Takes A Village

It’s lunch time and I’m in the truck with Mr. Mkandawire who is the driver from the hospital where my wife is working as a physiotherapist and one of the accountants, Mr. Monday. We’re on our way into the downtown area to run some errands. Both men are small in stature, which is good because I’m sitting between them in the pick-up. Mkandawire is an older gentleman, very dignified. His face has always has a kind but tired look to it. He lives near the hospital with his wife and six grandchildren. Mr. Monday lives a just over ten kilometres from work and jogs in each day so as to arrive on time. The school where I teach is nearby and I’m tagging along today in order to take advantage of the lift into town. My usual mode of transport is my bike, but anytime I can drive, especially during the latter part of the dry season when the mid-day temperature never drops below 35 Celsius, I do it.

There hasn’t been any rain for three months, which is normal for this time of year, but I’m still not used to it. The sun has dried out the earth and everything from the side of the white Toyota pick-up to the broad leaves on the poinsettia trees are coated in a film of reddish dust. The tires hum on the asphalt as we make our way down the short highway that connects the hospital to the downtown. The jacaranda trees are in bloom and have already begun to drop their beautiful petals, lining the sides of the highway with purple.

As we round the corner into the central business district, Mkandawire spots two boys, about ten years old, who are arguing and pushing each other. This is not a common scene in Malawi. In fact, now that I think about it, this is the first fight I’ve seen in the year I’ve lived here. “Eh-eh” Mkandawire says, mostly to himself, as he pulls the truck over to the side of the highway. One of the boys takes a swing at the other and connects with the side of his head.

Mkandawire and Monday haven’t said a word to each other but they’re both out of the truck and walking to the boys who are now pulling at each other. The two men each pick up a boy. They still haven’t said anything. The boys stop their shouting and now look scared. Mkandawire and Monday lift the boys onto the back of the pick-up and return to the front seat. I wonder if the boys will jump but they seem paralyzed. We stop at the bank and the boys still don’t move even though they could easily lose themselves on the crowded sidewalk. They are still there when we come out - sitting in the back, hugging their knees, saying nothing.

Next stop is the bakery. Then the power company. The boys look like a spell has been cast on them. Our errands are done and it’s time to get back to work. We leave the downtown and are back on the highway. The tall jacaranda give some shade and it feels like the temperature has dropped a touch now that we’re under them. Mkandawire pulls over close to where he picked up the boys an hour ago. He gets out and lowers the gate on the pick-up. The boys don’t move until he tells them to. They jump down to the ground and look at him. He speaks to them in Chichewa and I can only catch a few words. They nod and walk away.

At home in Canada, I can imagine how this would end. In Malawi, Mr. Mkandawire tells me, “as an adult, it is your obligation to correct any child who is misbehaving.” Even if you don’t know the child. Now I know why I haven’t seen any fistfights.