Patrick Achitabwino articles

Patrick Achitabwino

A battered dirty pail lay desolate at a corner, leaning against a mosquito-blood smeared wall. It was dead hot and springs of urine were snaking over the rugged floor, meandering into all directions.

Maliko staggered as he fell onto the floor, the poisonous smell of sweat, human waste, and urine and armpits dogging his nostrils. The long arms of the law severed all ties of his liberty at a watering hole, just as he was guzzling one bottle of Carlsberg Green after another, letting the sour drink pour into his throat as if it was chasing with it all the problems of his life.

“You have a right to remain silent,” a muscular built police officer, bullet headed, warned him as a handcuff married his arms together. “Whatever you say will be used against you in a court of law.”

He thought of protesting but the moment the butt of a gun brushed his chest, all the energy and courage escaped. A charge sheet was read out to him at the police station. He was under police custody for unlawful wounding.

In the cell he was almost deaf. All the inmates were half naked, others dressed only in underwears, resting their skeletal bodies on the floor. A leader had to say ‘turn right’ and in unity they all did. The smell of the meal that was served bundled out all the interest of appetite in him. Weevils could be seen spicing the beans as the nsima was a step too close to porridge.

A pain in the chest crawled his mind to the genesis of the long journey. Zione, a slender, milk-teeth lady he had just engaged angrily bulleted her way into his office, tears cascading down her cheeks. She looked grossly unfamiliar, a total stranger, like a mad woman on the street who yells at passers by.

“Cheater, crook…,” she stammered as she was shivering with anger. She threw a newspaper on his desk then sped out of the office.

“Zio, please…,” Maliko had his hands elevated as if lost in the midst of a prayer. Zione was nowhere close for comfort.

He grabbed the phone then quickly dialed her.

“This marks the end… Thank you for all the pains, proceed with your valentine,” Zio said then hang the phone. He called her many a times and finally she switched off the phone.

He walked out of the office, loosened his neck tie, looked left then right. He started walking anyhow. He found himself at the rusty gate of Mapanga City Park. He strolled past it, paused a moment then proceeded. He could not even hear whistling birds that were chatting in the trees. All his life needed was to enter into the silence of the park, step over grassy springs, and look at the trees, the birds, the sky, hands in pockets.

“You said you love me but you lied,” faintingly he heard a voice from no where. He lazily opened his eyes, swung 360 degrees to trace the source of the voice, but there was nobody close. A salamander lizard stood on a tree nearby, gazing at him, nodding its head mockingly.

For a moment he thought of tearing the newspaper that was weighing his right hand down. He had met Lusubilo Machaka, the lady at the heart of the controversy, at a party at one of the hotels one night. They shared the same table. She was hilly buttocked with a golden bracelet on her right hand that was matching the long golden earrings. Glittering lipstick that debrissed her small lips brightened her bewitching smile. They talked of their professional life, personal life. They danced to the soft music, tight, shared glasses of wine. It was all love at first sight. They spent a romantic night together at her home.

He later started dribbling her calls. It was either he was busy or the phone was off. He told her straight in the face in her office that he had a girl friend he was engaging in a few days time. She challenged that she did not care of the other woman. Or even if they would be two women it would be fine with her.

She dropped a bomb a month later. She sent him an e-mail that she was pregnant.

“I am too young to impregnate a woman,” angrily he told her on the phone.
“Who told you,” she spat back venom.
“I underwent an operation when I was young and the doctor said I can never father a kid,” he was sweating.
“The doctor was wrong,” she cut the line.

Maliko called again but there was no response.

He thought of Zione, the first woman his life had ever loved. They had been in love for five years. They met in the second year at Chikangawa University. He was studying law as she was pursuing business administration.

She had always been kind to him even during the university days. The night he lost his mobile phone at one of the bottle stores in Chibanja township she surrendered hers to him. Her generosity climaxed the moment he lost his first job as an attorney with Luwinga and Company law firm. She used to give him half of her salary for the six months he was jobless. Their affair had blessings of parents of both sides.

Their engangement was colourful, held in the spacious multi purpose hall in Blantyre. Parents relived their youthful days, dancing to the envy of youngsters.

“Osatipangisa manyazi achimwene,” he could hear his mother ululating at the top of her voice. She was too excited a woman. For the first time in life, Maliko Butao saw his mother dressed in a trouser and his father in a skirt, white maize flour smeared in their heads. They tossed coins in the air, flapped paper banknotes right from the entrance of the hall up to the front where Maliko and Zione were carrying a basket.

A dread locked inmate awoke Maliko from the long train of his memories. He had a large scar on the forehead, just above the eye. His mouth smelled more tobacco as his teeth had lost the whiteness.

“Jah man, what crime did you commit man?” his language was punctuated with rastafarianism tones.

It was a custom, so Maliko was informed, that whenever a new inmate joins a cell, he confesses the crime committed to his colleagues.

He grabbed a newspaper that was in the right hand of the rasta then flipped the classified ads page. The page was littered with many valentine messages as it was Valentines Day.

“You see this name here?” he was pointing at the newspaper. “This is me.”

The inmates clustered around the newspaper to read about their new colleague. The message read: Maliko Butao, how can I thank God enough for having you in my life. You are more of a piece of gold found in the desert, a spring of joy in my life, a source of inspiration. For I would rather die than lose you. Let the world know that you are mine forever. I am proud to be three months pregnant of you. Lusubilo Machaka.

Maliko swore before his colleagues that Lusubilo had wrecked his life, that Zione had counted herself out of the cobweb of his romance.

“Jah man, does babylon arrest Jah people for impregnating girls?” the rasta aroused laughter in the cell, stabbing a hurriedly rolled cigar between his fat lips.

“You don’t understand rasta,” twin beads of tears rolled down his cheeks. “When Zione smashed the newspaper with the message on my desk I went mad, dead mad. I bought three bottles of bears, quickly drained them then drove to Lusibilo’s house. I smashed her with a bottle on the forehead. I left her bleeding and uncounscious. That is the crime I have committed.”

He knew he would lose his job. Being the programme manager for the Commission for the Advancement of the Rights of Women he had acted unethically. By hurting a woman he had rendered his job useless. His greatest worry was the media. Definitely, his story would be the lead article on the next day.