How I lost my sister

Dear editor,

On Monday, I was burying my sister in Chantulo Village, Traditional Authority (T/A) Nankumba in the lake district of Mangochi—a village sitting almost half way along the Golomoti-Masasa Road, about 30 kilometres from Monkey Bay.

She died a couple of days following a bite by a civet cat (locally, in vernacular, called Vungo).

On the horrendous night, people in the girl’s compound—lying at the foot of Phirilongwe, a small mountain that forms part of a wildlife reserve—had found the lakeshore district’s searing heat unbearable.

Like many other times before—year in, year out—women in the compound resorted to sleeping outside their house, in the confines and envisaged safety of a grass-thatched perimeter.

Then the unexpected happened. The cat, without warning and having dexterously eluded the usually elite watch of the compound’s seasoned hunting dogs, pounced on the unsuspecting girl.

As she helplessly tried to get out of the cat’s way, it still grabbed her by the bicep and dug its teeth deep in—sticking on to her like glue.

Amid my sister’s screams, there the cat was, its teeth buried under the soft tissue of the bicep and its sharp claws inched into the girl’s upper body, grazing her in rage.

Her screams tore into the compound’s tranquil. Among the first to come to help were the girl’s father, a brave man who instinctively picked up a piece of wood with which he aimed at the cat’s spine, with rage and love for a daughter.

The cat reluctantly let go of the girl, but only to turn on to him, catching him by the heel into which it bit with fierce rage.

By now, it was hell in the compound, with some more brave men coming in to help.

When the cat let go this time, it was to scrap at anyone it could lay its claws on, then proceeded to pounce on the girl again, same fashion—same bicep.

By now the angry men—led by the father—were to stop the determined cat from inflicting more pain on the compound.

The father grabbed the cat by the neck, squeezing it with the fury of an enraged parent. The other men were quick to come by, holding the unrelenting cat by its legs and scruff—anything they could lay their hands on.

When the beast let go of the girl, the men dragged it to a piece of wood against which they laid the cat for a good support to chop its neck off.

Blood splashing. Men yelling with wrath. Relief.

However, what the nearest hospital would do is clean and dress wounds on the girl and her rescuers. My people could not settle for any other insistence for more checks into the bites as ‘the doctor knows better.’

I now regret that.

Back home, ‘remarkable’ healing of the victims’ wounds was by the village’s standard a sign of things going back to normal. They should have known better.

Days later, my sister started to behave like ‘disturbed’, acting strange, complaining of a gutting headache and refusing food and drink.

Prayer didn’t seem to change much, except for a split instance within which she accepted drink. A few days later, and that was on Sunday, she died.

We lost a sister.

A prospective suitor who was to come to ask for a hand in marriage in the next two weeks or so lost a sweetheart.

Today, one question slices veins in my heart. If this was an illness directly related to the bite—which in my layman’s world it surely is—what becomes of the rest of the bitten and perhaps those who took care of the sister in her last days?

Herbert Chandilanga, Lilongwe.