For two months, people dropped dead like flies. Death smells like stewed fruit, sour milk, wet wood. There was a strange feeling to everything, like resolution unpixelating. Life holds you up to the light elements of the universe and exposes you as monumentally small and susceptible, in a constant wait for your fate.
The scream had been Ben’s. His was a hollering scream, a wailing scream, a something-from-the-pit-of-your-guts scream. The sort that shudders through tunnels and bubbles up mud. It felt like insect wings and cobwebs. It had the brute strength of elephants. It was a hard sound to forget.
A villager dead from meningitis (so it turned out to be). And what happened was this: Ben came across a body that was cold but not too cold, lips pale as candyfloss but not yet blue. Nobody knew why she had crawled out of bed, why she had dragged herself by the hands and knees into their yard. People debated it over breakfast, coffee breaks, the ever-churning pizza oven.
It worked out strangely well for Marcus. Everybody seemed to forget his psychotic wanderings; his peculiar puberty ritual, his symbolic rite of passage (at the tender age of twenty-nine). There was a new conversation on their lips. People recited facts that they had read online: the average life expectancy, the HIV crisis, the changing seasons. It tainted them all, and a foreboding hung about them, like the very air itself was made up of malevolence and trickery.
One day, he saw Stephanie sitting on the veranda, quietly watching – what? What was it? She was staring at something intently. Occasionally she would sigh and gather her shawl around her. She’d probably call it a ‘pashmina’. But Stephanie was definitely the kind of woman who wore shawls.
Everybody had gone to schools, to their projects on the periphery of the villages or elsewhere. The camp was silent, except for non-human noise.
Marcus had escaped teaching that day by playing his ‘recovery’ card. He felt a little odd, he might stay back – it wasn’t fair to the children, etc., etc. They were all so terrified of mental illness, of the unpredictability of emotions, that they gawped and nodded, not knowing which words to speak, what they could possibly say. This worked in his favour.
Now he had Stephanie to himself. He approached her, quietly, he didn’t know why. He wanted perhaps to startle her at the last possible moment, to gain her utmost attention in a concentrated second.
She jumped.
‘Marcus! Oh my word.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I forgot you were here.’
‘I stayed behind, remember? I wasn’t feeling too great.’
‘You’ve got to be careful. Don’t push it.’
‘Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Relapse and all that.’
‘Exactly. May I sit down?’
Her eyebrows shot up, she blinked several times in succession. ‘Sure.’
He dragged out a chair and planted himself down.
‘Beautiful day,’ she said, panicking at the prospect of sustained conversation.
‘Well,’ he considered. ‘It’s a bit like any other day.’
‘Well. I suppose so. But… Warmth, sun. It’s a rare thing in England sometimes.’
Pause. ‘I’ve always wondered why people associate sunshine with happiness. What makes this a “good” day and not a bad one? What makes it beautiful? Is it a rush of vitamin D? A serotonin boost? Is it social conditioning? Isn’t there something beautiful about mist, as well? Snow, rain, fog? What is “beauty”, anyway?’
‘Well,’ she said, flustered. ‘I hadn’t quite thought of it like that.’
‘What is this meaning we give to a blue sky? What is this human element that we project on to it? Because it’s just a sky without any cloud in it. It’s just a colour. It’s still just the carapace of a void. And why are clouds bad? Clouds signal rain. Rain helps our crops grow…’
‘We could certainly do with some rain here.’
‘It’s too simplistic to say that these constructs of beauty–’
‘I was just making conversation,’ she snapped. ‘My god.’ she instantly regretted the outburst. She bit her lip and turned to him, anxious, scouring his face for any hurt or outrage. On the contrary, he looked quite chipper.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, anyway. ‘I’m a bit tired.’
‘Thinking about the villager? The one who died?’
‘Yes.’ She continued, despite herself. ‘She’s the first person I’ve known to die here.’ Then she trailed back off. He counted to ten. She still didn’t speak.
‘Stephanie?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been meaning to say. I still want to go back soon.’
‘Back?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh yes. Yes. Right. You said. That’s right…’
‘I don’t think this is quite what I expected,’ he said, gesturing around, at the ether itself.
‘Oh right.’ What did you expect, she thought (to borrow Kondwani’s favourite phrase); but she let the thoughts circle around in her mind, her lips lowered like a lid on a boiling saucepan.
‘And the whole… malaria thing. Apparently you can get flare ups. It takes a while for those drugs to leave your system. I’d really feel much happier at home, surrounded by – you know, mod cons, technology, normal 21st century stuff.’
That isn’t normal for most of the planet, she thought – but, again, she said nothing. She held herself tight.
‘And it makes sense to go back now – just before Christmas. It’s really weird to be out here, with all this tinsel and fake snowflakes sprayed on the windows. Honestly, I think I’d rather go back.’
After a few seconds of processing, Stephanie said: ‘We can help you book your flight. But it’s going to cost a lot to fly back at this time of year. And you will have to pay Kondwani a flat fee to take you to the airport.’
The thought of the camp disintegrating, of the camaraderie ebbing. Everyone was a bit spooked, already; people acting as if meningitis was something you could catch, like measles. What if they all packed up now, what if she never saw Kondwani again?
‘Can I persuade you to stay, though?’
‘Persuade? God, no. Sorry. I’m made up.’
‘Well, I respect that. I do. But it’s just… We have so much to do. So much to accomplish. We promised the village–’
‘I appreciate that, but–’
‘What if we paid you? I mean, it wouldn’t be much. But it would be something. As a token for your time. You couldn’t tell the others. It would have to be a secret. I’d clear it with Philippa. I’d find a way to…’
He hadn’t thought about money for a while. Money. That golden ticket. The piece of paper that justified everything, which could fool you into thinking that you were living your life well, that you were achieving your goals.
‘Couldn’t you just stay for a month? With us paying you, a bit. And then see how you feel? We can achieve so much, I know that we can. But if we all disperse…’
‘Can’t you just get some more volunteers?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. We have to get people visas, sort out their flights, make sure they get their jobs. We have to fill out forms, do checks on insurance. We have to train them. We’re only a small group. We are such a small charity. Every day is a battle, a battle to survive. To achieve what we set out to achieve. Please.’
‘Money would help,’ he admitted. ‘I could be earning big bucks at home. This would be… a kind of compensation.’
She blinked a few times. ‘Well, like I said, it wouldn’t be much.’
‘But something. That’s good.’
‘And the children have gotten to know you. Have you gotten to know them?’
He shrugged. ‘They’re just children. They seem nice enough.’
This time she didn’t blink. She stared at him for several moments, her eyes wide and her pupils constricted. ‘Can I say something?’
He waved his hand to signal consent.
‘You don’t fit the profile of our usual volunteer.’
‘Oh? What’s that, then?’
‘Well,’ she floundered. ‘Liberal, humanitarian, compassionate…’
‘Compassionate?’
‘Sorry, I suppose that’s too strong. But you know the type. I’m the type. Feeling guilty at the state of this world, this terrible burden on your shoulders.’
‘Guilt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Guilt.’ He pushed the seat back away, stood up from the thighs, so his torso and shoulders stayed rigid. ‘I don’t feel any guilt. Why should I?’
‘Well, that’s kind of what I meant.’ She hesitated.
He mumbled something inaudible, his eyebrows hunched down to the bone. ‘I’ll stay for a month,’ he said, and walked back to his room. But today he found the peace too disturbing, and he popped in his headphones and shut out everything but songs: singing along to the lyrics so there was no room for the words in his head.
#
It was a good month. It’s true that the skies stayed dry and the crops stayed shrivelling. An unspoken panic true enough to cause some villagers to creep around the pizza oven, clumsy hands held out for charity, knowing what it was like to starve hollow and desperate because nothing would grow. And it’s true that everyone thought about that young woman and her early demise, although improbable that anyone missed her. They’d already forgotten her name.
But Marcus had a good month. He found their Christmas to be surprisingly fun. He didn’t usually like Christmas because his father had died just before it, on the way to buy presents. Marcus had badgered him all year for a PlayStation, he just had to have one, he’d gone on and on about it for weeks. So after that, he never really liked tinsel or crackers or mincemeat. Yet he decided to treat this one like it was just an extra-colourful party, of the ilk he’d had in student days. Cheap bottles of wine and silly, flirtatious games. It all ebbed away in an indulgent blur.
He also enjoyed the teaching, in a way, now that it was ‘work’ and earning a wage. Even the children were growing on him, you could say – there was something of him in them, an eagerness to learn, to try and be something, do something. Of course, in other ways, they were different – they seemed to have everything figured out much better than he did. They seemed to know a secret in life that they would not share. They stared at him sometimes, and did not look awkward when he returned their gaze. They just kept on staring.
Best of all, Marcus was now sleeping again: deep, restful sleeps with normal, colourful dreams. He ate a lot of pizza from the pizza oven. He’d always loved pizza. And he made an almost friend, a buddy: Chris. They bonded over a competitive tournament of charades on Boxing Day – both on the winning team, no less. It was funny because Marcus hadn’t spoken to Chris before that moment, but he discovered that Chris was in finance, too; that he was doing this trip as part of some elaborate favour to his boss. Playing the long game on the court of promotion. Marcus understood and related to those reasons. Although even Chris could be a touch too pious sometimes, and a bit of a pussy (a teetotaller, non-smoker, strictly faithful to his girlfriend back home), he was perfect for a touch of kick ball or a chat about women (which he grudgingly gave in to, after a little persuasion… And turned out to be as lascivious and perverted as the best of them). His biggest asset was his willingness to talk. Pretty much everyone ignored Marcus completely – whether for his mental hiccup or for something else, he didn’t quite know. But he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Which he told Chris repeatedly, as they lay in the sun. Chris would just murmur or nod or offer reassurances to the contrary. Marcus didn’t care for this half of the conversation: it was the talking he savoured. Luckily, Chris was weak and genial. It was a good month for Marcus.
One small annoyance was the day he drew short straws with Annabelle to stay behind and man the camp, while the others went off on a boat trip excursion along the Shire River, the day before New Year. He had been desperate to leave these confines, to try to capture some kind of holiday feel. People came here on holiday. There must be fun, ‘holiday’ things to do, besides swatting mosquitoes and sweeping up dust.
‘It’s full of hippos, anyway,’ said Annabelle, as she stretched out her legs and opened up a book. ‘They’ll probably all be killed. Then we’ll be pleased we drew the short straws, won’t we?’
‘Oh god,’ he drawled. ‘Do you have to turn everything into a silver fucking lining?’
‘Yup.’ She said this with a proud tone, but nonetheless drew her legs up to her chest, and sucked in her lips so she looked sort of hurt.
‘Are you fucked off with me?’
‘Nope.’
‘If you are, can you just say so, instead of moping around all day?’
She lowered her sunglasses. ‘Would you be sorry if I was?’
‘I wouldn’t be sorry, but I’d be relieved to know where I stood.’
‘Oh great. I’m so desperate to relieve you of this burden and not even get an apology for it.’
‘Yep. You’re fucked.’
‘Oh–’ she began, and flung down the book.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You were about to say “fuck off” to me, weren’t you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t sink to that.’
‘You were, too!’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You really were.’
‘I don’t think I was, actually.’
‘You know what?’ she said, now shoving the book across the table… ‘I’ve been so nice to you. Why do you have to say such mean things all the time?’
‘I wasn’t trying to be mean. You’re just always so… Upbeat.’
‘I’m not upbeat!’
‘You are. You’re always upbeat and smiley and optimistic and super nice.’
‘Why are you spitting out those words like they’re bad things?’
‘I just don’t get how somebody can be that way for twenty-four hours a day. You must be acting or something.’
‘Me? Acting?’ Her eyebrows trapezed across her forehead. ‘You’re the one who is acting. Trying to be sane when you’re clearly mentally ill!’
He put his book down. ‘That’s better. Some truth at last.’
She looked away, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. That was super harsh.’
‘It’s OK. I don’t care what people think of me.’
‘Well, I wish I could be like that.’ Her eyes went dreamy. ‘I always anticipate judgment.’
He could see the plan to read was suspended. He lay down and closed his eyes. ‘Hence the super-niceness, then. You’re trying to get everyone to like you.’
‘No, I don’t think I’m doing that, Dr Freud! Maybe I’m trying to like… Oh, this is getting too personal. And I can tell that you’re bored.’
‘I’m not bored.’
‘You’ve got your eyes closed.’
‘I’m just blocking everything out. Focusing on your words.’
‘Really?’ Her voice was incredulous but soft, pert…
‘Yeah. Whatever.’ She was so easy to win over. Nancy at least had more dignity. She’d have kicked him in the balls by now.
‘Well. Anyway. It was strange at school yesterday. Wasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean? No, not particularly.’
‘An odd atmosphere, I mean. When Blessings asked us about Britain.’
‘Why was that weird?’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Right… Well, it didn’t matter. I jumped in.’
‘Yes, but then you just started talking about Nando’s and high streets and binge drinking and iPhones…’
‘So?’
‘So, it was strange. I could tell the children were baffled. Just completely astounded. Trying to imagine this land where everyone can ride into these giant supermarkets and you have all these motorways and cars and central heating and office blocks. All those things we take for granted.’ She gestured towards the generator. ‘Electricity, I mean. Turning on the light like it comes out of nowhere. Like it’s not even special.’
‘They have their cities. I mean, this lot don’t live there – but many do.’
‘But their idea of a city is nothing like ours. Compare Lilongwe to London! Come on! Think of the station, with those big piles of plastic. And that smell. That smell, like sweet and sour–’
‘Well, they’ve heard it all before. They know our country’s really rich and theirs isn’t. They know we have different lives.’
‘But didn’t you feel embarrassed when you were telling them that? Making the distinction out loud? I was curling up inside. I couldn’t even look at them. I felt really ashamed, Marcus.’
‘Why were you ashamed?’ He half opened his eyelids.
‘Because they know we’re all going to go back to that. That lifestyle. We’re just going to leave them floundering in this one.’
‘So what?’
‘I felt like a hypocrite. That’s all. None of them have anything to eat right now. The soil’s rubbish, they’re out of fertiliser. It’s not even raining, is it? I’m a hypocrite to even be here.’
‘A hypocrite?’
‘Yes, a fraud.’
‘You’re mad. They’d go back to Britain if they could. They’ll probably try to sneak under the back of our aeroplane, tie themselves to a wing. They don’t blame us for it. Why should we? What are you going to do, stay out here indefinitely, out of some twisted sense of guilt? Just count yourself lucky.’
‘But that’s all that divides us, then. “Us” and “them”. Luck?’
‘Well…’ He considered a fuller reply, but trailed off. ‘Then you get into politics and shit. It depends on your ideologies, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure it does.’ Her voice was sad and broken. ‘I don’t think it has anything to do with that. I think you were right the first time. It’s luck. Historical luck. And we’ve just exploited that, ever since. We had a good first hand and we’ve just exploited it.’
‘Come on. You’re beating yourself up for nothing.’
‘Well, I saw their faces when you were speaking. When I finally got the courage to look at them. And they just looked confused. I guess maybe some looked enchanted, like you were telling a fairy story. A children’s book or something. But a couple of them – including Blessings… They just looked sad. Defeated, I guess. Defeated and resigned and all given up inside. I could see it hit them. This awful sad anger. Thinking about how the rest of the world lives. All these things they’ll never have. All these things we take for granted.’
‘Of course they can have it! They just need to grow their economy. Sort out their shit. Stop lazing around and believing in witchcraft.’
She swivelled her eyes, tough as two pricks of frost. ‘You don’t seriously believe that?’
‘I do.’
‘These countries can’t get rich as long as we keep feeding our greed.’
‘Wow. Everyone has an agenda, don’t they? Yours is communism and self-flagellation.’
‘Most of the world can’t live like we do. We live in our little bubble and we talk about the new millennium and the 21st century. We say, “Ooh, are we all going to ride hover cars in fifty years time?” “Ooh, are we going to invent some injection which means we’ll all live forever?” “Ooh, isn’t the internet great?” “Isn’t progress great?” We think that everyone lives like we do. But they don’t. The majority of the world does not. We’re the elect. We’re the elite. And that’s just how this shitty world runs. They’re condemned from birth.’ Her voice rose higher. ‘What are we educating them to be, Marcus? Tell me.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘We’re going into these schools, we’re teaching them stuff. What are we educating them to be? When the best most of them can hope for is to maybe work as a cleaner or in a shop. Maybe get married in a year or two, if you’re a girl. Or maybe just fall under the radar and belong to nowhere at all.’
‘They’ve got hospitals, nurses. They need nurses.’
‘Most of those kids won’t even get to go to secondary school. They know this. You know this. And even if they do, come on, their prospects aren’t great.’
‘That’s the problem with you lot. You cry about all these injustices and you don’t realise that you’re the one that’s being bloody patronising. Maybe they’re happy how they are. Maybe they’re doing all right.’
‘But they don’t know any better.’
‘But you’re basically admitting that our economic system is the best one. That it’s good to live in a major capitalist country. And, by the way, there’s plenty of poverty in our own country if you wanted to look for it…’
‘This has nothing to do with being anti-capitalist, Marcus. This is to do with how capitalism works in a rich country and how capitalism works in a poor one. There’s not enough to go around. Don’t you get that? We sit there and educate them and it’s the wrong kind of education. What they need is a wake-up call.’
‘Yes, let’s get them to revolt! Just what the world needs – another loony country that hates us.’ He was getting carried away on the wave of his rhetoric. ‘I’ll tell you what we need. What would be good. More war. Let’s have more war! More revolution. There’s not enough war in the world.’ But he looked over at Annabelle and she wasn’t even really listening to him anymore. She was slumped down with her lips stuck out. Her eyes dancing with indignation and tears.
He didn’t know whether to continue the argument, or if she needed a fuck, or if he should just walk away. At last, he broke the silence: ‘At least you’re not Miss Pollyanna for once. That’s worth missing hippos for. I mean it. It literally is.’
He caught her face. It slid between outrage and humour. She gave in to the latter and chuckled to herself and stared up at the clouds, while he picked up his book again. As he scuffed at the pages, she saw herself as a dot on an atlas, pinned to this sliver of a country; shaped like an intestinal worm, a throwaway thought, like it was tossed on the map, just the scraps of a meal.
A little later, on New Year’s Day, the second death showed up.
John, seven, was walking along the side of the road, taking his time, returning from bend-down market errands. These mobile markets slam-bang across different sections of the main road; wares spread so low on the ground that you have to creak your back to get a good look. When you finally lower yourself low enough, you have to sift through stacks of tat, rejected by every charity shop in the West. But one man’s tat is another one’s treasure, so the saying goes – and John had scored some superlative tat, as authorised by his father just an hour or two earlier.
Now the lights flickered out and John saw the start of his village. He was thinking about woodsmoke : and food : and stars : and the garlic gust of neem trees.
The truck skidded to the side and ripped John’s body in two. It flipped over and skated on its back for several metres, metal crunched up in a ball and glass smashed up into grit. Nobody got out because the passenger was dead and the driver was dying. He lived only five minutes more. There was not enough air in his lungs left to scream.
The news didn’t reach the village until the early hours of the morning. It came after countless pacing and retracing John’s steps. Torchlight stomped into barren corners. Tears were shed. Somebody told the father about the accident. The body had been taken to the hospital, they said. The father got into his car and drove to that hospital, where he identified some body parts as his son. He clutched the upper half of the body and he wailed like a baby, trying to squeeze whatever life really is back into that child-size skull. He didn’t leave the hospital until he was certain that the tears had dried up. He had to be strong for his family. He had to wear his face like a mask.
When Kondwani returned to the village, he sat for a few minutes in the car with the engine left running. There can be comfort in mechanical sounds like cars or aeroplanes or radio static. It’s the sound of automata; white-noise balm for the ceaseless babble of brain fizz. He lit a cigarette.
When Dziko saw the cigarette, she sank to her knees and screamed. Kondwani didn’t smoke. Nobody really smokes cigarettes in Malawi, although most of the population depends on tobacco farming to survive. But a previous charity worker – long since returned to home comforts – had given him this particular pack as a gift.
At the time, he told his wife: ‘I will save these for a rainy day.’ He had caught the English expression, and he liked to say it often. ‘Is today a rainy day? No, not today.’ Or: ‘Yes, the sky is raining, but it isn’t a rainy day, is it, my love?’ And: ‘Let’s hope that rainy day never comes, love. Thanks to God, thanks to God.’
The smoke wound around his body and rolled through the car like a ghost snake.
He stayed like this – his hand poised in the air, the vapour biting and stinging and pricking his face – as he watched his wife screaming and beating the ground, his other children swirling about her, upset and uncertain. When some villagers came to hold her and move her away, she looked up into his eyes and he took a deep drag and slowly shook his head and held his breath without coughing.
The mourning lasted for days. The family gathered on the side of the road, outside the house. Dziko wailed. Branches were spread on either side of the road, so people could spot the residuum of death. Friends of the family sometimes sat with the family, sometimes slept among them. At different points, the charity workers themselves – friends of Kondwani – sat beside him and stammered out platitudes. He nodded and grunted but never replied. He wanted to sit very still, in silence, as robust as a statue; not a frail straw body, all stuffed out with pain.
Stephanie was one of the first to sit with him. She was terrified of Kondwani’s face. She was used to seeing it laugh and smile and joke and dance. To see a face like that turn as stock-still as stone was as shocking as seeing snow in the summer.
She whispered words of consolation and prayers of solace. She gave these mostly to Dziko. She hugged their children and held the baby. She leant towards Kondwani and gave him money for the funeral. ‘From the charity,’ she said. ‘On behalf of us all.’
He did speak then. He told her, thank you.
Dziko wailed and Kondwani looked up at the sky. When Dziko and the children went to a neighbour’s house for some food, Kondwani said he wasn’t hungry.
‘Can I stay with you a bit longer?’
Stephanie watched the family trail off; Dziko staggering into the shadows.
‘Yes. But no talk.’
‘We don’t have to talk.’
‘I remember fact in your book,’ he said.
‘Book?’
‘About Malawi.’
‘What, the charity leaflet?’
He shrugged. ‘I remember. One in thirteen children die before birthday number one. One in seven not go to five. This is Malawi. This is my country. This, my dead child. How many more?’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No more talk,’ he said, irritably, as if Stephanie had started it. ‘No more talk.’ Then he said: ‘Is everyone gone?’
‘Your family’s eating dinner. There’s nobody here.’
‘Hold me.’
She blinked.
‘Hold me. Please.’
Her arms were stiff and awkward as she enveloped his thick, broad chest. She rested her chin on his shoulder. He writhed around in her clinch and barked. It felt like an exorcism. The back of her top was soaked. It was a terrible thing and yet she was happy. She wanted someone to press the pause button. But nobody pressed it, and life went on; those minutes, those hours, those days. Of course, the embrace had to end. That day had to end. All lives have to end. There is always an end.
But Marcus wasn’t at the end, just yet. He tailspinned into a new chronic state. Anxiety feels like you have metal in your lungs. Something cold and hard swells up from the gut and lodges in your centre. Your breath cannot flow through it. It has to stagger around. It jumps up for air in these stop-start spurts.
He remembered that god-awful DJ on the radio. The middle-of-the-road voice, geographically unidentifiable, all smooth and neutral and the consistency of milk. He remembered her eyes blinking in the rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the driveway, that thick blonde hair… A hand reaching up to scrub away surface tears. The buzz of the door. The police saying those words, the world ripping at the seams, nothing quite holding it up. Her body now somewhere along the West Coast. Was it even a body or was it just dirt? How long does a body take to decompose? How long does it take until the face rubs out?
John’s death, the car accident… It brought it all back. This whole African episode had thrown him into a trance, into some wild distraction, and he had suddenly come to. He cried most nights for Nancy. Nancy – who died all those years ago. Who would get so very young as he got so old. Why the hell did he still care? He couldn’t talk to Kondwani; the pain reminded him too much of his own. He recognised that hunched-over back, eyes of horrifying blankness. He left him alone, and he grew very quiet, less cocksure, licking away at his wounds.
There was one particular night when a violent thought swung at him: he didn’t want to go home, after all. There wasn’t a home. At least here, in Malawi, there was diversion and routine and a sense that he mattered – that people depended on his efforts. He felt some dots joining up but they joined over his neck like a noose. He accepted this fate, pulled it tighter still.
He didn’t go to John’s funeral, but he heard from Dora and Annabelle and some others that it was surprisingly similar to western funerals. The village headman had notified surrounding villages, and the turnout was good. With help from the charity, John was able to lie in a coffin. People gave speeches, and sang, and read extracts from the Bible. It went on for hours, and Philippa said they were not expected to stay for it all.
‘I didn’t know they were Christian,’ he commented.
‘Most Malawians are Christians,’ said Dora. She curled her feet under her body, on the chair, the way children do. Her cheeks were flushed. She liked excitement and drama and the relaying of gossip; as if more people knowing something made it even more real. ‘Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you read the leaflet?’
‘What leaflet?’
‘The one on Malawi. The one in our welcome pack.’
‘I didn’t read the welcome pack.’
‘Oh Christ, Marcus, there was a whole profile in there. Well, most are Protestant but a few are Catholic. Can’t remember the exact percentage.’
‘So how can they believe in witchcraft? And things like that?’
‘I guess they just fit alongside each other. Some people might say turning water into wine sounds a bit like witchcraft. Like a magic trick.’
He rolled his eyes. Dora, always trying to sound so clever and grown up, with that punchable face, with that unlined skin. ‘Well, what about multiple wives? Like Useni? And some of the others?’
‘Kondwani had one wife.’
‘Yes, but some of them have more.’
‘Like I said, I think they adapt it.’
‘How convenient.’
‘Back to the funeral, Dora.’ Annabelle was in the corner, filling in her diary.
‘I don’t think Marcus even cares,’ she sighed, leaning back with folded arms.
‘Does every female in this camp have to be hormonal and aggressive?’ He thought of lovely pliable Lisa, growing thin and possessed.
‘You sexist shit. I’m not being aggressive!’
‘It was a nice send-off.’ Annabelle’s voice, low and flat. ‘Some of the songs were beautiful. One of his children sang. His older girl. I can’t remember her name. I don’t know what she sang but it was beautiful.’
‘A lot of the kids in the other village are Muslim. I saw the Koran in the classroom. A couple of the women wearing veils.’
‘Yes, there are Muslims in Malawi.’ Dora made an exaggerated sigh.
‘How does that work, then?’
‘I think it all works out fine, Marcus. Jesus! You get different faiths in the UK, for God’s sake. And not everyone is as backward as the States when it comes to views on Islam.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘They just get on with it. I don’t think there’s tension. I think there is less division between religions. It’s all just worshipping a god. As long as you do that, it’s fine.’
‘Kondwani is leaving.’ Annabelle shut her diary and sat up straight. ‘I heard Philippa telling Stephanie this morning.’
‘What, leaving the village?’
‘No, not the village. He won’t leave the village. The charity, I mean. He’s leaving the charity.’
‘What’s he going to do for a living?’
‘I don’t know. I just overheard.’
Dora’s eyes wide and unblinking, trying to swallow the facts. ‘Well, what did you hear?’
‘I just heard he was leaving. Really, that’s it.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know, Dora. I said I don’t know.’
‘OK. Tetchy!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Annabelle’s face went calm and affable. ‘Ugh, it’s been a really long day.’
‘It’s no longer than any other.’
‘Relativity, Dora, relativity.’ Marcus fired a disdainful glance. She screwed up her face and then got up and left. They both watched her go. Exchanging glances.
‘I don’t think she’s too happy with you.’
‘Why? Because of that? That was nothing. She’s going to have to tell families that their loved ones are dead when she grows up to be a doctor. She’s going to need thicker skin. She likes to get the last word. That’s all. She’s a baby who acts like she’s a fucking guru.’
Annabelle snorted. Then laughed. ‘You have an interesting way with words. It’s kind of nice to see your spark back.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve been quiet, lately. Not your usual self. If you know what I mean.’
‘I’m never the loudest. Dora is definitely louder. And don’t get me started on Toby…’
‘Quiet’s the wrong word. I mean – I don’t know… A bit more squishy.’
‘Squishy?’
‘Yeah, you seem a bit more delicate. In the last few days. Is it because of John and Kondwani?’
‘I’m not more “delicate”. Oh god, I need to find Chris…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I need some male conversation. I’m suffocating here.’
She swallowed. She was trying to swallow the anger. ‘Well, you’re in luck. I think dinner’s ready now, anyway.’
He followed her through to the veranda. By the time they reached the table, all the conversation had stopped. There wasn’t much to say these days. Some quiet buzz about the weather. The scraping of metal cutlery on ceramic plates. The hollow murmuring of approval for tasteless food.
Stephanie’s eyes were cast down throughout. She didn’t even look up when Philippa confirmed that Kondwani was leaving them. That he was taking a break. That they were flying over a new driver who wasn’t native Malawian; he was a second-generation Brit, but he still spoke Chichewa. He knew the culture very well. He visited often. He was delighted to join the charity. His name was Daniel. Etc., etc.
The next day stretched out like every other day. The intense sun bore down on them, like extra weight on their flesh. Dogs stopped running and sniffing and pissing in doorways. They lazed in the heat with their tails tucked under. Their bodies panting, thick tongues oozing out. Flip-flops kept whipping up the rubble into clouds. People staggered into their duties and chores. Heads jerked up at the sky, wondering when it would rain. It had to rain soon. It just had to, didn’t it?
‘What are they eating?’ asked Marcus. It was another day, at last. They were outside the village school, with the children running up to him and Annabelle: taking their hands and touching their clothes. They popped small white granules into their mouths like candy.
Abikanile shook her head. He didn’t understand the gesture.
‘They’ve got a lot of it,’ he added. ‘Considering the drought.’
‘It’s millet,’ she muttered, but then her face went puce. ‘It’s birdseed, you idiot. It’s fucking birdseed!’
It was the only time that anyone had heard Abikanile swear. The group hurried into the school, into the calm and orderly presence of Bertha, who never let feathers ruffle. She just sat there, stoic, as always. Annabelle had once caught her crying. She said it was just pellets of tears down an impassive face.
But there was more to come. The third death, a murder.
They knew something was wrong when the dogs stopped sitting and panting and basking in heat. They heard them howling, went over to look, and they were huddled in a pack, grinding up a corpse with their maws and their noses blood-wet.
People beat them with sticks, so they could drag the body to the side. They saw a stab wound in the stomach. The knife chucked away, just a few metres to the left.
The next morning, after a complicated tournament of ‘paper, scissors, stone’, Marcus set out to carry a gift to the grieving mother.
The village house was typical. No cement or brick, just basic mud. A thatched roof held up with sticks. Inside, some basic provisions. The colourful swirl of river clay adding extra decoration.
The mother sat with her hands clasped together and the stars in her eyes. He could not comprehend all the fire within her.
‘Hello,’ he said, uncertain.
‘Hello,’ she replied, before the translator could speak. ‘Hello.’ She knew that much. She split open her lips and her mouth was full of holes and charcoal gum. Her face stayed fixed and no more English fell out.
‘I am very sorry to hear of your loss.’ He waited for Abikanile to translate.
The woman stared at his face while Abikanile spoke – as if the words were still his voice. She closed her mouth and nodded.
‘My name is Marcus.’ He waited.
She mumbled something. ‘She is saying her name. You know her name, don’t you?’
‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘It’s Sigele.’
‘OK.’ He continued.
‘Sigele, we’ve brought you a gift from the charity,’ translated Abikanile. ‘We are all very sad that this could happen in such a beautiful village, full of such kind and wonderful people.’ He felt a little off-kilter for relaying such sentimental trifles, but the others had helped form these words, and he felt compelled to recite them.
The woman patted the wooden seat beside her. He offered the stool to Abikanile, but she refused. He sat down instead and surveyed the dust and dark before him.
The woman started to speak and Abikanile chirruped over her; towering above them, her hands on her hips.
‘She says that it is not the first murder.’
‘Really?’ He shuddered at this land’s barbarity; giving into a temporary amnesia of London and its back-alley stabbings and street-gang crime. ‘Well…’ He knew he was stepping outside of the boundaries, but it just seemed too tantalising. ‘And do you know why your son was murdered?’
The fire dimmed a little. ‘No, she does not know. She says she has her suspicions. There was a feud. But she cannot say any more.’ Abikanile waited, patiently, while the woman bubbled out sounds. ‘She says she wants the violence to end now. And also…’ She frowned. ‘She says it must have been God’s will. Her crying is done now. No more tears for what cannot be changed.’
He sat back. He thought of Nancy and the ten commandments. That all seemed so far away. All very petty and childish. The fish and the piss and the married woman. The hairs flinched up around him.
Sigele leaned forwards. She tapped him on the arm as she spoke.
‘She says that she has to trust in God. Death is everywhere. If he had not died of that, he might have starved. She is starving.’
‘She used that word? She didn’t say hungry?’
‘She used really hungry. It translates like starving.’
‘Well… That sounds like translator’s licence.’
Abikanile bristled. Meanwhile, the woman’s hard face twitched up and down. She murmured, inquisitive.
‘She wants to know what we’re saying.’
‘Say that I didn’t know that the village was as hungry as that.’
Abikanile translated. ‘She says that you can only live so long on grasshoppers and crickets and caterpillars. These things are tiny. But she’s excited that someone gave her a goat as a gift.’ Added as an aside – ‘For her grief.’ Then: ‘This is a great honour.’
Sigele’s hands fluttered around her like they were held up by string. Her lips smacked together. Her face shone with vigour.
‘She is telling the story of her son.’
‘Can you give me the highlights?’
They waited while the voice droned on. To him, it just sounded like clicks and tuts. Like a tongue in spasm.
Finally, silence. Sigele’s face darted up to Abikanile. There was a new loudness to it. He sensed she was irritated.
‘OK, she’s wondering why I haven’t spoken yet. So I’ll give you the “highlights”, as you put it. Her son was a taxi driver. A bicycle taxi. He drove people from village to village. He had the strongest legs you had ever seen. But, anyway, you wanted the highlights. He was a good boy, such a polite boy, blah blah blah. He saw and heard things on those bike journeys he should never have seen or heard. He would drive to the city. He would carry the money on him. He would give her nearly all the money. He loved her very much. He hardly ever spoke; for years, they thought he was a mute, they thought he might have been born the wrong way up. But he could speak. He just preferred to listen. And then there was some other stuff too, but to be honest, I’ve forgotten it now. It’s hard recapping this rather than speaking as she speaks. So there you have it. The story of her son. Voila.’
‘Are you angry about something?’ he asked, pulling the skin off around his fingernails.
‘Why would I be angry?’
Sigele started up again.
‘She said death stays with you always but you can learn to live with it. You must get rid of the blame, of the anger. You must live in the present.’
He didn’t know where it came from but his eyes watered up at that. Even Abikanile saw this, and her eyes opened wide. ‘So you’re human, after all.’
‘Shut up,’ he grimaced. He snorted back phlegm. Sigele’s face was twitching very close to him.
‘She asks if you are also sad about a loss.’
He didn’t want Abikanile there. He wanted her gone. For a moment, she was. He tried to block her out. ‘I have to confess something,’ he said.
‘What? Do you want me to translate that?’
He whispered something in Sigele’s ear. He started to cry.
‘Oh Marcus, keep it together, will you? What are you saying to her? She can’t understand you.’
Sigele’s face cracked into a smile. She spoke.
‘She’s just saying it was their time. God has a purpose. She lost her husband a few years ago. You have to trust God.’
This dried up his tears. He sat himself up. The poorer the people, the more they needed that myth. There has to be a reward in the next life! Oh, there just has to be! Otherwise, this crushing sense of unfairness would simply be too brutal. He wasn’t so fooled, anymore. Something had turned on the lights and she could not dim it. But he felt better for offloading his secret, so it wasn’t time wasted. There are all kinds of weights in this world and they are not all physical.
When he got back to the compound, they told him that they’d arranged a gaming excursion for Saturday. Philippa had organised it with a tour company – no doubt to fix the broken mood.
And it worked. Saturday was a riot of laughter and chitchat. The change of scene broke through, and the whole thing suddenly seemed like a break, a rest. Some tourists even tugged along in another truck: a jamboree of wealthy travellers and gap-year kids. They waved at each other and all whooped into unison.
The park spread before them seemed so much lusher than their village. So many shades of yellow and green. They didn’t know there were so many shades. The sky was the palest blue with a few tufts of slow cloud. In the distance were leopards. There was a yell from the back. The truck trundled onwards and they stumbled on buffalo. Then the biggest cheer of all gathered up for giraffes: peering into the treetops with sashaying necks. At the end, came a lion tearing up a gazelle. Nobody spoke. They wanted to look away, but they couldn’t. They all reached for binoculars and zoomed into the gristle.
It was a long day. Some were ready for an early bedtime; others lit up the fire and opened bottles of beer. They reminisced about the things they had seen. They swapped cameras to stare at photos; the confirmation that this had actually happened. They were united in an instant nostalgia.
In the distance were fishermen: lights twinkling on an endless lake. Male voices called across to each other. The sound of nets tossed into water. A kind of beauty in the pursuit of hunger, when it is framed like this. Marcus made his fingers into the square of a lens to catch it.
Perhaps it was the escapism of the day, or this sight, or the beer bubbling up in his stomach… But Annabelle had backache, and he murmured some suitably sympathetic words. He went to get her some beer. He even offered a massage. She politely declined, with a few blinks of surprise. Her whole body lifted, though, just for a moment, as she flashed him a smile. You can let someone up, as well as let someone down.