The New Year's Party

 [Malawi News of 26 January, 2013]

The year’s final curtains, marking its end, were slowly falling down but it was doing so with some people in a fix. Chief Asilo was one of hem. The chief tiredly forced his eyes, which burned so hard and felt like they had sand in them, to close for the umpteenth time, but failed. He pathetically meted out a yawn. His eyes instantly were teary and felt sticky and misty. He had now lost count of the number that had happened. But minute in, minute out, from the previous night to his present, the dawn of New Year’s Eve, his status remained the same. How he envied his wife, now sound asleep, who had previously tried to talk him into the much needed sleep.  

His body felt torn apart but not his brain. Thoughts hotly chased each other. They were thoughts of pain as he excruciatingly tried to come to terms with the disappointment that he had finally moved from hero to zero. The disillusionment that toppled him from the zenith of heroism had been there for close to two years, but this day it had hit him hard not necessarily because it had culminated into a mass demonstration, but because the mass action was slated for the same day, New Year’s Eve, the day he had planned to hold a party. Actually it was a cycle at play: people planned to demonstrate being angry that their chief could afford his planned mindless partying not only because there was a general feeling that the suffering was as a result of his leadership incomprehensible arrogance, perplexing greed, stinking corruption, and brazen tribalism and nepotism, but because that he could have the nerve to have festivity when the village was reeling in harsh fuel and drug scarcity, and biting hunger. On his part Asilo wanted the merrymaking, being a deliberate move to counter the accusations; mainly to show all that the said suffering was even not there in the village.

But Asilo’s mind could not live in denial though. He knew it was impossible to fool people in the village that things were fine. And he also knew it was obscene to lavishly throw money about and make a lot of jolly noise when the land was burning.

‘The party must go ahead,’ he arrogantly thought though that early morning. It was a stance he had adamantly told his wife even the just passing night when she had reasoned with him to cancel the party or shift it to another day.

“That would be admittance of failure my dear, the very last thing I need now,” he had almost shouted at her.

The party, starting from ten that morning, was planned to be held in a five star hotel. A lot of Asilo’s henchmen would attend, that much he knew, in a show of solidarity for the sake of their daily bread. They would show flamboyance and indeed a lot of money would be spent on liquor and food. They would drink and enjoy themselves to foolishness; and that was all Asilo wanted so as to drive home the message to the entire world that ‘all was well’ in the village.

But the chief had himself to blame for such a mess. He was the darling to people when he began. With many believing he had a listening heart, cupped with sympathy from the people by the way his predecessor mishandled him, and with the expected reversing of all bad rules and policies people had cried against under his predecessor, Asilo had all praises.

But the chief took the praises as a blank cheque to take the villagers not only for granted but for a ride. And he lost touch with reality in the process. He grew the biggest ego and believed he was the best. No amount of criticism, no matter how constructive, to Asilo entertaining them was a distant thought, even rubbish. And no wonder he lost the lustre, which Asilo arrogantly played down until now he was failing to sleep.   

‘The party should go ahead,’ he thought again, dialing the number of Mauro, his chief guard.

He tiredly left alone for the party his wife and children having refused to attend. He found the venue all set and filled to capacity. He had hardly taken his seat when his phone startled him. It was Ireen, his secretary, calling.

‘This woman,’ Chief Asilo thought. ‘Can’t she understand it’s risky? Can’t she take simple instructions? What if I’d my wife with me?’ he grumbled, thinking that Ireen, he had instructed not to attend the party, was calling to remind him about their planned intimacy outing that night. Asilo said an annoyed ‘hallo’.

“Sir, if you’re at the hall you better move out. Now!”  

“Calm down!” Asilo shouted before controlling his voice. He attracted anxious looks in the hall though. “I’ve sent Mauro with his team to disperse the crowd,” he said in a battered calm voice, looking around with an ‘all-is-well’ glance.

“That won’t be, sir! The mob is rushing towards the hall led by Mauro!”

“What!” But Asilo stopped in his tracks when he heard an angry roar. He frantically moved for the exit, tumbling almost. And suddenly there was all sorts of movement as word spread like bushfire of the coming chaos. People got injured as they fought to get out, even before the demonstrators had descended on them.

The Woman Next Door

~an extract from an up coming short story~

Time ticked towards midnight and outside the July light showers had turned into heavy rainfall and showed no sign of slowing down. The wild drops came down hard against the old rusty roof and faded whitewashed walls of Aisha’s small house. They rhythmically tumbled down, closely following each other, and at times simultaneously, landing heavily like soldiers. They later mingled smoothly but powerfully on the rusty iron sheet corrugates, before doing a parade downwards in as many single files, along the length of the ridges and joined other drops of the rain on the ground below.

The drops had been pouring like that for close to four or so hours. They pelted firmly from all sides of the sky turning the ground into slush and a territory of small muddy rivulets flowing crazily. Top soil was scattered madly in every direction, flushed out by the deep rain drops.

The showery night was biting cold. The iciness droned down, engulfing the neighborhood with chilliness like that of a blanket writhed out of a deep freezer just moments ago.  

Cursing bitterly under her breath, Aisha sat slumped and cross-legged on a tattered creaky Sofa occupying the right side of her small. A paraffin lamp dimly lighted the small sitting room. The single Sofa was the only tangible piece of furniture the whole house. She was only putting a piece of Chitenje, wrapped around her body. Local music from an old, corroded and ready to fall into disuse Nzeru radio hit her ears without necessarily entering her mind; with her mind in fusion with the outside sopping atmosphere. The radio was a rundown panting piece. She had inherited it from her late mother, together with the dilapidated Sofa her fully grown bottom now found solace. She generated, as she sat there, an appearance of a shadow in that poorly lamp lighted room; a lamp showing all signs of running out of paraffin. However, unlike a shadow, Aisha was breathing, thinking and cursing.

Her ears now picked the barking and piercing long cries of dogs in the midst of the cloudburst.

“Witches,” she whispered softly and shivered at the thought. ‘A bad night,’ she thought but quickly dismissed the belief as nonsense.

“It’s the best night,” she encouraged herself. It did not sound convincing though even to her.

She had come from an out of form topless iron shack, people found the audacity to call ‘bathroom’, stationed a stone’s throw away from her house. It was a structure also at the mercy of other nine households within the compound. She was there scrubbing herself ready for the night, the soggy night, the night she was not yet out to do her business, the delay that burned her whole inside. The bathing was tantamount to torture in that wet biting night; especially being done in the roofless falling into disuse iron shed. But she found congratulating herself for doing the activity three hours earlier not minding the ferocious rains; what with the thoughts of witches bombarding her mind and being in an enclosure for minutes alone. She shivered again at the thought before trying with failure to purge it again from her mind.