Another Justified Sinner

by Sophie Hopesmith

  ‘They’ve got hospitals, nurses. They need nurses.’

  ‘Most of those kids won’t even get to go to secondary school. They know this. You know this. And even if they do, come on, their prospects aren’t great.’

  ‘That’s the problem with you lot. You cry about all these injustices and you don’t realise that you’re the one that’s being bloody patronising. Maybe they’re happy how they are. Maybe they’re doing all right.’

  ‘But they don’t know any better.’

  ‘But you’re basically admitting that our economic system is the best one. That it’s good to live in a major capitalist country. And, by the way, there’s plenty of poverty in our own country if you wanted to look for it…’

  ‘This has nothing to do with being anti-capitalist, Marcus. This is to do with how capitalism works in a rich country and how capitalism works in a poor one. There’s not enough to go around. Don’t you get that? We sit there and educate them and it’s the wrong kind of education. What they need is a wake-up call.’

  ‘Yes, let’s get them to revolt! Just what the world needs – another loony country that hates us.’ He was getting carried away on the wave of his rhetoric. ‘I’ll tell you what we need. What would be good. More war. Let’s have more war! More revolution. There’s not enough war in the world.’ But he looked over at Annabelle and she wasn’t even really listening to him anymore. She was slumped down with her lips stuck out. Her eyes dancing with indignation and tears.

  He didn’t know whether to continue the argument, or if she needed a fuck, or if he should just walk away. At last, he broke the silence: ‘At least you’re not Miss Pollyanna for once. That’s worth missing hippos for. I mean it. It literally is.’

  He caught her face. It slid between outrage and humour. She gave in to the latter and chuckled to herself and stared up at the clouds, while he picked up his book again. As he scuffed at the pages, she saw herself as a dot on an atlas, pinned to this sliver of a country; shaped like an intestinal worm, a throwaway thought, like it was tossed on the map, just the scraps of a meal.

  A little later, on New Year’s Day, the second death showed up.

  John, seven, was walking along the side of the road, taking his time, returning from bend-down market errands. These mobile markets slam-bang across different sections of the main road; wares spread so low on the ground that you have to creak your back to get a good look. When you finally lower yourself low enough, you have to sift through stacks of tat, rejected by every charity shop in the West. But one man’s tat is another one’s treasure, so the saying goes – and John had scored some superlative tat, as authorised by his father just an hour or two earlier.

  Now the lights flickered out and John saw the start of his village. He was thinking about woodsmoke : and food : and stars : and the garlic gust of neem trees.

  The truck skidded to the side and ripped John’s body in two. It flipped over and skated on its back for several metres, metal crunched up in a ball and glass smashed up into grit. Nobody got out because the passenger was dead and the driver was dying. He lived only five minutes more. There was not enough air in his lungs left to scream.

  The news didn’t reach the village until the early hours of the morning. It came after countless pacing and retracing John’s steps. Torchlight stomped into barren corners. Tears were shed. Somebody told the father about the accident. The body had been taken to the hospital, they said. The father got into his car and drove to that hospital, where he identified some body parts as his son. He clutched the upper half of the body and he wailed like a baby, trying to squeeze whatever life really is back into that child-size skull. He didn’t leave the hospital until he was certain that the tears had dried up. He had to be strong for his family. He had to wear his face like a mask.

  When Kondwani returned to the village, he sat for a few minutes in the car with the engine left running. There can be comfort in mechanical sounds like cars or aeroplanes or radio static. It’s the sound of automata; white-noise balm for the ceaseless babble of brain fizz. He lit a cigarette.

  When Dziko saw the cigarette, she sank to her knees and screamed. Kondwani didn’t smoke. Nobody really smokes cigarettes in Malawi, although most of the population depends on tobacco farming to survive. But a previous charity worker – long since returned to home comforts – had given him this particular pack as a gift.

  At the time, he told his wife: ‘I will save these for a rainy day.’ He had caught the English expression, and he liked to say it often. ‘Is today a rainy day? No, not today.’ Or: ‘Yes, the sky is raining, but it isn’t a rainy day, is it, my love?’ And: ‘Let’s hope that rainy day never comes, love. Thanks to God, thanks to God.’

  The smoke wound around his body and rolled through the car like a ghost snake.

  He stayed like this – his hand poised in the air, the vapour biting and stinging and pricking his face – as he watched his wife screaming and beating the ground, his other children swirling about her, upset and uncertain. When some villagers came to hold her and move her away, she looked up into his eyes and he took a deep drag and slowly shook his head and held his breath without coughing.

  The mourning lasted for days. The family gathered on the side of the road, outside the house. Dziko wailed. Branches were spread on either side of the road, so people could spot the residuum of death. Friends of the family sometimes sat with the family, sometimes slept among them. At different points, the charity workers themselves – friends of Kondwani – sat beside him and stammered out platitudes. He nodded and grunted but never replied. He wanted to sit very still, in silence, as robust as a statue; not a frail straw body, all stuffed out with pain.

  Stephanie was one of the first to sit with him. She was terrified of Kondwani’s face. She was used to seeing it laugh and smile and joke and dance. To see a face like that turn as stock-still as stone was as shocking as seeing snow in the summer.

  She whispered words of consolation and prayers of solace. She gave these mostly to Dziko. She hugged their children and held the baby. She leant towards Kondwani and gave him money for the funeral. ‘From the charity,’ she said. ‘On behalf of us all.’

  He did speak then. He told her, thank you.

  Dziko wailed and Kondwani looked up at the sky. When Dziko and the children went to a neighbour’s house for some food, Kondwani said he wasn’t hungry.

  ‘Can I stay with you a bit longer?’

  Stephanie watched the family trail off; Dziko staggering into the shadows.

  ‘Yes. But no talk.’

  ‘We don’t have to talk.’

  ‘I remember fact in your book,’ he said.

  ‘Book?’

  ‘About Malawi.’

  ‘What, the charity leaflet?’

  He shrugged. ‘I remember. One in thirteen children die before birthday number one. One in seven not go to five. This is Malawi. This is my country. This, my dead child. How many more?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No more talk,’ he said, irritably, as if Stephanie had started it. ‘No more talk.’ Then he said: ‘Is everyone gone?’

  ‘Your family’s eating dinner. There’s nobody here.’

  ‘Hold me.’

  She blinked.

  ‘Hold me. Please.’

  Her arms were stiff and awkward as she enveloped his thick, broad chest. She rested her chin on his shoulder. He writhed around in her clinch and barked. It felt like an exorcism. The back of her top was soaked. It was a terrible thing and yet she was happy. She wanted someone to press the pause button. But nobody pressed it, and life went on; those minutes, those hours, those days. Of course, the embrace had to end. That day had to end. All lives have to end. There is always an end.

  But Marcus wasn’t at the end, just yet. He tailspinned into a new chronic state. Anxiety feels like you have metal in your lungs. Something cold and hard swells up from the gut and lodges in your centre. Your breath cannot flow through it. It has to stagger around. It jumps up for air in
these stop-start spurts.

  He remembered that god-awful DJ on the radio. The middle-of-the-road voice, geographically unidentifiable, all smooth and neutral and the consistency of milk. He remembered her eyes blinking in the rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the driveway, that thick blonde hair… A hand reaching up to scrub away surface tears. The buzz of the door. The police saying those words, the world ripping at the seams, nothing quite holding it up. Her body now somewhere along the West Coast. Was it even a body or was it just dirt? How long does a body take to decompose? How long does it take until the face rubs out?

  John’s death, the car accident… It brought it all back. This whole African episode had thrown him into a trance, into some wild distraction, and he had suddenly come to. He cried most nights for Nancy. Nancy – who died all those years ago. Who would get so very young as he got so old. Why the hell did he still care? He couldn’t talk to Kondwani; the pain reminded him too much of his own. He recognised that hunched-over back, eyes of horrifying blankness. He left him alone, and he grew very quiet, less cocksure, licking away at his wounds.

  There was one particular night when a violent thought swung at him: he didn’t want to go home, after all. There wasn’t a home. At least here, in Malawi, there was diversion and routine and a sense that he mattered – that people depended on his efforts. He felt some dots joining up but they joined over his neck like a noose. He accepted this fate, pulled it tighter still.

  He didn’t go to John’s funeral, but he heard from Dora and Annabelle and some others that it was surprisingly similar to western funerals. The village headman had notified surrounding villages, and the turnout was good. With help from the charity, John was able to lie in a coffin. People gave speeches, and sang, and read extracts from the Bible. It went on for hours, and Philippa said they were not expected to stay for it all.

  ‘I didn’t know they were Christian,’ he commented.

  ‘Most Malawians are Christians,’ said Dora. She curled her feet under her body, on the chair, the way children do. Her cheeks were flushed. She liked excitement and drama and the relaying of gossip; as if more people knowing something made it even more real. ‘Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you read the leaflet?’

  ‘What leaflet?’

  ‘The one on Malawi. The one in our welcome pack.’

  ‘I didn’t read the welcome pack.’

  ‘Oh Christ, Marcus, there was a whole profile in there. Well, most are Protestant but a few are Catholic. Can’t remember the exact percentage.’

  ‘So how can they believe in witchcraft? And things like that?’

  ‘I guess they just fit alongside each other. Some people might say turning water into wine sounds a bit like witchcraft. Like a magic trick.’

  He rolled his eyes. Dora, always trying to sound so clever and grown up, with that punchable face, with that unlined skin. ‘Well, what about multiple wives? Like Useni? And some of the others?’

  ‘Kondwani had one wife.’

  ‘Yes, but some of them have more.’

  ‘Like I said, I think they adapt it.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘Back to the funeral, Dora.’ Annabelle was in the corner, filling in her diary.

  ‘I don’t think Marcus even cares,’ she sighed, leaning back with folded arms.

  ‘Does every female in this camp have to be hormonal and aggressive?’ He thought of lovely pliable Lisa, growing thin and possessed.

  ‘You sexist shit. I’m not being aggressive!’

  ‘It was a nice send-off.’ Annabelle’s voice, low and flat. ‘Some of the songs were beautiful. One of his children sang. His older girl. I can’t remember her name. I don’t know what she sang but it was beautiful.’

  ‘A lot of the kids in the other village are Muslim. I saw the Koran in the classroom. A couple of the women wearing veils.’

  ‘Yes, there are Muslims in Malawi.’ Dora made an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘How does that work, then?’

  ‘I think it all works out fine, Marcus. Jesus! You get different faiths in the UK, for God’s sake. And not everyone is as backward as the States when it comes to views on Islam.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘They just get on with it. I don’t think there’s tension. I think there is less division between religions. It’s all just worshipping a god. As long as you do that, it’s fine.’

  ‘Kondwani is leaving.’ Annabelle shut her diary and sat up straight. ‘I heard Philippa telling Stephanie this morning.’

  ‘What, leaving the village?’

  ‘No, not the village. He won’t leave the village. The charity, I mean. He’s leaving the charity.’

  ‘What’s he going to do for a living?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just overheard.’

  Dora’s eyes wide and unblinking, trying to swallow the facts. ‘Well, what did you hear?’

  ‘I just heard he was leaving. Really, that’s it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dora. I said I don’t know.’

  ‘OK. Tetchy!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Annabelle’s face went calm and affable. ‘Ugh, it’s been a really long day.’

  ‘It’s no longer than any other.’

  ‘Relativity, Dora, relativity.’ Marcus fired a disdainful glance. She screwed up her face and then got up and left. They both watched her go. Exchanging glances.

  ‘I don’t think she’s too happy with you.’

  ‘Why? Because of that? That was nothing. She’s going to have to tell families that their loved ones are dead when she grows up to be a doctor. She’s going to need thicker skin. She likes to get the last word. That’s all. She’s a baby who acts like she’s a fucking guru.’

  Annabelle snorted. Then laughed. ‘You have an interesting way with words. It’s kind of nice to see your spark back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been quiet, lately. Not your usual self. If you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m never the loudest. Dora is definitely louder. And don’t get me started on Toby…’

  ‘Quiet’s the wrong word. I mean – I don’t know… A bit more squishy.’

  ‘Squishy?’

  ‘Yeah, you seem a bit more delicate. In the last few days. Is it because of John and Kondwani?’

  ‘I’m not more “delicate”. Oh god, I need to find Chris…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I need some male conversation. I’m suffocating here.’

  She swallowed. She was trying to swallow the anger. ‘Well, you’re in luck. I think dinner’s ready now, anyway.’

  He followed her through to the veranda. By the time they reached the table, all the conversation had stopped. There wasn’t much to say these days. Some quiet buzz about the weather. The scraping of metal cutlery on ceramic plates. The hollow murmuring of approval for tasteless food.

  Stephanie’s eyes were cast down throughout. She didn’t even look up when Philippa confirmed that Kondwani was leaving them. That he was taking a break. That they were flying over a new driver who wasn’t native Malawian; he was a second-generation Brit, but he still spoke Chichewa. He knew the culture very well. He visited often. He was delighted to join the charity. His name was Daniel. Etc., etc.

  The next day stretched out like every other day. The intense sun bore down on them, like extra weight on their flesh. Dogs stopped running and sniffing and pissing in doorways. They lazed in the heat with their tails tucked under. Their bodies panting, thick tongues oozing out. Flip-flops kept whipping up the rubble into clouds. People staggered into their duties and chores. Heads jerked up at the sky, wondering when it would rain. It had to rain soon. It just had to, didn’t it?

  ‘What are they eating?’ asked Marcus. It was another day, at last. They were outside the village school, with the children running up to him and Annabelle: taking their hands and touching their clothes. They popped small white granules into their mouths like candy.

/>   Abikanile shook her head. He didn’t understand the gesture.

  ‘They’ve got a lot of it,’ he added. ‘Considering the drought.’

  ‘It’s millet,’ she muttered, but then her face went puce. ‘It’s birdseed, you idiot. It’s fucking birdseed!’

  It was the only time that anyone had heard Abikanile swear. The group hurried into the school, into the calm and orderly presence of Bertha, who never let feathers ruffle. She just sat there, stoic, as always. Annabelle had once caught her crying. She said it was just pellets of tears down an impassive face.

  But there was more to come. The third death, a murder.

  They knew something was wrong when the dogs stopped sitting and panting and basking in heat. They heard them howling, went over to look, and they were huddled in a pack, grinding up a corpse with their maws and their noses blood-wet.

  People beat them with sticks, so they could drag the body to the side. They saw a stab wound in the stomach. The knife chucked away, just a few metres to the left.

  The next morning, after a complicated tournament of ‘paper, scissors, stone’, Marcus set out to carry a gift to the grieving mother.

  The village house was typical. No cement or brick, just basic mud. A thatched roof held up with sticks. Inside, some basic provisions. The colourful swirl of river clay adding extra decoration.

  The mother sat with her hands clasped together and the stars in her eyes. He could not comprehend all the fire within her.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, uncertain.

  ‘Hello,’ she replied, before the translator could speak. ‘Hello.’ She knew that much. She split open her lips and her mouth was full of holes and charcoal gum. Her face stayed fixed and no more English fell out.

  ‘I am very sorry to hear of your loss.’ He waited for Abikanile to translate.

  The woman stared at his face while Abikanile spoke – as if the words were still his voice. She closed her mouth and nodded.

  ‘My name is Marcus.’ He waited.

  She mumbled something. ‘She is saying her name. You know her name, don’t you?’