Why art thou so quiet, Macra?

Roselyn, Jean-Philippe and I attempted to drive to the Kayekera Uranium mine. We did not make it.  For the first time, I saw Jean-Philippe’s face turn red like a ripe tomato from Chiradzulo.  Initially, I thought he had inhaled uranium dust.  But I learned later that all white people develop red faces when they get extremely angry.  He shouted and swore at will and at a frequency I cannot describe. Roselyn tried to cool him down, but the son of a Frenchman could not be controlled.  I advised Roselyn to leave him alone for a while since every angry person finds time to cool down and smile. Trying to cool down an angry person encourages that person to keep pretending he is angry.

“But he is your friend,” Roselyn protested.

“That’s why I advise you to leave him alone. He is an adult and he knows that we are not adult-sitters.”

“Adult-sitters?” Roselyn queried.

“The opposite of baby sitters,” I said before addressing Jean-Philippe directly, “Are you with us or you are not? Stop behaving like a petit baby.”

“Maybe he needs susa and matoke,” Roselyn suggested.

That was enough. Jean-Philippe smiled. I smiled. Roselyn, too, smiled.  I told him that having car breakdowns is not a strange phenomenon in Malawi.

“But we need someone to fix it so that we go on to the uranium mine,” Jean-Philippe said, his expression barely concealing his anger.

“Okay. Let me give it try,” Roselyn proposed.

“Can you repair a car?” I asked.

“Why not?  Because I am woman?”

“Where did you learn motor vehicle mechanics?” Jean-Philippe asked, smiling as he walked to the boot of the Toyota Harriet.  He came back with an assortment of tools.  Roselyn asked me to open the bonnet. I did. She looked at the engine without touching anything. She asked me to crank the engine. The engine started, but when I pressed down the accelerator, the engine could not respond.

“I suspect the car has been bewitched,” I joked.

“Bewitch a car? How is that possible?”

“Magically,” Roselyn said.

“Do you really believe that crap?” Jean-Philippe asked amidst bursts of laughter.

“Did you say crap?” Roselyn asked, “I hope you only say that amongst us. If you want to go back to France intact stop making empty challenges about witchcraft.”

“Nothing can happen to me,” Jean-Philippe challenged.

“Well, here, magicians can remove all your bones from your body, keep them away for a number of days or months and bring them back unto your body later.”

“So, what happens to my body?  Just a collection of susa mince-meat?” Jean-Philippe asked and laughed even louder.

“Keep joking and laughing; but even George Thindwala, that atheist, fails to intervene in Karongian witchcraft,” Roselyn said, before asking me to kill the idling engine and restart it. No change.

“I suspect the injectors are dirty. When was this car last serviced?”

“Last year,” I said.

“And you have travelled on dirt roads, mud roads, stone roads, fresh-tar roads, and you never cared to have the car serviced?”

“You don’t service a car that functioning perfectly. Do you?”

“I think we should just ask for another vehicle. This time we should try out a Nissan Nevarapine. How much airtime do you have in your phone?”

“About K500,” I answered.

“Call the RR Rent a Car’s Mzuzu Branch so that they come and collect their bewitched vehicle