Malawi 2004 - 2007

   The Day I Looked Death In Face and Held Its Gaze.

    The things you have to say to get people's attention these days. Well, actually, Julia and Andy gave me a book about the exciting life and times of a dare-devil war reporter who spent most of his time being attacked, blown up or abused. I realised that my anaemic tales needed some liver, so here goes.

It all started one sunny July day as I got into the car to go out to monitor some sports development........ ...

Area 25 was a surprise. More than 60 young people turned out to impress the mzungo who would solve all of their problems. The girls played netball in city fashion styles, boys demonstrated the art of creating a dust storm using only a football and feet and some boxers displayed training techniques and a short bout in which no-one landed a punch - thank goodness. At the end of a rowdy, good-natured meeting, which left us breathless, I turned to Kingsley, who had travelled in from his rural village to guide me to the spot.

" Are you ready? ". He nodded ascent and we started the 25 kms journey to a nearby village.

The contrast was stark. There were two balls, both punctured, but still in use. It reminded me of the childhood games in the alley at the back of our flats where the deflation of the plastic ball never stopped the action, which continued with the puffy orb until a Birthday came around or someone's Mum and Dad were flush enough to deliver the real thing. 

They had remembered lots of things from the training. A legion of small to medium sized children formed a precision-drilling squad, clapping and jogging their way up and down the pitch as their warm-up. Games were played, older boys complained that they needed things too, girls danced, village speeches were made. 

Kingsley was apologetic. 

" There would have more people here, but there is a chiefs instalment ceremony and lots of people are there."

We set off to drop him at home and he was show me to the quickest route home along the mazed dust roads and paths. As we travelled we passed the village and Kingsley thought it a good idea that I meet his new wife. 

The gulewmakulu (male ancestor dancers) were already in full swing and I told Kingsley that I didn't want to barge in without asking the chiefs permission in advance. As I waited up the path for his return a series of friendly well-wishers passed. A drunk teacher from the local school stopped to be 'helpful '.

After five minutes Kingsley appeared sans wife, but chatting to another young man. We all walked up the path towards the car. I continued my stilted conversation with the teacher and Kingsley continued his, by now, serious-looking talk with the young man. At last Kinsley approached me. "I have a problem. I need your help."

Whenever someone needs your help the question of money is never very far away. This was no exception. It seemed that the young man wanted mk5,000 (£25), which he claimed was owed to him by Kinsley's organisation. The story became more complicated. The man who ran the organisation before Kingsley had ordered transport for bricks, misused the funds and then, thoughtlessly, died before settling the debt. 

Kingsley, a diminutive young man of about 23 years is a thoughtful, quietly spoken, fastidious sort of man. He rarely offers an opinion unless asked, but then surprises you with a carefully reasoned and analytical reply. He is not the sort of man to provoke an argument or court trouble of any sort. But by now he was looking decidedly uncomfortable, his eyes looking away into the distance as he spoke, his voice almost fading into the 'no signal' zone. A small crowd was already beginning to form.

I decided to be assertive.

" Look you can't expect this to be sorted out now. I am not going to give you mk5,000; Kingsley has not got mk5,000 and anyway he needs to talk to his organisation. Can you negotiate to meet with him in a week or so to sort out a conclusion."

' Quite reasonable ', I think you would agree. But no, there was to be no delay. Kingsley must pay or he could not leave.

By now the prosecutor had been joined by two friends, both drunk. One was a bigger, muscular man with a shaved head gleaming in the sun and a high-volume aggressive manner. The other, about the same build, but more anonymous. I was trying to follow the conversation through simultaneous translation from Kingsley, by now almost incoherent with fear, and the teacher, by now almost incoherent with alcohol.

We seemed to repeat the same argument several times with no movement on either side. The options began to solidify into one rather unpalatable scenario. Either Kingsley pays up or we arrest him and take him away to some unspecified, but not very pleasant fate. Worryingly this was accompanied by increasing numbers of grabs at Kingsley's arms and wrists. Things were beginning to escalate.

I knew at this point that I could not risk trying to drive Kingsley out. Either the car or Kingsley would be attacked. I was also becoming a real nuisance. Several attempts were made to get rid of me. The first strategy was "This a village dispute" - sub text you should mind your own business azungu and stop meddling in African issues. The second was the suggestion that I should get in the car and piss-off. This was accompanied by a snear and a dismissive wave of the arm. I told them I was not leaving without Kingsley.

More than an hour had passed and the other concern was that it was now only one and half hours to sunset. Kingsley wanted to go back to his house and give them whatever he could scrape together. I resisted. We were in hostage territory. I knew from years of watching sieges on the news that we had to get out of this environment. I tried a new ploy.

" We need to get a chief involved. That is the way that village disputes are settled."

The aggressors met in a huddle. They did not want a chief involved. We waited for another 15 minutes and I tried again. This time they agreed, but it had to be their a chief from their home village. The teacher said he was a good man, who could be trusted.

" Well Kingsley, what do you think?"

" I don't want to go." 

" Why not?"

" They will kill me. They have done it before."

If little, thin Kingsley could have gone white he would have been sepulchral at this point and I must admit to feeling a little edgy myself.

I decided that we would have to move, whatever the risk. 

Only one of you, plus the teacher and Kingsley get into the car. We will go to the chief ". My authority was established . All three of the thugs piled into the back with the teacher squeezed in between them. Kingsley sat transfixed, staring straight ahead, as I started the car and pulled away. 

The drive seemed to take for ever. It was at least 6 kms away on dirt roads. The talk got louder and more aggressive from the back and became more threatening to Kingsley. The teacher was getting more uncomfortable and I saw in the mirror fingers beginning to be jabbed into his cheeks. We reached Ngwangwa , where the teacher told me to turn right to get to the chief's house. I turned and the intensity of the anger rose another notch. The teacher said " they want you go back to get someone from Ngwangwa . Someone important. ". He was irritating me now because I thought he was trying to please them. I still had Kingsley's warning echoing through this whole incident

" they will kill me. ".

I wasn't going to let them stop in their home village, where even more people would be involved and I feared I would loose any semblance of control that still existed. For the first time I began to react angrily.

" I said I would drive you to the chief- nothing else."

Whatever was translated it didn't work and as we drove away from the main village the most aggressive one grabbed hold of Kingsleys shirt ripping it nearly from his back and grabbing his wrist in a painful backwards leverage. 

" O.K I'm driving to the straight to the Police." A last desperate threat. Little did I know that the nearest policeman was some 20 kms distant.

It worked a bit. The tough one started to plead for me to stop the car, even calling me " sah ". I stopped. He got out along with teacher. I thought he would try to drag Kingsley out of the front seat so I sped off with the teacher mouthing something at the window like a drowning man at the porthole of the sinking ship. I could not think about the fate of the teacher and I still had two of the gang in the back seat. I say in the back seat. Actually the one behind me was standing outside the car with his feet on the sill and the door flapping. At some point, can't remember when, someone had grabbed Kingsley by the throat threatening to strangle him. I realised they wanted to bale out. I slowed down just enough for them to jump from the moving car and watched the sneering face of the original prosecutor shouting after us as he athletically kept his balance on landing and disappeared into the dusty distance behind us.

We both relaxed with the relief of having smuggled ourselves out of this tricky situation and I joked a bit to change the mood as we drove another 20 kms to Area 25 and the Police station. It was like being in the wild west. There is no law officer in he rural area other than the chief. If someone decides they want to kill you there is no-one except your friends and the authority of the chief to stop them. I felt guilty about the teacher who at the very least had along walk home for his pains. I hoped they hadn't sought to blame him.

**********

It was dark when we finally pulled up close to the Police Station in Area 25. We had been piecing together the story as we drove. These thugs were not even the owners of the vehicle that had been hired. It was likely that they saw a chance to extort money and probably thought the mzungu would cough-up. Of course they did not want to negotiate or go a chief and certainly not the Police. They wanted to get Kingsley on his own. Was he in danger? Certainly he might have expected a beating at the very least. When I mentioned the name Ngwangwa to people they sucked in their breath, said it was a tough village and that someone had indeed been murdered there earlier in the year. So it was probably better to overreact and drive off rather than take the chance that the gang just wanted to get out of the car.

The police were, well, Malawian. The officer listened distractedly, reading notes on the front desk and passing things to colleagues. Eventually he said it was a 'Community Policing' matter. Yet another idea imported from U.K. and Africanised to mean that the Police wouldn't go out to the area to investigate. Instead Kingsley was to take a letter to the Traditional Authority, who lived close to the men in Ngwangwa . He would investigate and bring them all to the police station in 36 hours time .

I heard nothing from Kingsley for more than a week and had only a false telephone number. I feared that something unpleasant had taken place. Then I ran across him at a youth centre on the Salima Road. He filled in the blanks.

After the event the men had claimed that they had been punched in a struggle, but had disappeared that same evening, obviously realising that the scam had gone too far. Community Policing snapped into action. The chiefs decided that these were not the types of chap they wanted in the village. All three of their houses were demolished and to this point none of them have been seen in the area. Kingsley is back to his normal self. I am now dining out on the story. 

Once again the advantage of being an azungo in Malawi were never better illustrated. I was never touched or directly threatened. As long as I, or rather my pale skin, was there Kingsley had a measure of protection and justice was probably taken more seriously because of the offence to the visiting azungo .

.

***************************