THE STARTLING VISIT

By Pacharo Felix Munthali
It is roughly noon. I have been walking, if not crawling the whole morning. I don't know where I am carrying myself to, neither do I know where I am coming from.
It is not all that blistering. The sky is cloudy. With Chiperone breeze forcing trees in a conversion that is but a murmuring of leaves, the atmosphere is worthy forcing you whistle. In the M'bawa tree, under which I have now found my own solace, birds are chirruping, probably glorifying the creator for giving them the morning bread, a thing that only a handful of individuals do remember whenever they are in a new day.
As I am resting, I start to dose. One dose, second one then another… Nope, I don't want to sleep. What will people say to have a glimpse of a young man of twenty-two years in black suit, handsome, light in complexion, seemingly well to do, snoring under the tree like an aged pig? No to involuntary siesta, I say to myself. I have to stroll. At least I will have to hop on another stretch of kilometers.
Though the sky is blanketed well with dark clouds, I am sweating; profusely in fact.
I restart my journey. My legs are wobbling, my body shuddering and my stomach somersaulting. Pain follows in my tummy, but it is a short-lived one. I don't remember the last time I walked for almost 6 hours without resting.
From a far, a figure is struggling. At first I fail to identify it. Then later as a fissure of proximity between her and me narrows, I manage to identify the figure. It is an old woman, possibly the one who has seen World War 2; she is struggling with her stick. She is moving at a pace of a millipede. Putting one foot in front of another to her seems a very hard task; an up Sapitwa climbing one.
The path is snaked through the forest, a very thick forest. Few metres from where I join the granny I can capture the noise. I sigh. At least there are people.
She is almost in rags, her face contorted as she dances to the hurdles of walking. Old age is causing a severe bad back. I catch up with her. At least in this forest of darkness even when its day, I will have company. I smile.
At first I am disgusted upon having her look. She is very slow. Not my match. She is talkative. How I get irritated by talkative individuals.
"What is your name boy?"
She annoys me even further. At home am Uncle Pa, achimwene, Bambo a ang'ono, the list is long, she calls me boy?
"Padziko Sumbwe." I answer in the manner of cutting the conversation short.
Thereafter we walk in silence for fifteen minutes. I look at her, she looks at me. I avoid her eyes. Her eyes have a lot to tell. Sadness is conspicuous. I curse myself for disliking her.
In a way I cannot tell we find ourselves at a hospital. Unexpectedly I get befuddled.
"Follow me!" She commands.
"But I am going to…" I fail to finish, she has put her finger on my lips. They are very cold fingers.
The hospital is a very sorry sight. People who are at the hospital look to be in a pathetic state. This thing called Aids is a monster not worthy gleaning at. Coughs, cries, are constipating the skies. Tears are moistening my cheeks. I look up; it is only the ceiling that greets me.
"Let's walk on boy," it is another command.
We are now in the village. It seems, the way Christians do by visiting the sick; we are in for the same. People are very ill. Limbs, one, two, three with much easiness can be counted.
"Even if we go to the hospital, all we get are pain killers. It's better for us to stay at home. I don't know why we accepted these ideologies from the West. Then we could pray to Chisumphi, our ancestors and have our problems solved. Now its chaos. No medicine and our ancestral spirits are very angry," complains one old woman older than my commander, my companion.
I close my eyes, but my ears can capture the coughs, my nose catches the smell of the fury of the diseases. My skin is shivering.
"Open the radio!" she commands again, wondering what she can say if the owner says nay.
It's all politics. The boogie called politics is all over. People are castigating each other. They are busy trying to trap one another down. My eyes are still closed. But I can see the picture. I can see motion pictures of politics exchanging political blows in a political battle zone. The dust produced is causing ordinary people to cough vehemently. It's sad Mzala.
Instead of looking at the problem at hand that the "low of the lowest" in the society are facing, they have the whole lot of time in the world to exchange political blows for fun, buddy.
Three houses from where we are people are crying. Someone has died. He was mistakenly shot by the police.
"Give me that paper!" I am now tired of commands.
"And another one!"
The headlines are about frictions in churches. The once peaceful worshipping places are now the hosts of evil activities of all extremes. When you talk of womanizing, power struggles, corruption, greed, these places are now not spared.
"They have even allowed themselves to be used by the politicians. They are no longer concerned with how many people will enter the Holy Heaven, but how many to rally behind which party," She comments.
"My son, those days we used to sing 'Mwezi wawala tisewere, tiimbe' are no longer there. Now politicians have destroyed our oneness. They are there to divide," she recalls with contours all over herself as her mind struggles to plough through the past realities. "They don't have a human heart."
I don't understand what she does. But something happens. On a mirror glass pictures are seen. It shows a politician who when starting politics was a mere salt seller, now swimming in millions. Then a picture of lecturers at the University of Kwithu, who all along have been struggling with books from the first degree, some as far as getting a PhD, but still struggling.
I am angry. My heart is pacing very fast. This is a crime against humanity, I think. I don't know where I am going.
I pass by the hospital where people are very ill waiting for drugs to come from Boma. Near the Hospital I find a politician having a rally. He is full of himself; castigating others in the process. He boasts of having provided drugs to the hospitals and many amenities.
"What about the sick!" I shout my lungs out. As I try to go to the podium, a group of his supporters are on my neck. They do justice to me and throw on the road. I cannot easily see. The track from a far is coming. It is about to crash my head into smithereens.
"Padziko! Padziko! What do you think you are doing you? You have been talking to yourself. Wake up lets go to the church it's now 8: 30" Mum wakes me up.