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Malawi, Moneysweet and Me:
Part Four
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We had to leave. The curse I had brought upon the Heyena gang would see the one commanding them sick very soon. And then they would come. When his Western medicines and witchdoctor remedies fail, he will throw everything at me, trying to get it taken off.
It is not good to have vulnerable people close to you then, when he is looking for leverage and a way to get that Amethyst gem into my right hand again. We had to leave.
On the way South, I stopped over at Jan van Staal. He had bow-hunters, Americans again. A charismatic pastor and his father in law. They sat in shelters next to a waterhole, with a radio and menu of what the animals cost. Comes a Zebra, look at the
price, let go, twang. Radio for Jan to come pick up the trophy, bring the video camera. Jan told me very sternly I was not to talk about salvation with the Pastor.
It is not hunting, and Pastors are tempting, but for once I was glad about them. They sat in the shelters all day, so Jan and I could talk. The Americans had brought their young grandson, so Jan was glad for my company. Even said that I could talk to him.
He had prepared Marog, so we were in for good fishing. I had Moneyweet out of sight, scouting and hawk-eyeing. Jan noticed.
Marog is kafferkoring, a type of African corn. You throw it in a drum, with yeast, water and some beer, close the lid and leave it for some time. When the lid pops the fish are hungry. I liked the young American boy. He was sharp, attentive and liked my
stories, so I told him that today was the day that we would teach him the Great African Secret of fishing.
Jan had some Tigerfish close by, in a river. They take your thumb off with one bite, so we wanted to catch some safe ones for the sake of the boy. It turned out the local Malawians did not know about the Great African fishing secret. Pity, because it cost
them dearly.
First Jan and me got the young Steve to fetch an Orange bag. Then we had him throw the oranges outside the camp on a sandy patch. We would see by the tracks what animals came around. But all the very ripe Kafferkoring went into the empty Orange Bag. We
stuffed it very full, took a line, and tied a broken Landrover piston to it.
After dropping the Faithful hunters at the Waterhole shelter, it was time to "fish," the river beckoned. We were there before any of the locals, as Jan dropped his hard currency hunters before day-break. -"Bloemps"- the bag went into the river. I had
Steve mark the spot well. After that it was time for him to go dig earth worms. He got a great many, and because he went close to the Buffulo droppings, some white "Miswurms" {dungworms} as well. We let him be even though everyone knows no
self-respecting African fish eats "miswurms". It gave us time to talk. Jan had heard about the rape and curse sign. Everyone had.
"Justice", he said, and told me what he knew. Turns out the border soldiers were the first the very next morning to see the sign. The could read and did not like it one bit -so they alerted their commanding officer. But he was African too, so he alerted
his commanding officer. By the time that that Officer had contacted the Chief Officer in the Capital, the border had been abuzz. Everyone saw and read the sign. Saw the Amethyst Stone as well. It glittered a lot.
The Chief Officer then told his Second in Command to get the sign taken out. And so the command went down the ranks again. But the young new recruit who saw it first, remained adamant that the Army should get a Sangoma, Witchdoctor, to do that. In any
case, he, the lowest ranking troop, would not pull the sign out. But the second lowest troop was welcome to do it, if an Army career was worth more than his life. But he, the lowest ranking troop, would not do it, and anyway, the Army could take a leap,
he had seen enough.
It came to be that the Chief Officer was very delicately and respectfully informed that there was a problem at the border, and couldn't he come down there, to personally supervise and manhandle the sign out of the ground. During all these respectful
negotiations, quite a few threats were made, butts kicked, scorn poured. Every career between the resigning lowest ranking troop and Chief Officer hung in the balance. The Curse sign, however, remained.
On the Zambian side of the border, the news spread just as fast. By the time Jan came to this part of what he knew, we had a great many earthworms, so I sent Steve to bring more Miswurms. They were easy to get, and it kept him busy.
Jan however, could only tell me that now, after three days, the sign had not been taken out yet. No, he didn't know when the Zambiano's would get a Soothsayer to go pull it out for them. It badly affected their reputation, them not taking it out
immediately. And it also stiired up a lot of anticipation around the fires at night. Everyone discussed it, me, the Zambiano's, Gemstones and the future. And then they decided to watch and see.
I wanted to put a price on the head of the rapist, but Jan advised againts it. It was a gang-rape anyway, and better to keep the fight between myself and the gang. Everyone were wondering what was to come, and repeated the curse to their visiting
relatives. Some were even in Government. I think only the Aid organisations and tourists did not know. The rest of local Africa, suddenly became spectators. "They would follow the outcome." Jan frowned, upon saying that, looked up at me from his fishing
tackle, and said that he would be waiting for me to call on him. "I'm a white African," he said, and smiled. We called Steve to come fish.
The locals started arriving, pointing at me and throwing in their lines. Seems our little group was flavour of the month. I got Steve a line and hook ready, and showed him how to put an earthworm on the hook without most of your thumb added as bait. Jan
looked at me, speculating I could see, but grateful enough for taking the young American off his hands. He was a hunter, not nanny. But I liked Steve anyway, and kept an ear open for Monesweet's bird calls. Everything was still fine.
We had Steve throw in the first line on purpose. By that time the scent of the Marog had spread far enough downstream, and we had a few schools around. I guess you can say their mouths were "watering" in anticipation of the feast that the Marog scent
promised. The Orange bag leaked just enough corn granules to keep the feeding frenzy and competition fierce, without satisfying a single fish.
"Steve," I said, "today Uncle Justice is going to teach you the Great Secret of African fishing. And about life." Steve, the young American, smiled wickedly, and started reeling in. The fish were hungry. It was a good thing that we had so many earth and
dung worms, because as soon as our lines and bait hit the water above the Marog bag, we would score a bite.
It was only after a few frantic and excited minutes of this great reaping of the fishing harvest, that we noticed the reaction of the other African Anglers. Their heads were following the arch of every line, hook and sinker. When Jan and I realised what
they must have been thinking, we looked at each other and chuckled. We also decidied to keep up the Charade for appearances sake.
.
This Steve was sharp, as I said, and American. So when we had a heap of fish in the net, and no worms left, he decided that the day was still young, and that African dung worms still many. As he went to the drinking place with the buffulo dung, he saw all
the Africans staring at him. Their number had swelled by that time, surpassing the number of local fisherman of the surrounding villages. The word had spread, no doubt.
But even Jan and I could hear them gasp when Steve started throwing white dung worms into that glass bait bottle. For everyone knows that African fish don't eat dung-worms. The small angling crowd on the other side of the river was stretching their necks
excitedly to see what was going on. But Steve was American as I said, and I guess he must have grown up as a preacher's kid in his father's ministry. He basked in all the attention, undaunted, thinking that everyone was amazed by his bait finding
abilities.
He then held out a worm to a wrinkled, white-haired old Angler. The man held his cupped hands out, too amazed to speak. I must admit that I'm mighty glad he didn't put that magic worm on his hook, because it would have been a great anti-climax. He must
have kept it as Muti--powerful white man medicine. But that young American brought our morning fishing to an end soon after that though.
The one moment we were still pulling out fish with every throw, and the next we were in business with an empty river bank across from us. Now, thinking back, I must admit that I'm slightly worried about Steve's father's ministry. I mean, with him seeing a
business opportunity as fast as he did. But maybe he is just American, and I'm too suspicious after my own American Bible School experience.
But this young Steve, started selling fish. Now the strange thing is that with every fish he also gave away one white dung worm. I had the distinct impression that it was the dung-worms everyone lined up to buy a fish for. And it was a long line, with
women and children vying for position at the back. And clever Jan, when we decided to go, walked a reverent five paces behind me, very solemnly. But he always was a cunning bastard. It was Moneyweet though, who must have been the most relieved to see us
go.
In the Land Rover, Steve was counting his Malawian Kwachas. He sold a fish a kwacha, very cheap. But then again, he had a rather great many fish to start with, and if Jan had not rescued our dinner, we would have had none. "Now that was fun," he said.
Both Jan and myself bursted out laughing, giving great hearty guffaws. And then it was like when a diesel engine's battery goes flat. We laughed slower and slower and stopped altogether. Moneysweet's radiated seriousness brought reality to bear. The
people like ourselves, with dirt between the toes, were taking the curse situation very seriously. But the ones of power themselves, now they were another matter. And they were watching me very intently.
When a Rhino bull is thirsty, he may walk through another bull's marked territory to go drink at the river or waterhole. But he may not even glance at the Rhino cows, in the other bull's territory though. So he will keep his head down, look straight ahead
and so is not attacked. There is a time for war, and for contention, but there is something bigger and greater than all of us. And for Rhino's, that is water.
It brought me some joy, relating to you the story so far. But it also brings back memories, and not everything is healed or pleasant. Crocodiles underwater I can live with, it is the other things that worry me, without crocodile's eyes. There are things
you need to know, to really know, and I'm not keen to tell. Especially about myself and what happened. And the eyes always tell, even if it is through another's.
The Internet can be too great an African drum, I think. And that is dangerous, for it reaches further than the number of drummers would suggest. Even right back to you. And sometimes, it reaches so, that you wonder from just how far that message really
came. And sometimes it is as ifit is from a lot further than just the other side of the earth.
An Elephant. The Zambiano's wanted to poach an Elephant. Every time after they have shot an Elephant, it would be told by the African Drums. Thumbpa thumpa thumbb... The people come, and after the Anti-Poaching units have taken the have taken the
remaining spoor, cut and distribute the meat. Among the local Villages of course, the ones who suffered most from crop damage. But the Zambiano gang did a lot of poaching, and it was drummed out, every time a new carcass was found. Even if it is
too late for the meat. So we got to know the message for an Elephant kill, as we sat, and we listened. Even a white man would know it after a while, for it speaks to the heart. And when an Elephant turned on the Zambiano gang, it was just the
same, the message thumped from the drums. Only it was the other way around.
Selah.
And that is not a little something that slipped out every time one of David's harpstrings broke, Selah. But it did save my life, I think, looking back on it. The trampling to death of three of the Zambiano Heyena gang, I mean. From the cartridges,
73 shots were fired into the Elephant. But it was fired in the wrong direction, and anyway, bullets don't help. And didn't. The 5 ton Elephant had enough power to run in and severly maul one of the remaining poachers. Mauled just enough to be severly
crippled, but alive enough to tell the tale. Of how they stood up the Elephant, and it turned against nature while they were down wind, and charged. They were caught, and though they fired, it did not want to die, unlike any other Elephant they had
poached before. This he swore to the Police and Red Cross personnel.
And when the charge kept coming, and the trumpeting Thundered although they were all shooting, he wanted to run. They all wanted to, he said, but they couldn't. And it was as if his gun kept shooting slower and slower, so he left it to run away. But
he couldn't, he swore, the medicine power of the Elephant
was too strong, his legs wouldn't work, and he saw his friends die, he said. Only after he saw the Elephant kill his friends, did his legs work again. And if the Elephant did not die, after running him in, and kneeling on his legs like that, he
would have died. It was only the very tusks he came to poach that saved his life, because as everone heard, it kept the head of the Elephant from fully resting on him.
If you know Elephants, you will wonder. Because they are very intelligent animals, and can be very dangerous and cunning. Ruthless too, especially the Matriarch. But I think that the people from this region know Elephants. But then, they know of
curses too.
Do you really think that a single young white man, can hold off encroaching poacher-miners for long? Especially if they are the grass-root pawns of someone very much higher, and more corrupt. Men of power and stature, and ruthless in nature and
office. Maybe in America, I don't know. But here in Africa
opposition is taken out very quickly and effectively. And the people making these decisions are the same ones who see to the dearth of political opposition.
The Semi-beer Marog fishing miracle might have convinced a few African villagers and fisherman, but it takes more than that to stay alive up against the people really behind the poaching and illegal mining. The gruesome down-wind trampling of the
Zambiano gang, however, made the immovable men of power hesitate a moment. It saved my life, coming within a week of that much talked about curse sign. But I had called it out, and knew it would. I just didn't know if I would be around to see it
manifest.
It is twenty after midnight, typing this, and I want to go now. If I write much more now, this fiery annointing in my belly will keep me up all night. Enough said. It is not good to stir up sleeping dogs. Or annointings and your own spirit for
that matter, and I have spoken enough for now.
Blessings.
Justice
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Copyright, 1997 by Justice Malanot
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Justice Malanot is traveling this month and will return in a few weeks. The next installment of Malawi, Moneysweet and Me will be in the July issue of The Eclectic Lapidary. Messages for Justice may be sent to gemaco@bovagems.com and will be delivered
upon his reconnection to the Internet.
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