fifteen years in jail have for sure pooh-poohed me. Like a maniac man my head is almost rotating in state of puzzlement. My eyes in the socket are failing even to identify the very road I am standing on. Since I have been in prison I have been told that four elections have take place.
“Atcheya!” a boy putting on a jersey like that of Bata Bullets yells at his friends. Then a fleet of yellow pick-ups, cruising to kill, women on board very frantic, passes by. “Atcheya! Atcheya!” Songs by women constipates the atmosphere, all in yellow, may be their blood as well, I guess. “Who is this that is very popular?” I quiz myself.
Someone, harsh voiced, red-eyed with traits of handsome face traceable comes selling brick like scones. “Madala Bin laden for sale.” Luckily, by the time I went to jail I was in the third form, a thing that helps my eyes do the looking, brainpower do the interpretation and my lips pronounce what was embossed on the T-shirt as “Bin Laden.”
“This is the notorious bomber…. Like the scone once you eat it, hunger will be bombarded, “ he says after realizing I am looking at his T-shirt with a great curiosity.
At least I know that the president of our country is a man, though I have forgotten his name. The certain politician, who for two years joined us in cell, at least pumped some senses in my forgetful mind.
The infrastructure has changed. Roads, buildings, telephone lines. The list is elongated. Some people are even walking with lineless phones. They call them cell phones, the Bin Laden seller tells me.
“Hey this is your bag. Don’t forget it wherever you will go,” says the policeman. “Your village is Khakwe near Ntcheu Boma.”
“Oh Khakwe, I almost forgot it”.
They offer to take me because there is a vehicle heading to Ntcheu. I am in a very different world, a planet I don’t’ know. I peep outside pulchritudinous women are everywhere laudable to cause luscious wave in my body. Women walking almost naked, I close my eyes. They are in dishabille.
“If I rape them, who is to blame?”
“What!” Raucously a policeman shouts at me.
At around I pm the vehicle arrives at Ntcheu Boma. The day is sizzling with the sun swaggering down the sky. Yawning rankles me how ravenous I am. The money I am having is an only MK100 of 50-tambala notes. The moment I entered the prison it was equivalent to US$25, but now it’s even less than a mere Dollar. I shake my head. As I count K20.00 of 50 tambala notes to buy Bind Laden scone people’s eyes pierce at me, though with a great curiosity.
“Now we have K10 made of coins,” says the shop owner, flashing a gaze of sympathy at me. My heart sinks. Why are people looking at me like that, I murmur under my breath. He is a man of oval face, rambunctious in whatever he does. We agree to strike a deal. He buys MK80 made of 50 tambala notes at MK5000 with clothes as part of the deal, I agree, I have insatiable thirst for money.
After filling my tummy to the capacity I set off to my village. This means I have to hop on another 5 km of land with a scorching sun enjoying the better part of my body. At a pace of a millipede, I carry myself.
“As I was filling my tummy I got the wind of many words,” I say to myself. The cacophony of words, my short life, has never tortured my eardrum. The eloquent shopkeeper talked of “impeachment.” Then the whole chain of words followed “Induction”. “Defection,” “Witch hunting,” “constructive resignation,” “Starter Pack” “Political Prostitution.” The list is endless. No any grain of ribald!
With 15 years I have been rotting in jail I hear many people become instant millionaires. Even Nyozani probably the dullest guy in our class was appointed as a minister and got very rich. It is also being said that more crimes have been committed, yet the poor are the ones that are saturating in our prisons. Yes true.
One thing is putting me on the tenterhook; since I have been here I haven’t met anybody I know. Far down the path, I can see the ground on which we used to play Chipuka. Examining the houses, you find that there is either health with no occupants or only remains can be seen.
I approach this banda house. At first my heart is bubbling in unimaginable solution of happiness and anticipation, of course to meet my long time friend. A person who all of the sudden his face in my mind has just snapped in. Now he is my only raison d’etre. . His name is as simple as Munganya. He is the only individual who frequented the prison in the earliest days, only to stop for the reasons I don’t know. Now am 35,he is my age mate.
I cover some few metres, but to my dismay the house looks abandoned. “Good heavens,” I cry, the only hope for the living I have is on breach of slipping away.
I feel perspiration standing out on my forehead. Eerie silence engulfs my surrounding; I am riddled by the stillness the village is hosting.
Very few houses seem to have people and even though that is the case, most of those houses are child-headed. That I will find someone at home doubt monopolises my psyche. The very same home I enjoyed looks gloomy. I am lucky at least my mother is there. She welcomes me. She hugs me. Happiness can been read in the eyes of the old lady, especially to see her only child back.
“Welcome home achimwene,” For the first time in more than 15 years comforting words are said to me, Her love is till tender though herself in senescent.
I ask about the village, Her expression obfuscates, cheeks are bathed in moist, her white blouse plays host to the glittering drops of tears.
“There is a monster. It has terrorised the whole village. Now only the children, who are being called orphans are looming every pocket of the village,” She reveals it all.
“They call it Aids. It kills. Now they say in towns and cities it is for sell. People are walking almost naked. But if you don’t do skirt chasing, you are assured of not getting caught by it. Even when positive just live positively.”
“Where is Munganya?”
“Come as well. He developed narcissism.”
Now I cannot do otherwise. Tears are running down my cheeks. That is the only opportunity I cherished and looked forward to. Now shattered like a broken glass tumbler. My heart is sinking. My mind is tumultuously interpreting the surrounding. My eyes are but giddy. In me I can hear myself vituperating. “Why can you go so soon.?”
It’s time to sleep. Mama says good night. My life is hopeless. I take the rope. Everything is intact. I step on the stool; the voice fills the air, “Pachanya!” It’s mom.
I throw myself, swinging in the air, my head ballooning, eyes to the point of bursting, and in nose blood smells. A crack! I am on the floor. Darkness, starts all are over my face.
In a flash cars scream outside, Policemen are already in the house.
“The man you talked to and had lunch at his shop has been found to be possessing counterfeit money. Since you are the one who had the transaction with him you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent because anything that you would say will be used as evidence against you in the court of law,” with admirable authority one of the cops says.
