The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind (14 page)

“Do you have more?”

“I’m sorry,” my father said.

“Okay then,” the man answered, then stood up and walked away.

T
HE CROWDS CONTINUED TO
pour in from the bush. More than ever, they now converged at the trading center like herds of crazed and wasting animals driven together by fire. Women with thin, ashen faces sat alone, pleading with God. But they did it quietly and without tears. Everywhere the anguish was silent because no one had the energy to cry. Elsewhere in the trading center, children with swollen stomachs and strange copper hair clustered under storefronts. A few traders still spread tarps in the mud and sold grain, but the units had become smaller and smaller. Its price was like gold, like buying the universe and stars in one half kilo. Crowds gathered round, but mostly to stare in stunned silence, as if watching a dream in heaven. Those with energy still screamed and begged.

“Bwana,
just a small plate of flour,” they said. “That’s all I need. It’s for my child.”

“Eh,
if I start with you, then…” the traders answered, then said nothing at all.

Those with energy still stayed close, lunging like dogs whenever a kernel fell to the ground, scooping gravel and all into their mouths. One man weaved through the crowd mumbling, “Please help, I’m an orphan. My father has died.” The man was forty years old.

Each group told a different story of the dead.

“I heard there was a man who’d spent days looking for food,” one farmer said. “One morning he decided to nap under a tree and never woke up.”

“I was cooking walkman,” said another, “when a man sat down uninvited, telling me, ‘I need to eat this.’ But before the
nsima
was even ready, that man was dead.”

Others had gone so many days without eating, the first bellyful of food had sent their bodies into fatal shock. One woman stepped over two dead men on the road, still clutching their hoes. Men who’d swelled with kwashiorkor tried to relieve their suffering by draining their great blisters with a knife, only to die several days later from infection.

News came of Beni Beni, the madman of Wimbe, who’d always made us laugh in better times. He’d run up to merchants in the trading center with his raving eyes and snatch cakes and Fantas from their stalls. No one ever took them away because his hands were always so filthy. The mad people had always depended on others to care for them, but now there were none. Beni Beni died at the church.

Amid this great suffering and confusion, the government radio said the president had traveled to London on state business. When he returned, a Malawian radio reporter questioned him about the famine. We all gathered around at home to listen.

The reporter said something like, “Your Excellency, many are dying across the country from lack of food. What are you planning to do?”

The president scoffed at this absurd idea, saying he’d grown up himself in the village where people often died of other things, such as tuberculosis, cholera, malaria, or diarrhea, but never from lack of food.

“Nobody has died of hunger,” he said.

When the report was over, my father shook his head and turned away.

“How could he say such a thing, Papa?” I asked.

“Some men are blind,” my father replied. “But this one just chooses not to see.”

That afternoon, the ways of the world suddenly became more clear. Whereas I was still confused as to how the hunger had been allowed to happen, this much was certain: Every man for himself. We were on our own.

N
OT LONG AFTER THE
radio report, my mother came home again with very little flour for supper, and that night all we had was a taste. As I sat on the floor to eat, I looked down the corridor and saw Khamba standing at the open door. He was looking bad, with his head hung low and his eyes drooping. His ribs were like blades against his skin. The walk across the courtyard exhausted him.

He was starving to death.

The last big meal he’d eaten was our Christmas goat skin. That food had given him a bit of strength and even added some weight to his frame. But there’d been little since. I counted how many times I’d fed Khamba in the past two weeks—just handfuls of
nsima,
nothing more—and stopped at five. I didn’t have to think very hard. That number was all I ever thought about, and seeing him standing there was like a hammer in my stomach. I had nothing to give him tonight.

“Sorry, friend,” I said. “I just can’t share.”

It didn’t take me long to eat. When the food was gone and out of sight, I stood up and made my way down the corridor. Stepping over the dog, I walked back to my room, closed the door, and got in bed.

The next morning, the hunger woke me up. Little did I know, but my stomach had taken over my entire body, filled every limb and crevice, all
the way up to my head like a great big balloon. At some point in the early morning, it had finally burst and revealed its emptiness. It had only been filled with air, and in this nothingness, there was only pain. I took deep breaths to try and fill the space again, but it was no use. I was flattened like a tube. It hurt so badly. I lay in bed and listened to the rain pound my ceiling steadily through the grass thatch and plastic sheeting below. Somewhere in the dark, it dripped and dripped.

I have to eat,
I thought.

I lay there until the sun sent a gray beam through my shuttered window. When I no longer heard rain drops hitting the roof, I gathered the strength to sit up. I got out of bed and pulled on my clothes, grabbed a few things, then made my way outside. I stopped at the door of the kitchen and peeked in. Khamba was curled up near the fire pit, which had long lost its heat. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I wondered if we’d had the same dream.

“Khamba!” I shouted. “Let’s go hunting!”

The very word was like a bolt of current through his body. Khamba jerked his head up and slapped his tail once against the floor. It had been a year since I’d said those words. Despite his weakness, he struggled to his feet. His legs trembled from arthritis, but his tail swung like mad. He was ready.

“Let’s get some food!”

I had no maize or
gaga
to set my trap, so I grabbed a handful of ash from my mother’s fire and threw it into a sugar bag. The dog and I then walked outside toward the Dowa Highlands, which seemed forever draped in turmoil. The rains would never end. The walk took twice as long, with Khamba limping slowly behind. I stayed just a few steps ahead, whistling a tune to try to raise my spirits. The maize in the fields was growing tall and green, and I knew it wouldn’t be long until we ended this torment. Maybe a month, perhaps a bit longer. I scanned the sky for birds but saw none.

At the trap site, I fastened my rubber to the poles, stretched it back, and set the trigger. I sprinkled the ash onto the kill zone. It looked pathetic.

“Let’s hope this works,” I said.

If we could get three birds, perhaps tonight I could sleep. Perhaps Khamba could get better and hold on—just for another month. I took the rope and dragged it twenty yards behind the
thombozi
tree. Khamba collapsed with a thud, then nearly fell asleep. I stretched out on my stomach and waited.

About fifteen minutes later, a small flock of about five birds swooped down and landed outside the trap. Khamba’s head shot up, as if he’d seen it in a dream. As the birds were nearing the kill zone, my imagination began to wander:

In slow motion, I saw the rubber smash the birds against the bricks, crushing them instantly. I saw myself plucking the feathers. I pulled off the heads, took my knife from my waist and made an incision just below the breast, then scooped out the entrails. I tossed the bloody bits into the air, and Khamba snatched them in his jaws. I laughed and praised him, but I couldn’t make out the words. After that, I rinsed my hands with water from the
dambo,
getting off all the blood, then rinsed the birds clean. I then sprinkled the warm flesh with salt and rubbed it into the skin so it was sure to stay. I started a small fire behind the tree, which quickly died to a glowing bed of embers. I split the backsides and laid the birds’ breasts directly on the coals and heard the meat begin to sizzle. Soon the smell of roasting flesh was all around me, encompassing the entire universe. It tickled the back of my brain. I flipped them over, salivating.

The sudden pounding of my heart snapped me out of the spell, just in time to see the birds hop toward the trap. Khamba sat rigid and watching, lost in his own delicious daydreams. I gripped the rope, muscles twitching. But as soon as the birds stepped into the kill zone, they realized the bait was only ash and quickly flew away in a burst of wings. I exhaled in defeat and dropped the vine, too exhausted to move. I may have even cried.

T
HAT NIGHT AT HOME
, Khamba curled up outside my door and fell into a deep, almost frightening sleep. The hunt had taken nearly everything
from him. At supper, I saved half a handful of
nsima,
plus some pumpkin leaves, and walked outside to where he lay.

“Khamba!” I shouted. “Supper!”

It was another word he knew. He opened his eyes and slapped his tail. I tossed the food above his head, but he made no effort. The
nsima
and pumpkin leaves hit the ground with a thud. Almost as an afterthought, Khamba picked himself up and ate.

Two days later, I fed him again. It was only a bit of pumpkin leaves, so I walked out and put them in his food bowl. He saw me and limped over. But as soon as the pumpkin leaves hit his stomach, he vomited them right up. I knew the end was near.

“Just wait one month,” I said, pleading. “We’ll be feasting in a month!”

The following evening, he vomited his food again. Nothing worked.

The next morning Charity and Mizeck walked over to my house on their way to the trading center. I hadn’t seen Mizeck since we’d feasted on my birds at the clubhouse. He’d once been a fat guy, now there was hardly anything left. I could see the skull in his face. When he saw Khamba, his voice got a bit crazy.

“Look at this thing,” he said, standing over Khamba. “He looks pathetic!”

Khamba was half asleep, his skin and bones now covered in flies. He’d stopped even caring.

“I can’t even stand to look at it,” Mizeck said.

Then don’t,
I thought, but said nothing. What did he care about my dog? I tried to change the subject.

“So what are you chaps doing today?” I asked.

“Going to the trading center, as usual,” said Charity. “Looking for some
ganyu,
but I’m not so hopeful.”

As Charity and I chatted, Mizeck remained quiet. He was still staring at Khamba, not even blinking his eyes.

“Why don’t you put this thing out of its misery?” he said. “Take it behind the house with a big stone.”

I pretended not to hear.

“He’s right, William,” Charity said. “You need to do something. Take him to the
dambo.
The water is high. This dog is too weak to swim.”

“Wait a minute, guys,” I said. “What are you saying?”

“We’re saying it’s time to be a man,” said Mizeck. “It’s time to kill this pathetic animal.”

I wanted to smash his face. “Guys, Khamba’s fine,” I said, my voice growing weaker.

“Listen,” said Mizeck, “if you can’t be a man and do it yourself, we’ll do it for you. This thing is making me sick.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Charity, lowering his voice. “You won’t even have to bother. We’ll stop by tomorrow and take him. He won’t feel a thing.”

I struggled for words, some form of protest, but was stopped short. Mizeck now glared at me, his eyes wild.

“It’s not your decision,” he said.

When Mizeck and Charity left, I felt dizzy and weak, as if my legs were made of grass. I stood there watching Khamba sleep, then managed to sit down beside him. The flies were thick on his coat, circling and landing, circling and landing. After half an hour, he finally opened his eyes and caught me staring, then gave me a slow slap of the tail. The way he looked at me, even like this, made me remember our days hunting, how we could talk to each other without even speaking.

How would I protect my dog if Mizeck and Charity returned? I couldn’t let them take him. I thought about the many ways of doing this until the compound grew dark, then finally realized my answer. They’d been right. Khamba was suffering, even miserable. But they’d been wrong about me.

The next morning, I was back outside watching Khamba sleep when Charity appeared in the courtyard. My heart began to pound. He looked at my dog and cocked his chin. But before he could say anything, I stood up.

“I’m taking him,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m taking him to the forest.”

He shrugged. “A stone is very quick,” he said.

“This is what I want.”

Charity nodded his head. “You’re making the right decision. We’ll do it together, today.”

“Today,” I said.

That afternoon, when Charity returned, we walked to the shady area outside my room. Khamba still lay there, unmoved. I then pretended I was someone else, and so I was.

“Khamba!” I said. “Let’s go hunting.”

His head perked up.

“I said let’s go!”

He stumbled to his feet, shook once to get the flies off his back, and hobbled toward me. It took us ages to get out of the compound. I walked backwards slightly ahead of Khamba, making sure to never take my eyes off him.

“Come on, boy, you can do it.”

We walked down the road toward the highlands. The sun was low in the west and colored the hills in an orange glow. The air was warm and dry, the perfect weather to hunt. We entered the blue gum groves that reached just below our heads, the bush that Khamba knew so well. At one point, Charity turned.

“This way,” he said.

My heart dipped into my stomach. Khamba followed, struggling to walk over the high grass and sticks.

“Come on, Khamba,” I said.

I could feel the tears hot in my throat, but I swallowed them down. Charity turned to me.

“Don’t be so upset,” he said. “It’s just a dog.”

“Yah,” I said. “Just a dog.”

After several minutes, we stopped in the thick brush, surrounded in chest-high grass. The mountains were visible in the distance through the blue gums.

“This is a good place,” Charity said. “No one will pass here.”

I looked around. I could still see my house. “This is too close!” I said.

“This dog can’t go any farther.”

Khamba had already flopped down under a
thombozi
tree and was panting heavily.

Without my saying anything, Charity began stripping the bark off a few
sanga
trees to make one long rope, then doubled them together to make it strong. I turned my back and stared into the trees.

At one point Charity’s hands went quiet, but I didn’t look.

“Tie him to the tree,” I said.

Charity lashed the rope around the trunk of the
thombozi
tree, then tied the other end around Khamba’s front leg.

When I got the courage to turn around, I saw my dog lying in the tall, bent grass. His ribs jutted out his sides. He was panting, weak. Without saying anything, Charity turned and walked away. When I followed, Khamba lifted his head and began to cry. His body was too weak to make any real noise, just a panicked whine that came from deep within. He knew I was leaving him. After a few steps down the trail, I made the mistake of turning back around. His eyes were still on me. Then he laid down his head.

“I did a terrible thing,” I whispered, walking faster. I was going to vomit.

“He was old,” Charity said. “He was going to die anyway.”

“I did a terrible thing.”

Once we reached the compound, Charity went to the clubhouse, and I walked toward my room. On the way, my eyes caught sight of Khamba’s food bowl lying by the henhouse. I ran over, picked it up, and hurled it against the ground, shattering it into pieces.

It’s just a dog,
I thought.

That night I stayed awake long into the night, knowing that Khamba was just down the hill. If I screamed his name loud enough into the dark, he would probably hear me.

The next day I avoided most people and tried to stay in the fields. But once I got home, my uncle Socrates was coming out of my house, having visited my father.

“Where’s Khamba?” he said. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

“I haven’t seen him,” I said. “I was wondering the same thing.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I hope those wild dogs didn’t get him. I’m sure we’ll smell him soon enough if they did.”

I felt nauseous all day. That night I tried to force Khamba out of my mind, thinking of anything but him. It wasn’t difficult. I was so hungry that I couldn’t concentrate on one thing too long anyway.

The next morning, Charity stopped by and found me in my room.

“Let’s go see what happened to Khamba,” he said. He was in good spirits.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s go see if he’s dead.”

I said nothing.

“We’ll bring some hoes so people think we’re going to the fields,” he said. “That way we can also bury him.”

We set off down the trail carrying hoes. I was too mixed up inside for conversation. We turned off the road and into the bush. The grass was still wet with dew and soaked my trousers. After some minutes, I saw a white hump on the ground. We continued.

“Is he dead?” Charity asked.

Getting closer, I had a clear view. Khamba was lying in the same position as I’d left him. His head was down, resting on his front paws, and his eyes were wide open. I gasped, expecting him to move. But as I got closer, I saw his tongue was sticking out. It was dry, like paper. A trail of ants moved in and out of his open mouth.