For a Nachisale, the timeless fruit tree

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In frustration I contemplate shutting my laptop. Switching off lights.  Forget that my blog needs an entry for this day. Not before I crave to respond to a few Whatsapp texts.

Then something pops up. Besides Lucius Banda’s ‘Mayi Zembani’ playing in the background, I remember one incident I still cherish to this day.

On the day I was sent to buy some tomatoes at the market near our home. 10 kilometres away, we still said it was near, there was no other anyway.pon my return, the bicycle I used, the only precious item that our family owned developed a fault.

“I always say that this boy rides the bike carelessly as if he’s on some automotive” shouted my father.

A quite boy I was then, I couldn’t comprehend how the bicycle I had used to and from the market would choose to betray me and crumble just after arriving.

“But father, it’s true that am the one who just used the bike. But I didn’t notice any fault” it was an appeal in my own defence.

In vain I strived to buy my father’s belief that I did not cause the said damage to the family’s most valued possession.

All along mum had been quiet. She’s not the type that intervenes when dad talks to boys.  This time she surprised all of us.

“If you asked Sam and he said that he doesn’t know of the fault, believe him. If he had noticed it he would admit.” she spoke her truth, jumping to my defence.

A few minutes later, my young brother Shadreck comes enters the home as we are still talking of the bicycle damage.

Without even asking of what is being talked about he makes what would turn out to be a confession.

“When I took the bicycle yesterday, the bell was not working very well. After many attempts to repair it, I realised that I touched the line connecting to the breaks so they couldn’t work properly.” He said.

Mouth agape my father looked at mum.

One of the stories that I will live to remember about my mother, a Nachisale.

On this day I write this piece in English. A language she can’t read. But why I am I writing?

Because when I was in primary school she would say to me and my 3 school going siblings; “You must work hard at school so that you should get good jobs and speak good English”

Now I can speak English, not good English though. Of the job, I might get one after school.

Today, 15th October 2015 I write this for a Nachisale. The tree which gives fruits even in the driest of seasons.

A woman who told me that inside me there’s greatness. A lady who never went past standard 5, but encouraged me to get a college education.

To a Nachisale and a million other angels out there I say; No matter the struggle that we face, the class battle that we face, someday you shall reap the fruits of your labour.

For a starter, you have this piece written in English as you always dreamt; having a son who could write in the Queen’s language.

Happy Mother’s day to you all!

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2 thoughts on “For a Nachisale, the timeless fruit tree”

  1. Mr. Banda, you make your mother proud. These words of yours inspire me, especially now when I consider returning (next year) returning to Malawi to offer the gift of voice to women and children by connecting them with their voice through writing. Thank you.

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