a short fiction; set in malawi, at a village called Chikanda. its a heave of a sigh; in a moment you are done with the reading, the 'being the protagonist'. In a second, you are the audience and are watching the whole move, and in an eye's twinkle you
By Patrick Kupatsa
The bus snaked out of Liwonde bus deport and joined the main road. I was standing in the middle of a crowd at the midway of the bus. I heaved a sigh of relief as the machine got into a comforting and hope-giving speed. Yes, nobody could complain of either a bad posture or an uncomfortable seat he or she had got. In fact, we were supposed to praise fortune for our successful struggle to secure a space. Buses were rare and you had to struggle to find yourself in any bus that came your way. Otherwise you would keep postponing your journey.
I thought of what it would be when I shall finally disembark in Zomba, particularly at Chikanda. It would be the achievement of my journey and above all the commencement of a sweeter-than-honey chapter in my book of life – a life spent together with my beloved Flora.
Flora was the girl I loved with every atom of my heart. I was convinced that she loved me too. Her love was my love and my love was her love. If the kind of joy I had in finding Flora is the same that Eve brought to Adam, then only Adam can understand how I felt with Flora, the beautiful daughter of her mother.
Arriving at Chikanda would mean to once again feast my eyes on that beauty that was Flora, the heart-stopping flora. It would mean to once again view her Coca-Cola bottle shaped figure. She was a kind of beauty that even Shakespeare would not manage to describe. She was the sunshine of my life and she meant life itself to me.
"Tilandire nawo" a high-pitched tone massacred the smooth flow of my thoughts. It retrieved me from the thick jungle of daydreams in which I was madly lost. I fished out a K200 note, gave it to her and waited for the little change.
"Where are you dropping?" the conductress enquired as she jotted down the amount I had given her on a piece of paper.
"Chikanda, I mean Zomba deport," I replied.
She added some information on the paper and gave it to me, together with my change of K20, and then proceeded to attend to another passenger.
"Madam you are stepping on our feet!", "There is not enough space here Madam!", "Why can't you just ask someone to receive the money for you?" these were some of the utterances people made as the conductress struggled to squeeze herself through the crowd. The bus was so overcrowded that there was no chance of someone changing posture at will.
"Excuse me brother, did you say you are going to Chikanda?" a man in front of me asked as he looked straight into my eyes.
"Well, I am going to Chikanda of course." I replied with a sigh, to cut the story short. I should confess it was just a mistake to mention Chikanda when the only deport through which to get Chikanda is Zomba deport. In short, it was Flora's fault.
"Home or you're just visiting?" he asked.
"I am just visiting"
"Well, I am going to Chikanda too..."
"Really?"
"In fact that's where I stay," the man enlightened me.
"Then you know this young lady...Flora."
"Flora, Flora the deceased?"
"What!" I was taken into surprise. Surely, he did not mean the Flora I was about to explain to him.
"You mean that beautiful girl, light in complexion who was staying with her friend Towera..."
"Yes that one!" I cut his long description short.
"Oh brother, it is just yesterday when we were committing her remains to mother earth," the man said drawing the attention of other passengers around us.
"What did you say brother? You said a beautiful girl had died?" some one in amidst the crowd jokingly asked the man.
"Yes brother, and when I say beautiful it shall mean beautiful in all seasons"
"And you did not say fruitful"
"Certainly I did not," the man replied, his face showing interest in telling the untold story. Some passengers pierced the airwaves with a fetid laughter, upon hearing the comment, as others showed eagerness to hear what had summoned a beautiful girl to grave. The man averted his eyes and faced the congregation in the bus, to spread the story to all.
"What has she died of? Was she murdered, sick or was she involved in a car accident?" a certain woman at the back asked.
"Nothing like that madam, this girl, Flora, was a veteran prostitute in Chikanda. Being the most beautiful girl she overlooked her value and went round selling her body at affordable prices in drinking joints," the man narrated. Gestures spiced the narration. The passengers were now quiet and attentive. The man went on, "Which pub had Flora never gone in Chikanda? And which sex-thirsty man in Chikanda did not bed her? Above that she had a horde of boy friends from all walks of life."
"Excuse me brother," I interrupted him. "Did you say numerous boy friends?" I asked him, in a bit urge to learn best.
"Precisely." the man answered matter-of-factly.
"Go on brother!" some one shouted from behind.
"Yes, it is rumoured she had the dreaded monster."
"Which monster now?" a portion of the crowd chorused.
"The virus I mean." The man unveiled the pragmatics in his language.
"Shaa!" the three people sitting in front of me chorused in a fair tone.
"She was HIV positive. Only ARVs pushed her up to this year," the narrator said.
"To yesterday in particular," the joker from the back confidently commented inviting a bit of laughter.
Some faces were quiet and sad. Others were moderate. Mine was just dove-sad and my heart was on fire.
I stood quiet thinking of nothing. The man kept narrating the story "Yesterday marked the dawn of a new chapter in Chikanda's history. The murderer was gone. Believe you me this Flora has been biting us one by one to the grave. She was a vendor of death, selling kisses that left people with deep moral and life threatening cuts. Some of us of course never got into her trap." the narrator's message was loud and clear.
My fate was sealed and cemented. I had heard it for myself. My heart broke into inner sobs. I looked at myself and indeed viewed my life as a cigarette smoldering on the lips of a chain smoker with a few seconds remaining to be dumped. I was confused.
"Jali! Any body to drop here at Jali!" shouted the conductress, interrupting though, but doing her job, as the machine pulled down to the side of the road.
I squeezed myself through the crowd with both physical and emotional struggle and disembarked from the machine. I never looked back to see the bus pulling off. Instead I took a narrow path to my left. For the first time I never knew where I was going. My heart wept for Flora my beloved and indeed myself for my impending death. I never cared where I had dropped off, whether it was the intended Zomba deport or not. Going ahead in the path was more comforting than thinking of where I was going.
Short story by patrick kupatsa
Read 430 times
Written on 2007-10-03 at 10:09
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SHORT STORY
FLORA, MY BELOVEDBy Patrick Kupatsa
The bus snaked out of Liwonde bus deport and joined the main road. I was standing in the middle of a crowd at the midway of the bus. I heaved a sigh of relief as the machine got into a comforting and hope-giving speed. Yes, nobody could complain of either a bad posture or an uncomfortable seat he or she had got. In fact, we were supposed to praise fortune for our successful struggle to secure a space. Buses were rare and you had to struggle to find yourself in any bus that came your way. Otherwise you would keep postponing your journey.
I thought of what it would be when I shall finally disembark in Zomba, particularly at Chikanda. It would be the achievement of my journey and above all the commencement of a sweeter-than-honey chapter in my book of life – a life spent together with my beloved Flora.
Flora was the girl I loved with every atom of my heart. I was convinced that she loved me too. Her love was my love and my love was her love. If the kind of joy I had in finding Flora is the same that Eve brought to Adam, then only Adam can understand how I felt with Flora, the beautiful daughter of her mother.
Arriving at Chikanda would mean to once again feast my eyes on that beauty that was Flora, the heart-stopping flora. It would mean to once again view her Coca-Cola bottle shaped figure. She was a kind of beauty that even Shakespeare would not manage to describe. She was the sunshine of my life and she meant life itself to me.
"Tilandire nawo" a high-pitched tone massacred the smooth flow of my thoughts. It retrieved me from the thick jungle of daydreams in which I was madly lost. I fished out a K200 note, gave it to her and waited for the little change.
"Where are you dropping?" the conductress enquired as she jotted down the amount I had given her on a piece of paper.
"Chikanda, I mean Zomba deport," I replied.
She added some information on the paper and gave it to me, together with my change of K20, and then proceeded to attend to another passenger.
"Madam you are stepping on our feet!", "There is not enough space here Madam!", "Why can't you just ask someone to receive the money for you?" these were some of the utterances people made as the conductress struggled to squeeze herself through the crowd. The bus was so overcrowded that there was no chance of someone changing posture at will.
"Excuse me brother, did you say you are going to Chikanda?" a man in front of me asked as he looked straight into my eyes.
"Well, I am going to Chikanda of course." I replied with a sigh, to cut the story short. I should confess it was just a mistake to mention Chikanda when the only deport through which to get Chikanda is Zomba deport. In short, it was Flora's fault.
"Home or you're just visiting?" he asked.
"I am just visiting"
"Well, I am going to Chikanda too..."
"Really?"
"In fact that's where I stay," the man enlightened me.
"Then you know this young lady...Flora."
"Flora, Flora the deceased?"
"What!" I was taken into surprise. Surely, he did not mean the Flora I was about to explain to him.
"You mean that beautiful girl, light in complexion who was staying with her friend Towera..."
"Yes that one!" I cut his long description short.
"Oh brother, it is just yesterday when we were committing her remains to mother earth," the man said drawing the attention of other passengers around us.
"What did you say brother? You said a beautiful girl had died?" some one in amidst the crowd jokingly asked the man.
"Yes brother, and when I say beautiful it shall mean beautiful in all seasons"
"And you did not say fruitful"
"Certainly I did not," the man replied, his face showing interest in telling the untold story. Some passengers pierced the airwaves with a fetid laughter, upon hearing the comment, as others showed eagerness to hear what had summoned a beautiful girl to grave. The man averted his eyes and faced the congregation in the bus, to spread the story to all.
"What has she died of? Was she murdered, sick or was she involved in a car accident?" a certain woman at the back asked.
"Nothing like that madam, this girl, Flora, was a veteran prostitute in Chikanda. Being the most beautiful girl she overlooked her value and went round selling her body at affordable prices in drinking joints," the man narrated. Gestures spiced the narration. The passengers were now quiet and attentive. The man went on, "Which pub had Flora never gone in Chikanda? And which sex-thirsty man in Chikanda did not bed her? Above that she had a horde of boy friends from all walks of life."
"Excuse me brother," I interrupted him. "Did you say numerous boy friends?" I asked him, in a bit urge to learn best.
"Precisely." the man answered matter-of-factly.
"Go on brother!" some one shouted from behind.
"Yes, it is rumoured she had the dreaded monster."
"Which monster now?" a portion of the crowd chorused.
"The virus I mean." The man unveiled the pragmatics in his language.
"Shaa!" the three people sitting in front of me chorused in a fair tone.
"She was HIV positive. Only ARVs pushed her up to this year," the narrator said.
"To yesterday in particular," the joker from the back confidently commented inviting a bit of laughter.
Some faces were quiet and sad. Others were moderate. Mine was just dove-sad and my heart was on fire.
I stood quiet thinking of nothing. The man kept narrating the story "Yesterday marked the dawn of a new chapter in Chikanda's history. The murderer was gone. Believe you me this Flora has been biting us one by one to the grave. She was a vendor of death, selling kisses that left people with deep moral and life threatening cuts. Some of us of course never got into her trap." the narrator's message was loud and clear.
My fate was sealed and cemented. I had heard it for myself. My heart broke into inner sobs. I looked at myself and indeed viewed my life as a cigarette smoldering on the lips of a chain smoker with a few seconds remaining to be dumped. I was confused.
"Jali! Any body to drop here at Jali!" shouted the conductress, interrupting though, but doing her job, as the machine pulled down to the side of the road.
I squeezed myself through the crowd with both physical and emotional struggle and disembarked from the machine. I never looked back to see the bus pulling off. Instead I took a narrow path to my left. For the first time I never knew where I was going. My heart wept for Flora my beloved and indeed myself for my impending death. I never cared where I had dropped off, whether it was the intended Zomba deport or not. Going ahead in the path was more comforting than thinking of where I was going.
Short story by patrick kupatsa
Read 430 times
Written on 2007-10-03 at 10:09
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
