THE DAY I BURNT HIKAKUTA'S MAIZE

The dawn was special; it gave Masompe village a touch of merry and delightful wonder as if all the stars had come down to visit. The sun rose majestically, strolled up the sky bringing back memories of Saddam Hussein’s lightning seizure of Kuwait decades ago. Its beams of light rolled back a rather drab blanket of darkness, consigning the harsh evil to a bottomless pit beyond the reach of our eyes.

Suddenly, its forests became a hive of activity, birds jolted out of their nocturnal slumber to start singing an orchestra of melodious tunes, and Michael Jackson would surely turn green with envy in his grave. On such dawns, legends claim, even pregnant frogs of the Hakaloba Dam frolic about in some macabre frenzy casting money spells on men who would be first to drink their urine.

The electrifying scenery was greatly enhanced by the arrival of a guest which meant eating nice food.

“Today no ‘sholo’, we are having a delicious chicken,” I danced about wildly in celebration.

However, the next events turned the day into a forgettable Tuesday packaging a tyranny of pain my life should never see again. What followed led me to conclude, rather blasphemously, that the angel with keys of happiness had overslept leaving me to ride in the devil’s chariot racing on wheels of misfortune to the land of sorrows. My troubles started with the same visitor whose arrival I celebrated so much,

The month was July, a month when the grass, including maize, is dry and burns easily making bush fires rage uncontrollably. It was a month when hostile winds swung everything around like a mother doing a lullaby to send a baby to sleep. My stepmother, like a prophetess, warned me countless number of times;

“Mackay, stop playing with matches, one day you may burn down the village.”

We used to call her bina Maggie or bina Doli depending on which of her children’s names bobbed up first in the mind. She was brown in complexion with cool grayish eyes that radiated warmth and sympathy. She was a buxom woman who could knock down a man if provoked. She had a voice with the shrill of a police siren presumably horned sharp singing hymns in the church choir. Her round face, decorated mouth having big lips completed a profile of Oprah Winfrey without her makeup.

“Back off mama, I’m old enough to know what to do with matches,” I would reply disdainfully. At thirteen years, I was already showing signs of being rebellious and independent. I didn’t like anyone telling me what to do or how to do things. I wanted to live like a small king without a kingdom. Dad was the only person I dreaded.

“Today, Mackay will take the cattle for grazing,” he announced the news to a gathering of us boys like a judge pronouncing a death sentence. The task was thrust upon my shoulders like Elijah’s mantle: dark and ominous. I couldn’t dare refuse, the consequences were ghastly.

“But it is Nzala’s turn today dad,” Mastern tried to save me.

“Nzala will busy helping the visitor,” dad said referring to Mr.Anderson Mweete.

“How do I graze animals when everyone is eating chickens at home?” I grumbled out of his hearing. That wasn’t the only problem.

The herd of cattle was large with some estimates putting the number somewhere close to a thousand. That required skill to manage. Only last week these beasts had stamped and eaten our neighbor Hangoma’s’ maize, clearing the miserable one-hectare field in less than ten minutes. Levi, the herdboy that day, was given such a severe thrashing that he was limping for many days. Grazing animals wasn’t funny at all; one had to keep vigil to obviate all these problems.

with fallen spirits, I drove the hordes out of the kraal and headed for the pasturelands. These were swathes of hostile grasslands infested with dangerous snakes and wild animals.

 there was one notorious cow in the herd which always got herdsmen in problems. Named Namwandi, this black and barren cow had the cunning habit of peeling itself away from the herd to wander into maize fields. Before you knew it, the slant-eyed, emaciated skeleton would be munching maize cobs in someone’s field. Two things baffled people: why the tiny wretch was so thin despite such an appetite and how it could silence a noisy bell dangling on its neck. We prayed for it to die, it didn't.

By fourteen hours, hunger clobbered me mercilessly making my stomach rumble painfully and cracking my lips to resemble a parched river bed. I tried to moisten them with saliva but to no avail. I got tired of chewing leaves and eating various wild fruits. My body needed real food. I had no packed lunch like what we see with school pupils in town. And even my young sister Miyanda wasn’t showing up to bring me something to eat. I grumbled knowing that everybody at home was eating sumptuously while I was dying of hunger in the bush.

luckily enough, as I drove the cattle about, I passed by a field of groundnuts. The delicious stuff was still stuck to the stalks and piled up in bundles invitingly.

“Ahaaaaaa!” I did a one-leg up celebration knowing that this crude meal would help calm down the waves of hunger in my stomach raging like wings of a butterfly.

Hurriedly, I cleared some space on the road, about four square meters in size, taking special precautions against the fire spreading to the maize fields beyond. I got two cupfuls of unshelled groundnuts and placed them at the center of my fireplace. I covered with some bundles of dry grass.

When this was done, I shifted to the eastern side and struck a match stick for a flame. With cupped hands guarding against the winds, I carefully pushed the yellowish flame into the grass. The grass immediately caught fire and started roasting the delicious food. I used a long stick to poke the fire and roll my groundnuts to prevent them from burning carbon black. As soon as they turned a golden brown, I put out the fire by beating it down with leaves and than sat down to eat my meal. I was so engrossed in eating that the cattle issues slipped out of my mind.

The rustle of animals stampeding in the maize stalks alerted me to a new situation; Namwandi had led the herd into my father’s maize field. Not wishing to give the whip man a job, I abandoned my lunch and rushed to drive the beasts away from the maize.

As the last beast left the danger zone, I saw a huge fire spreading rapidly from the direction of my roasting place.

“How did the fire cross that elaborate fireguard?” I complained because it wasn’t possible unless...The unfolding events made the how questions immaterial, the fire reached catastrophic proportions. Fanned by the treacherous July winds, the flames raced out of control as if pressed on by some diabolic force. It blazed, burning everything and of all directions, it headed westwards to Mr. Hikakuta’s maize. The same Hikakuta with a face like the map of Ghana and a reputation children are not allowed to talk about.

 “Mama Mamama!” a desperate cry escaped from my lips in fear. I immediately started fighting the flames gallantly like a lone ranger. However, the wild hurricane sized winds and the dry combustible sheaves of maize combined to defeat my efforts. The fire voraciously scotched everything and quickly galloped into the dreaded Hikakuta’s field with prize cobs.

The big cobs, the sheaf’s and weeds burnt violently as the fire raced wildly raising dark billows of smoke higher up into the sky. Someone in the village saw the billows of smoke racing through Hikakuta’s field and raised an alarm. The whole village rushed to help me fight the fire.

Armed with branches, the men beat down the flames in a fire extinguishing effort. Though equipped with rudimentary fire fighting implements the sheer numbers of firefighters conquered the fire. But by the time the fire went out completely, ten hectares of Mr. Hikakuta’s field was reduced to a smoking ruin, a blackened expanse of waste. Mr. Hikakuta’s mood was also a smoking ruin, a blackened expanse of danger. He was prancing about excitedly like a mad dog and yelling like a madwoman.

 “Maweeeeeee! My food is gone! I am finished,” his excited, tear-filled eyes surveyed everyone trying to pick on anyone for a culprit. His son Hafule tried to draw his attention but paid dearly.

“I don’t have time for idiots, Get lost!” he shouted as he unleashed a boot into the boy’s ribs. The boy dropped whimpering like a dying dog.

As the fire died down, other more troublesome questions started buzzing in the people’s heads.

“Who started the fire?” everyone wanted to know.

The question chilled my back like a carafe of cold water, especially with the rampaging Hikakuta raving like a mad man. I earnestly hoped no one would be foolish enough to mention my name. And the next minute nothing jangled my nerves more than the shock of Lyson’s traitorous voice.

 “Mackay was roasting groundnuts there,” he pointed with his dirt finger.

Everyone turned to look at me, expecting some kind of response. Suddenly the panic blurred my eyes; they could see nothing but boiling scarlet. I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there like an Egyptian mummy.

 “I think it must have started by accident,” Lyson continued in mock benevolence. “It was an accident Mackay, wasn’t it?”

“Ly...so…n! Ly…so..n!” finally I found my voice, but it was as splintered as a broken mirror. 

Mr. Hikakuta heard that statement. He grunted as if happy that at least someone was found to carry the burden of his anger. Raving wildly, he shouted, “My vocabulary has no useless words like an accident, Mackay will raise my crops now.”

Without waiting for me to exculpate myself, he threw the fire extinguisher down with violence and terrible weapons of violence suddenly jumped into his hands. A broad spear with two barbs was in his right hand while a panga dangled in his left hand. He started searching for me in the crowd.

“Where is Mackay?”He howled in an angry voice.

Trotting about, Hikakuta was the modern-day version of Shaka Zulu in full Mfecane combat. To me, he was surely deadlier than, the famed warrior. The Mfecane, compared to Hikakuta’s battle formation, was like a children’s picnic in a church.

There was no time to argue with a spear. I immediately peeled myself off from the crowd and tore into the northern direction away from Hikakuta. My legs were my best defense and I intended to use them.

My heart was pumping faster than the revolutions of the propeller shaft in a Mazda. My legs flapped alternately faster than the spokes of a bicycle at a very high speed. With a good three seconds head start on Hikakuta, I should have escaped clear, sprinting like a gazelle.

The deadly Hikakuta hobbled desperately trying to catch me. But after ten yards he realized the effort was bound to fail.

“Bandulo, swiiii!” he whistled for his dogs and unleashed them after me. The dogs, a horde of about six beasts, became a game-changer. No matter how fast I could run, I would never hope to outrun these nimble legged, cold-nosed beasts. They caught up with me after two hundred yards of hard running.

Leading the pack was the big bulldog called Bandulo; he came hard on my heels. In no time I felt his cold nose freezing on my thigh.

“Forsake!” I tried to scare him off but he started opening his mouth to grab my leg. A low branch helped me survive.

As I passed a low branch I vaulted and changed direction. That gave me another ten yards advantage.

Bandulo realized his mistake, he came back. His tongue stuck out, mouth wide open and streams of yellow, smelly saliva dripping amid “Ha! Ha! Ha!”Sounds showing that I had given him a good run.

But then we left the thicket and veered into an open area. However, as I accelerated like a sports car trying to open up some clean gap away from the dogs, a log lying treacherously under a shock of grass caught my leg and I tripped. By the time I rose to continue the race the dogs had reached me.

“Forsake!” “Forsake!” I screamed as a thousand cold noses reached for my body.

! Whoa! Whoa!” they howled over my body until somehow I hauled myself to climb up a low branched tree. I had narrowly escaped being torn to shreds by the dirty rabid canine teeth. Hikakuta could be seen hobbling towards me like a sick, one-legged elephant three hundred yards away.

A look at his flashing panga forced me to reevaluate my security situation. It wouldn’t be long before he reached my tree and start using his spear or panga. His grinning teeth indicated that he would use both. The option was being dinner for dogs baring dirty rabid teeth. That was less awful, I chose the dogs.

Jumping down from the tree I was immediately greeted by howls of ferocious dogs eager to tear me apart. I tore down a slender twig and canned the nearest dog.

“Whaaaa!whaaaa!” the dog howled in pain, the rest of the pack fled in sympathetic reaction. But the action had cost me valuable time and pace.

Hikakuta had come within twenty yards. And the tyranny of fate took command, my leg had developed a sprain, I could not run anymore. What a disaster? A sprained ankle barely ten yards away from an enemy wielding a spear and a panga.

“You stupid boy!” he insulted as he threw the spear, aiming at my chest. I saw the spear coming, its tail dancing like an airborne snake. Dodging was impossible because of poor agility in the legs. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable slicing pain as the blade of steel strikes.

Luckily enough the spear missed my body by inches. It passed under my right arm and struck my shirt pinning it to a tree trunk behind. The shock of the swack sound as it struck the tree revived me. I opened my eyes and started struggling to remove the shirt but the stupid buttons of the khaki shirt held on. My fingers were trembling like leaves in an autumn breeze. The crying made my eyes watery and clouded like an old woman suffering from the conjunctiva. The sight of Hikakuta brandishing a panga with malevolent delight as he got closer punctured my heart with terrible dread. I cried all types of crying, I cried all kinds of prayer. I called on Jesus on the cross copying his cry:

 “AKAKA TAATA LEZA NDAKOMBA!”

Whether that translation was correct or not didn’t matter. I fainted and lost touch with everything. I strongly suspect that Mr. Hikakuta indeed cut off my head that day.

I was later to learn that Munanyanga, Hikakuta’s third-born son had followed his father to dissuade him from his attempted murder. Just as Hikakuta concentrated on throwing the spear, Munanyanga sprung up from behind and knocked the big man down. They struggled for some minutes before Hikakuta shook off his son’s challenge and gave him a violent kick in the ribs. Munanyanga rolled on the ground in agony as two of his ribs were broken. Hikakuta left his son groaning on the ground and collected his panga to resume the attack on me.

 However, even the redoubtable Hikakuta had lost valuable time in the struggle with his son. By the time he deposed of his son, my brother Hambinga had arrived on the scene. He tore off my khaki shirt to unpin me from the tree.

By the time Hikakuta was turning to resume the attack my brother was speeding away from the dangerous scene in our green Toyota Stout.

When Hikakuta realized what was happening, he hurled his panga at the vehicle in frustration. The panga shattered the windscreen with diabolic violence and dropped in front of the vehicle temporarily obstructing my brother. None of us sustained any injuries

The day that had started so well turned day upside down.