Notes From The Gutter

The charcoal story

Liberal Republicans, the other day I again found myself by the roadside near Chileka Roundabout in Blantyre, flagging down vehicles for a lift to Lilongwe. All sorts of vehicles—from privately owned to those from mainstream public service—stopped by.

The scores of us waiting for lifts staged fights for space once a vehicle that stopped to pick up passengers. I had made it into one vehicle and was about to start exploring the comfy leather-coated backseat when the driver barked at the three of us in the rear.

“Sindinaimire inuyo koma chemwali avala zofiirawo” he said, seemingly enjoying watching us troop out in utter dejection.

My luck came with a Toyota Corolla without a registration number. The driver stopped by and waved at me invitingly. He had mistaken me for someone else he knew from his childhood days.

By the time he found this out, we had done a kilometre or two and there was no harm in taking me the rest of the way.

As is the tradition, the driver and I stopped at roadside markets to buy essentials that sell at exaggerated prices in the Capital City. The first stop was along the Phalula M1 stretch where the driver bought two bags of charcoal. Then the shopping went on.

We spent the next 15 kilometres sharing how the ‘quality’ of charcoal has gone down in the last few years. The pieces in the bags were no more than little charred twigs.

Courtesy of the wanton cutting down of trees in the last 20 years, there are no more fully grown trees to fell for charcoal. The hills and mountains are now bare.

The driver regretted the bare mountains, but wondered—with the frequent power outages today—how far a law-abiding citizen could look away from buying charcoal. The worst is yet to come and some effects will be felt for many years to come.

Approaching Dedza, a big-bellied uniformed police officer signalled us to the roadside. We conveniently drove off the road and stopped about five metres from where he stood.

We watched him wobble the five metres as if it was a journey of eternity.

From about a metre from the driver’s door, he lifted his hand in a half-meant salute.

“Mwaswera bwanji bwana?” the officer buttered his salute with a reluctant greeting.

“Ndilipo, kaya inu?” the driver retorted.

“Mwatalikira?” the officer asked.

“Ayi ndithu. Wa pa Lilongwe pompa apa,” said the driver.

“Tingaone nawo kumbuyoko, bwana?” the officer inquired.

“Masukani bwana,” the driver obliged, the latch of the trunk clicking as it opened.

The driver asked me to alight with him in case there were issues with my items in the trunk.

For another eternity, we waited for the uniformed officer as he snailed his way to the back of the vehicle.

Like a forensic expert going through clues at a scene of a president’s shooting, he physically examined the contents of the trunk. He scrutinised the tomatoes, onions, potatoes and back to the bags of charcoal which he now prodded with his index finger.

“Muli ndi kalata ya a za nkhalango?” he asked, now trying to look more serious.

The driver smiled and just showed an identity card to the officer. The officer promptly froze into a statue, his arm raised in the best of salutes.

We started off with that part of the forest lying lifeless in the trunk, waiting to be set on fire one more time, courtesy of incessant power outages.

As you read, more and more bags are still being saluted to their destinations. n

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