Katowera, the Hunter

[Published in the Malawi News: 5 May 2012]

Katowela wearily lifted the gin-trap and with concerted effort expertly inspected it again, his eyes darting in his balding cranium. The eyes were bloodshot and felt sore from the smoke of smoldering embers. He wiped his running nose that had now become a nuisance. He shivered in the chilly winds of dawn now blowing forebodingly from Thambani Game Reserve. His knees, genuflecting on a dirty ragged sack, ached from prolonged bending. Nonetheless, he did not allow the chillness and the pain to distract him. He again sharpened the spiked teeth of the gin-trap. The teeth glinted. Katowela smiled, satisfied with his handiwork. Minutes later he diligently left his house, the trap held firmly but careful in his right-hand. The chill winds assaulted him in full and he shuddered to the bone. He cautiously peered in all directions. He saw nobody, and his ears picked no noise except a distant shout of the village crier, informing the villagers of a meeting that morning with government and wildlife officials. 

“Another waste of time,” Katowela ridiculed a bitter edge in his voice. He knew what the meeting was all about: a plea that villagers should stop illegal killing of animals in Thambani Game Reserve.

“In their dreams,” he mocked again under his breath. “Not with the same government officers being my big customers and with the higher price bush meat fetches.”  

He determinedly walked on, and that cold dawn did so for a different reason altogether other than money. His wife, Beatrice, visiting her parents in a neighboring Dzilima village, was long at last pregnant and he wanted to catch and present her a gift of a whole wild game. It had taken Katowela ten solid years to have his wife in that condition. Ten solid tormenting years he had endured and tried almost everything; from visiting famous prayer houses, famed gynecologists, to renowned witchdoctors, with nothing happening. The period he was enmeshed in raw ridicule, in which insults like deadwood, dry stone or little boy were spat at him. But Katowela was now enjoying the show and he vomited insults back not only at those who insulted him in the ten years but every villager. And he wanted to thank Beatrice for giving him this voice.

He finally made his way into Thambani Game Reserve, routinely walked for some distance, and then knelt down. His knees still ached and his back felt lumbago. He skillfully placed his right ear to the ground and intently listened for some minutes. He heard nothing. He picked his trap and stood up. Katowela had hardly got to his feet when he saw the game reserve rangers, who had been hiding nearby, tearing towards him. He blindly started to sprint with a speed that even Usain Bolt would envy. After racing for minutes he saw the opening in the reserve fence which he hurriedly used to exit, the rangers still hot on his heels. Katowela found himself in the bushes of the outskirts of Dzilima village. He continued his run, even zigzagged his way, and did not only manage to lose the rangers, but also his gin-trap when it got caught in thickets. He did not stop though but continued his hurtling, hurtling to his village.

Katowela used the wildlife meeting to eavesdrop news, if any, about his escapade that might seep through to the gathering. As usual the speakers, especially, Awong’o, the Government’s head of wildlife in the area, lamented the continued killing of wild game in the reserve despite efforts to curb the malpractice. Katowela chuckled heartily at the hypocrisy on display; Awong’o was his biggest customer. The meeting ended late in the evening with nothing about him being said. Relieved, he went straight to his house afraid to go and look for his lost trap.

He was awakened by touchy crying, in which gin-traps were being roundly censured. He became totally awake as his heart cruised. The weeping stopped at his house. ‘Why are they stopping here?’ ‘Had my trap injured someone and had it been recognized that it’s mine?’  He worriedly thought as he went out with a battered composure. He was however welcomed not by censure but sympathy. Confused, Katowela wanted to writhe some explanation from the people but momentarily felt sickened to the soul when he recognized the person on a makeshift stretcher, with a gin-trap he instantaneously recognised as his, dangling on the right-leg. It was his wife! From the people gathered Beatrice, who seemingly was trekking back to the village from Dzilima village, was discovered by herd boys who heard her shouting when she was caught by the pointed teeth of the gin-trap, and went to inform people. But by the time they came to her rescue she was already dead having lost a lot of blood. Katowela convulsed in uncontrollable fits of cry that prompted rowdy yelling from women.

But moments later the grieving was disrupted by an uproar emanating from Asilo’s house, one of the neighbors of Katowela. Some inquisitive villagers rushed to find out and came back to inform the people about a fight between Asilo and his wife, who had just left the bereavement house. She had caught Asilo red-handed crying in the bedroom for his baby Beatrice was carrying. Katowela saw his world nose-diving; his pride shredded. Beatrice had double crossed him!