SHORT STORY

A Rare Phenomenon

It is believed that coming events cast shadows before them, but this one did not. It was on a sombre February day at Madeza secondary when circumstances weighted against my favour. I got an urgent call from the headmaster, Ndakwiya, who wanted to see me at his office.

Ndakwiya, as well as being a rigid disciplinarian, was a man who detested extricable manners. Rumour had it that he gave his kids a good drub if they misbehaved. His mood was usually good except when he was under the influence of drink.

In a moment, I was at the office. Ndakwiya’s office was spick and span except for some books, chalk boxes and papers that lay higgledy-piggledy on the shelves. He sat easily on his chair and to his left, laid Kabudula, the biology teacher. Kabudula’s face was a mask of ugly bruises. His mouth was swollen and his hand was in a sling. He was a figure in great distress and it took me sometime to recognise that it was him. He looked at me with a fierce countenance that made my fresh crawl as I entered the office.

“Sit down, Pilira,” Ndakwiya said. There was something in his tone that puzzled me. He seemed angry. I took the seat. “How could you do this to your teacher?”

I goggled at him in surprise. “I…I don’t understand…”

He emitted a profound sigh and frowned. “You mean Kabudula here does not convey to you anything?” he asked pointing at Kabudula. Again, I looked at him in surprise. He took a swiftly look at me and said: “Your actions surprise me, Pilira. Do you have a sieve memory that your teacher here doesn’t remind you of something?” he emitted a spasm of coughs, hesitated a moment and then turned to Kabudula. “Sir, remind him please.”

My heart made a tumble as he began acquainting me with facts of my call…

“Yesterday, I was at the pub in town, when this impostor splurged into the pub gobbling on a roasted maize cob. Immediately, I went to him and asked what it was he was doing in the pub, but he laughed and called me absurd.”

“I warned him of the behaviour he was displaying, but he retorted in an arrogant tone that I was wasting his time. Surprised with his contumacy, as you know that he is a good student here, I tried to reason with him further, but then he jabbed his fist into my side.”

“I responded by slapping him in the face, but that was a grave mistake. I just could not have done that. Sir, he assailed me. His fists came like streaks of lightening and before chucking me out of the pub, he hit me at the crotch,” Kabudula finished his story.

“I don’t believe this even an ounce,” I said, sweating at every pore. “This whole thing is a canard, an unjust accusation. I don’t know what you’re talking about…this is blatantly untrue,” I grumbled a deluge of protests.

Ndakwiya dismissed me with the wave of his hand. “I recall to have given you an exit to town yesterday…” he left the sentence hanging, and as he wiped sweat from his brow said, “that was a folly to do.”

“Sir, I went to town to attend to a sick relative. Not to do that. You’re talking of beer here, sir. I mean…I don’t drink beer and to be honest with you, I have never tasted it in my life,” I protested with unflagging stubbornness, “I don’t understand all this, not in the slightest sense.”

Both Ndakwiya and Kabudula flung me a scornful look. “That’s a flimsy excuse, Pilira. I can’t sit down and cook all this up and Kabudula here can’t make all this on you son. These are serious allegations,” Ndakwiya’s face was ablaze with anger, “what you did is both ridiculous and revolting. That was wilful disobedience, Pilira, and I being the head of this school, I can’t grant amnesty to country bumpkins like you!”

“But sir, don’t vent your spleen on me. I’m speaking in all sincerity…” But my plea was a drub. Ndakwiya slammed his fist on the table and flounced about the office berserk with rage. “You think you’re smart, kid, don’t you? Here’s evidence that speaks volumes of truth.for itself. You committed a flagrant offence and Kabudula here is a credible witness. What kind of person is you that even when confronted with evidence you’re refusing to retract? You put on a serene expression as if you didn’t do anything!”

He gasped for breath and continued: “Pilira, your simulated innocence surprises me a great deal.” He emitted a wan smile and looked at me appraisingly snorting with rage.

I kept mum.

“I thought you’re a good student, Pilira: an emblem of an honest hardworking student. Oh! Good heavens, you’ve proved me wrong,” he said shaking his head sadly in incomprehension. “I’m no simpton and neither is Kabudula here. I’ve sifted through the evidence. Pilira, you’ve been found guilty and I’m expelling you from school sine die,” Ndakwiya pronounced with finality.

The words struck me like a series of blows to the stomach. I looked up at him aghast with a face clamming with tears. I tried to talk, but to no avail. He granted me no audience. He took a letter from one of the drawers and threw it at me, a letter that attested my fate with his signature appended at the bottom. I read it twice, and turned it over to see if anything was written on the back, perhaps a second note suggesting it was all a joke. There was nothing. I was astounded. My mind was weighed down with confusion. I flopped down to my feet begging Ndakwiya to lend me his ears, but he dismissed me.

“Didn’t I warn you against truculent behaviours and vile habits, Pilira, didn’t I?” my father screamed reluctant to acquiesce my story. “I told you to stop shuffling with your life son. Look now. It’s not my future you’re playing with. It’s yours. You’ll face the wrath of this world alone if you don’t get yourself educated.”

The following morning, I sat at the veranda deep in contemplation trying to approach the issue with a serious mind. It was a cloudy morning that presaged a wet afternoon. I was brooding whether life was worth living. The whole thing was convoluted and ambiguous. It was an equation with so many variables missing. I could not find a solution. I had not beaten Kabudula, someone had done it, but the crux of the matter was why had Kabudula implicated me. A feeling of ineffable rancour bivouacked in my bruised heart. My equanimity was disturbed. I didn’t know what to do; I was utterly helpless.

Still deep in thought, I heard a sound of a car, interrupting my train of thoughts. I looked up. It was (and saw) an old rickety police cruiser screeching to a halt near my home. Two stockily built cops got out of it and approached my home. They walked like they had taken lessons in deportment. Behind them was the head boy of school whose presence made my heart skip a beat.

One cop had a massive forehead with shaggy eyebrows and a bristly unshaven chin. He carried a baton in his hand. The other cop was walleyed and bald-headed with a well razored chin. He had teargas canisters on his waist belt and an AK 47 strapped on his chest. The bald-headed cop asked after my parents in a voice that toned fittingly with his massive body. My parents came immediately when I called them.

“We’ve a warrant of arrest for Pilira. Yester night, he beat his teacher unconscious,” the bald-headed cop told my parents. The other approached and snapped a handcuff around my wrists. My parents and I were stunned with the news. I struggled to get free from his grip wailing in protest. My mother’s eyes were suffused with tears.

“Pilira was here,” she protested with a tremor in her voice, “You’ve arrested him on trumped up charges,” but her attempt was barren of results.

“Don’t allow them take me,” I bawled hopelessly. The cops hassled me into the cruiser. In a moment, the cruiser’s engine kicked into life and drove off to the station, leaving behind my parents screaming in terror. The thought of being immured in a windowless cell gave me shudders. I was distraughetd and gripped with artistic fear.

When the cruiser reached the station, the first sight that caught my gaze was that of Ndakwiya talking uneasily to a senior police officer. Then, the officer summoned the two cops and began whispering something to them. The two cops occasionally shot cursory glances at me and looked away guiltily as they listened shaking their heads in incomprehension. Later on, the wall eyed cop approached me and removed the handcuffs. He bleated an apology and then slinked to a nearby office. His revulsion and capricious mood surprised me a great deal.

My mind was in a maze. Ndakwiya was nervous too. He had an aura of je ne sais quoi about him. He was avoiding my eyes. I longed to know what was happening. I needed someone to explain the madness to me. Why had I been unhandcaffed before a statement had been taken? I wished I had known. A cloud of unanswered questions was buzzing above my head.

Then, Ndakwiya came towards me at an amble, his face still down.

“Pilira,” he said. “I’m sorry…really sorry that this happened to you. Forgive my costly mistake…forgive Kabudula your teacher…forgive everyone. It was inevitable,” he confessed and each word came hard. A vacuous smile was on his lips and in a moment tears began cursing down his cheeks.

“What’re you talking about, Ndakwiya? What’re you? Whom shall I forgive? Why? I mean…I don’t understand what’s happening? Why are you sorry? Why are you crying?”

“Pilira, you see, it’s another boy…he looks like you, like an identical twin. His eyes, height, and complexion…I mean everything. He was the one doing all this mischief. The police caught him this morning at the depot. He admitted to all charges…I’m really sorry, Pilira.”

WHY A POLICY ON WITCHCRAFT IS DIFFICULT TO FORMULATE

Witchcraft has of late become the most popular anthem on people’s lips. Stories of little children and the aged confessing that they have killed relatives have made headlines both in our local dairies and radios in general. The country’s atmosphere has been contaminated with stories of some heartless elderly people teaching some innocent kids this abhorrent act. In general, acts of witchcraft have been appalling, breathtaking, and stunning.

Nonetheless, despite these evils of witchcraft being depressing and seeking immediate government attention, the government has been on the sidelines. It has kept mum, as if unperturbed by the countries entreaties for consideration. Though this might be mistaken for hyperbole, the fact is that the country has no single law on witchcraft. Above all, it is perfectly monstrous that witchcraft is not even recognized as a crime. A thorough search on the country’s law books indicate that the law that is there on witchcraft is not necessarily to punish “players” of the act but rather to punish those people who accuse them of witchcraft.

The question that reigns in people’s minds is then why is the government silent on witchcraft despite the public outcry that it should do something. This paper then seeks to act as a glimpse into the reasons why the government is at pains to recognize witchcraft as a crime.

The issue of formulating a policy on witchcraft is itself a hard nut to crack. You will agree with me that actors of this art comprise a secret community that does their activities at night when everybody is dead asleep and as a consequence, there is no concrete evidence to support its existence. Empirical evidence on witchcraft is hard to get and there is no concrete data or evidence to convince the policy makers or government to adopt a policy on witchcraft. Honestly, witchcraft powers and acts are all in the mind unverifiable and mostly unbelievable to the outside observers and as such the government does not recognize witchcraft accusations and consequently it cannot by propositions that claim that some sicknesses or diseases are caused by witchcraft. Science vindicates that the agents behind all the diseases are bacteria, parasites and viruses and that the cure is to be effected by medicine. It also remains worth mentioning here that traditional healing practices are often times taken as generally ineffective, frequently harmful and discouraged altogether.

While acknowledging the fact that sometimes there is evidence on witchcraft, most people nowadays do not believe in its existence as a result of enlightenment. This notion argues that beliefs in witchcraft exist in delusion. They are a way of explaining the unexplainable and accounting for the problems of evil. By attributing unmerited fortune, or unwonted success to illicit use of occult powers and substances by the human beings motivated by malice, greed or envy, the beliefs help to explain not simply how something happened but why it happened as it did and thus to provide moral support and psychological theories of causation.

Also if media reports are to go by, most accusations on people about witchcraft are false and proceed from malice on the part of the accusers. For instance it is a widely held belief in most villages that elderly people practice witchcraft and as such their families and the society at large regard them to be behind some evil acts. Sometimes persons suspected of witchcraft are attacked and driven from their homes. There is no official rod on measuring witchcraft and that accusations that stem from it are mostly just mere accusations that are products of hate and malice.

Despite, the church recognizing the existence of witchcraft, they strongly propose that the best way of dealing with this social catastrophe is not by witch hunts or seeking the help of witch doctors but by converting the witch through healing them and then reconciling them and reintegrating them into the community. It denies the commonly held axiom “once a witch always a witch” and do believe that witches can be reconciled and restored to the community.

It has also been noted with concern and regret that it is some selfish people that train other people’s children the art of witchcraft and as such it should immediately come to our attention that not all the people that practice witchcraft do it willingly. The sad thing is there is no way of telling or recognizing which people learnt the art willfully and those that it was imposed on them.

Finally, heavy reliance cannot be pressed on witchdoctors who can help in detecting witches through witch hunts and giving people charms to protect them from witchcraft because no one remedy offered gives a 100 percent protection because witches themselves always find a mechanism of circumventing the remedy. If somebody is also able to detect witches, it simply implies that he/she is a witch himself and as such they can not be trusted.

Hence, taking all these factors into consideration it can be seen that it is really difficult to formulate a policy in witchcraft.

SHORT STORY

The Black Bag

It was noon. The muezzin was proclaiming the hours of prayer from the miniaret of the giant mosque that stood at the heart of Kabula city. At this hour, the streets were busy. Hooting sounds and that of people moving up and down the streets contaminated the air.

Kabudula was miserable from cold and hunger. It was now a month that he had been chasing shadows; leaving his home at the crack of dawn, walking a good 20 km on foot to town and returning home with no job. A load of financial straits had clutched him in a tighter and tighter vice and was about to crash him to death. Rent was four months overdue and the landlord had just served him with an eviction notice to leave the house by the end of that week after becoming weary of his unending pleas.

His family was in dire poverty and heading toward a crisis. To them, life was both hard going and a long march of terror. It was a family that subsisted on food from friends, neighbours and relatives. In some cases, Kabudula wheedled money from friends under the pretext of his son or wife being sick.

On this day, he had nothing to take home again just as it had been for the past four days. However, he had strained every nerve to take home something but to no avail. Of course, his wife was understanding. She remained a lady with a stout heart, still loving and that put on a semblance of gaiety as if every thing was fine. Her cachet laid in the fact that she was reticent about the prevailing problems. But still he felt he had to take something. His family was starving.

As he headed home, his legs felt stiff and with the gnawing pains of hunger tormenting him, he knew he would die if he forced himself to walk on.

He flagged down a minibus and got into it. At the next stage, a comely lady with a stunning figure entered into the minibus. She had put on a sumplous skin tight blouse and a tight provocative skirt. Her braided hair had a sheen like gold; her face was tatted in cologne and her yellow earrings adorned her face even further. Despite having an aura of pride and excess vanity about her, she was a delightful sight because every male gave her a lascivious look. She carried a black bag and came to sit next to Kabudula and deposited the bag between her legs and his.

At the next stage, every passenger went out, except him and the lady. She got out at the next stop leaving her bag behind. In that instance, Kabudula was about to tell her about the bag, but then realised that this was an opportunity not to be sneezed at. Plight of his family came back to him with all its cold and aching pain. What if he was to take the bag and sell its contents? His starving family would be rescued. If the lady had forgotten it, well, he would seize it. After all he was getting down at the next stop and he being the only passenger who would ask about the bag? The gods had smiled at him finally.

“Oh my God!” the conductor screamed interrupting his train of thoughts, “That lady has forgotten her bag.”

Kabudula looked up at him in feigned surprise: “What? You mean this?” he asked hastily forcing a smile, “It’s mine.”

However, the conductor was not amused. He took a swift look at his skimpily made and heavily patched trousers, his chapped and rough lips and then corrugated his forehead.

“That’s is a whooping lie I’ve ever heard you old baboon. You can’t fool me. I saw that lady bring it in,” the conductor retorted with a snarl and then in a twinkling of an eye, snapped a finger at the lady and told her of the bag.

Kabudula’s heart somersaulted. Plight of his family had goaded him to go against his Christian principles. A sinking feeling crept into his stomach. He was in a tizzy and his inside was quacking in fear. He had yielded to the temptation of easy profit and it had backfired. He was now sweating at every pore and his hope hinged on the outcome.

However, the lady shot a cursory glance at the conductor and shrugged her shoulders indicating the bag didn’t belong to her. Immediately, the conductor was conscious stricken. He hastily spluttered out hollow apologies, swallowed hard and wiped sweat from his brow.

“You thought I couldn’t own this, don’t you?” Kabudula fumed with feigned vehemence and a glaring look and again the conductor bleated out an apology. He felt a great relief. He had gambled with fate and it had paid dearly. Lady luck had smiled at him.

As he got out of the old rickety minibus, he emitted doxologies. The bag immediately attracted attention. People seemed to wonder how a pitiful sight like him could carry such a splendid bag. A fever of curiosity, anxiousness and expectancy seized him. He longed to reach home quickly and see the treasure in the bag.

He walked home at a terrific pace and arrived deadbeat. His family was agog with the bag. Their eyes kindled with excitement. For the first time, his family was happy.

Kabudula unzipped the bag beaming with perfect aplomb to view the contents, but suddenly his knees felt weak. He was overcome with compunction. He could not believe what he saw. His wife was stunned too. It was a ghastly sight. A dead body that could not have been born more than six hours before: a naked-white, curly-haired image of death. He gasped and felt sick. He had to support himself by cringing to his wife.