THE ROADBLOCK TODDLER

Lemani fanned the burning charcoal inside the relatively old but large mbaula with a broken plastic plate, which he gripped in between his thumb and main fingers. His other hand expertly changed positions of the fresh maize cobs roasting on the wire mesh as frequently as possible. The grains browned rather quickly. Most of the people who bought from him complained of the maize not having received enough baking. But his business never dived down because hungry passengers on various buses passing through the roadblock made most of his market

A coach had just passed after a brief stop at the roadblock. Lemani cursed it as it crept away through the manual gate of the blockade. In fact, his sales boy returned with all the six cobs unsold. He gave the boy who was short for the tall windows of the coach, a disdainful look. In addition, the coach’s high class passengers seemed disinterested in the roasted cobs.

In an attempt to save face, the boy quickly rushed at another bus which was breaking to a stop. Using all the marketing techniques learnt from Lemani, the boy managed to sell all the cobs but at a price. The boy was still insisting for a K10 balance from one of the passengers before the driver placed his foot on the pedal, releasing his weight on it as much as he could.

Leman busied himself with roasting some five cobs for the roadblock attendants. He tried without much success to conceal his grudged face. As a daily obligation, he was supposed to give the two policemen on duty free maize as license for him to continue trading on the rather forbidden site. But being a festive season, three more personnel were deployed to boost security. Five cobs were to him, therefore, a big loss.

Leman laughed inwardly at the idea of improving security at the roadblock. He had on two occasions successfully helped his friend smuggle bags of chamba across the barrier.  

When the boy returned from the bus to get some more cobs for another bus that had just arrived, Lemani reached out his hand gesturing for the boy to give him the money. The boy was in fact one of his workers who helped him take the cobs to customers in buses and other vehicles. He liked employing young boys. They are easy to convince with little pay.

This boy, Mwandi, was twelve years old, which matched less with his behaviour. In the early days at the roadblock, Mwandi was very obedient to Lemani. He was slow in his undertakings. But his daily engagement with Lemani drew him close to the rhythm of roadblock lifestyle.

Pandama zingatapa? Lemani asked the boy, his sentence flashed in just a second.

“Its-its…one customer that…”

“Kumachangamuka,” Lemani interrupted before the Mwandi’s explanation could come clear.

The boy watched as Lemani hastily counted the money before forcing it into a large pocket of his dirty coat. He had less time to waste because he was rushing to go and collect some more fresh cobs at a village about 2 kilometers away.

“Fan the charcoal please,” he spat an order to Mwandi as he jumped on his bike, “and make sure the fire does not die.”

He had barely ridden twenty meters before he returned. He had, in fact, forgotten to count how many cob were left on the wire. He had infact left eleven cobs, seven on the fire and four in the sack left at the base of the mbaula. He usually left biggest cobs to be roasted at the end for a reason that remained his own secret. But Mwandi, who took most of his roadblock wisdom from Lemani, had already played the game. He had already hidden three of them and Lemani could not take notice. He was in a hurry.  

 “What if I had hid it?” he asked himself in relation to the K10, which the customer went away with but Lemani accepted as part of business. “I would be K10 richer now.”

A large bus pulling a trailer had just halted at the roadblock. All passengers were ordered to disembark. It was coming from South Africa, Mwandi noticed. He remembered what Lemani told him to do with such customer. Raise the price. Indeed, he tripled it.

“Tiilawe Rand.”

 All the cobs were fully browned. He packed them in a white jumbo rather frantically before galloping towards the bus. Although he had tripled the price, the maize sold like hot cakes. He regretted having failed to quadruple the price.

Mwandi was excited. He also noted the same in the cops. Perhaps they have also stumbled in a fortune of some sort, he thought.

He quickly retreated to exclusion to make calculations of how much he should keep away from his boss. He reasoned to release the entire amount for seven cobs to Lemani.

He was rich that day. As Lemani approached in exactly about 35 minutes later, Mwandi rushed to the mbaula, fanned it to revitalize the charcoal. The bus coughed dark fumes as it made its way through the gates. Mwamadi was relieved because he knew Lemani would suspect foul play should he note that the bus was from Joburg.

Lemani’s gaze was fixed on the mbaula to see if it was still alive.

“Chatha?” asked Lemani as he laboured to lift a bag of fresh maize from his bike’s carrier.

“Yes,” replied Mwandi offering Lemani his money even before a request for it was made.

Lemani was delighted. He never expected to find the maize finished or sold without shortage. Most of the notes were fresh. He delighted in storing fresh bank note. He carefully folded the notes and slotted them in the back pocket of his jean trousers. Since it was getting dark, Mwandi was supposed to go home, so Lemani gave him his entitlement of the day, with something on top of course.

Without turning his face back, Mwandi strode home richer.

 THE STORY WAS PUBLISHED IN THE 
MALAWI NEWS OF FIRST WEEK OF DECEMBER 2012