Damn Tradition

[Published in the Weekend Nation of 25/04/09]

My journey to Ntaja to see my uncle-Kabudula-to inform him that I had found someone to marry was, without equivocation, awful. I had boarded a local bus from Zomba Depot and shared the double seat with a wino. Everything about him was nauseating. As well as his body odour and smell coming from his mouth being putrid, he dragged me into conversations I was never interested in a little bit.

“Hey mate, what’s your take on gay marriages?” He popped a question looking me in the face as the bus stopped at Chinamwali, “You know what, the way I see it God wasn’t stupid to create a woman, was He?” He coughed for a moment and added: “If pigs, dogs and even cockroaches respect the order God has given, why not man?”

I snubbed him by looking away to the window and touched my nose praying he would get my message that I was more disturbed with the fetid smell from his mouth than gay marriages, but it seemed my actions only fuelled him. As the bus approached Malosa, he was at it again.

“Do you think Malawi will ever win its fight against corruption,” he queried adding, “because if you were to ask me, my answer would be hell no! I mean you saw what happened at that police roadblock, right?” This time, I just grinned at his argument but kept my mouth zipped. It was until the bus reached Liwonde Depot, when he tapped me on the shoulder and begged to know if Zuma’s deed about taking a shower after having intercourse with an HIV positive woman prevented him from being infected, that I lost my cool.

“Dude, can you find someone to tell your hogwash,” I told him in the face: “Surely, I’ve got my own problems, but Zuma isn’t one of them, but you smelling like a pit-latrine. So please do me this little favour by closing your stinking mouth because that smell has been driving me nuts since Zomba.”

His mouth snapped open in surprise at my attack.

“I never noticed I was offending you, mister,” he squeaked a rude apology and chided with sarcasm, “I really appreciate your honesty scumbag, though I don’t like being likened to a pit-latrine, alright?” He emphasized his point jabbing my chest with his finger.

He derided me for the remainder of my journey. I wished I had used my personal vehicle. I was more than relieved when I reached Ntaja. The two hour journey looked like it had taken ages. As I disembarked from the bus, my mind was preoccupied with how I was to break the good news to Kabudula. I had no doubt he was going to be pleased considering he had preached to me countless times the importance of getting married.

I reached his home and was well received by my aunt. Kabudula was not at home. My aunt explained he had left that morning for the tavern and I was to expect him around midnight.

“At first, he only imbibed on weekends,” she indicated sadly, “But then he slipped into this pattern some months ago when he lost the primary elections. I’ve failed to talk him out of it.”

All this came as a surprise. This description did not fit the Kabudula I knew at all. He had been my quintessence of every good thing I could imagine. I had reached this far in life because of him.

But then at exactly 10 minutes after midnight, my aunt was vindicated. I heard Kabudula singing drunkenly approaching the house. The realisation that it was really him knocked me like a blow from a tomahawk. What had changed him? The loss? Having schooled me that a strong man takes adversities as they come in life and never concedes defeat, I felt ashamed of him. It was now my turn to make him see reason.

I immediately realised there was a problem. My custom never permitted kids to impart wisdom to adults. It was an abomination; there were other approaches I could do it. But then this whole thing was getting out of hand. I told myself with vigour not to stand aside and watch him going astray. I had to talk to him no matter the repercussions.

He reached the door and began beating it calling his wife to come and open. I rushed and opened the door. He was instantly shocked to see me. He gave me one appraising look before exclaiming: “Imran! When did you arrive, son?”

“This afternoon around 1 PM,” I said closing the door: “We need to talk uncle.”

“Take it easy, son,” he said brandishing his arm in the air, “Your father called and informed me that you’ve found a girl to marry. I was so proud of that news. I was worried stiff when you remained single. I kept on asking myself this question: is Imran okay? But you’ve proved it, kid. Let’s spare the nitty-gritty till morning, alright. Right now, I need a rest.” He began staggering to his bedroom.

“It’s not about me, uncle,” I said my heart racing, “It’s about the way you’re treating aunt.” He paused in his drunken step and turned to face me. His facial expression was that of annoyance.
“Imran, you can’t school me on how to run my family,” he pointed out angrily, “How ridiculous. Where are your manners, kid? I’ll inform your father about this. He won’t be pleased at all.”

“Uncle, you are a good person,” I said ignoring his threat, “You can’t let a loss in a primary election ruin your life. Your wife needs you at home. He misses your love.”

“This is rubbish. This woman will surely kill me and walk on my grave. What has this hyena told you, son?” He blurted out furiously, “What is it I don’t do in this house? I buy everything and give her plenty of monies. But what I hate is she doesn’t let me drink my beer in peace. I need tons of freedom, son.”

“But whatever the case,” I persisted, “Aunt did not marry you because of your monies. I believe she had that at her parent’s house. She married you because she loved you and you’re depriving her of that.”