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