Nixon Mateulah

Nixon Mateulah (1973) was born in Lilongwe, Malawi. He moved to South Africa in 1996. His writings have appeared in Munyori, Jungle Jim Magazine, Storymoja, Aerodrome, Kalahari Review, Tuck Magazine, Stanzas Magazine, Poetry Institute of Africa anthologies et cetera. He publishes poems under the pseudonym, Chichichapatile Mangochi. His debut novel, Forgiveness won a prize in an inaugural Malawi National Book Award (2018). Nixon has participated in the Fourth African Writers Trust’s Editorial and Publishing Training Workshop (2016) in Kampala, Uganda, facilitated by Jacob Ross. He is currently working on his second novel, Running Home and publishing online epic fantasy series, The Mystery Child.

The Bitches of Blantyre

“This time around I won’t go to Mustapha’s house. Last week I met a real man at the Church Square, in Pretoria,” said Christina smugly.

“What you mean by a real man?”

Christina, Thoko and their new friend, Amina were sitting on the three-seater just behind the seat from the emergency window.

“What you mean by a real man, girl?” repeated Thoko.

“A man with cash!” said Christina impetuously, irrespective of inquisitive glances from the passengers who had turned their eyes to her in their collective denunciation.

“Have you dumped Mustapha now?”

“Why not? Mustapha is just an ordinary dressmaker, and drives an old battered Mazda 323. I have found a real man now.”

Abruptly, the bus resounded with catcalls, whistles, booing and an agony of windows being pummeled to a musical tune.

“Stupid men!” cried Christina as she got up and turned her eyes to the back seat.

The men abruptly stopped the cacophony of mind-bending pummelling of the windows and got up.

Thoko too got up in defence of her friend and started to hurl stones of admonition at them.

“All of you guys are stupid! You have left your wives behind for other men to gobble them up! You are going to South Africa to look for work — I bet you, only a handful of you would return home alive — some of you would die there, your wives and children would never see your tomb!” blurted out Thoko, shooting out her tongue and curling it down her lip, her eyes hollow in a caricature of mockery.

“Sit down you damn ass!” roared, a burly muscular man, a cobra’s head tattooed on the side of his right biceps. He was chewing Chappies bubble gum and looked like a typical he-goat enjoying a tender shrub. He got up, bounded down the aisle and confronted Thoko.

“You’re a stupid man!” snapped Christina, “look at you, at your age, fighting with a woman!”

“Shut up woman!” cried the man, brandishing his clenched fist whose fingers adorned cheap silver rings which wheezed in the air as he quickly swung it up and down to scare the women. “Hit her!” growled Thoko, “and see what will happen to you in South Africa!”

“I don’t care whether you have skolies in South Africa! I can maul your face and nose like a hyena and you couldn’t like yourselves anymore!”

“Go ahead!” thundered Christina balefully as she walked to the man, brandishing an empty bottle of Castle Lager. “Hit her!” hollered Thoko brandishing a knife. Then the other bus driver who was retiring on the back seat got up and stopped the scuffle. The fighters returned to their seats and silence reigned for a while.

Christina was slightly plump and blessed with a youthful face that had defied her real age. She was in her early thirties but could pass on for a twenty-year-old girl and with her constant use of skin lighteners, she looked absolutely beautiful. She wore a blonde wig that matched her light face and many people had mistaken her for a coloured woman, she preferred it that way. And in South Africa she had named herself Christina Gaffer and not her husband’s name Nthungululu. Her friend Thoko was a bit dark, tall and curvaceous. She looked sexy in her tight jeans and long dreadlocks that cascaded down her waist. She was a black beauty with such an infectious smile that whenever she smiled her cheeks moved up almost closing in on her eyes and many men found her so endearing and luscious — was in her late twenties. Amina who was sitting by the window was stout and possessed an elegant figure that was disguised in her black hijab. She had a round forehead, sparkling brown eyes and dimples that enhanced her facial excellence — and was also in her late twenties.

The bus was presently speeding towards the town of Tete, shops that lined up on either side of the road appeared like they were in a race speeding in the opposite direction as the bus rumbled away. After a while, Christina and Thoko resumed their conversation.

“What were we talking about?

“You’re talking of the new man in your life.”

“Oooh, Welemu — he got money and he drives a black E90 BMW 320d.”

“So what will happen to me? Since I go out with Mustapha’s friend, Chezwiche?”

“Just tell Mustapha that I have failed to come because my husband is sick.”

“So you told him that you’re married.”

“Why not, after all, my husband is at home in Malawi. You very well know that every car has a spare tyre, always!” Startled passengers just shook their heads at her crude, gibberish mumbo-jumbo.

“So, what will happen to me since I’m a first-timer? Who’ll help me buy the stuff in Johannesburg?” asked Amina, with a lumpy throat.

“We will give you a man!” piped up Thoko.

Unexpectedly the bus ricocheted with the passengers’ antiphonal chant of aaahs and ooohs that went on for a couple of minutes. This annoyed Christina, who violently and belligerently got up, her eyes flashing fire, and trudged to and fro in the aisle looking for a ringleader. No one stirred. She sat down at last and continued with their conversation.

“I can’t do that, I am a Muslim and married woman, and my husband is a very respectable man in our community.”

“A Muslim!” laughed Christina brusquely.

“There’s Khadja Bauleni, a Muslim in Hillbrow. She is my friend from Ndirande. She’s making money like water from a burst pipe. She has lot of clients — famous soccer players, rugby players, musicians, politicians and even white business men,” said Thoko gaily.

“I know her — she’s no longer in Hillbrow. She moved to Sea Point in Cape Town. Last year, she came home driving a black BMW X5. She was untouchable!” cried Christina.

“I heard she had changed her name. She got a halo around her inscribed, Khethiwe Baleen.”

“No one can blame her. She is smart!” said Christina with laughing eyes.

“She is not!” countered Amina after she couldn’t bear any longer with their disgusting praises of a prostitute, “she is a disgrace to her family and the Muslim community as a whole.”

“Okay! I will introduce you to a Muslim client in Laudium. How about that? His name is Suleiman Khan, a Pakistani national. He owns the famous Bismillah Tikka Chicken Den in Laudium, and is mad about black Muslim girls — and he pays well,” said Thoko.

“I cannot do that!”

“Without a spare tyre! You won’t survive in this business — stationery! Think of the inflation rate, expenses you’ll incur! How do you think we survive in these difficult times?” asked Christina gravely.

“When we’re in South Africa, all virtues and morals and religions cease to function — robes and long dresses we stash them away and put on short skirts and revealing blouses and go about painting the city — making money and meeting libertines from all walks of life,” said Thoko without an ounce of shame.

“I cannot cheat on my husband. Why can’t we be proud of our innocent, sensible husbands? How many men in Malawi allow their wives to do cross-border business? Think twice guys. We have families to look after, children to raise and there are diseases out there.”

“We’re not forcing you to indulge in debauchery, you will see for yourself how it strengthens one’s business just like love herbs tame a man in an irretrievable marriage,” said Christina, taking out her expensive phone, Samsung Galaxy S7, from her handbag.

“Wow! What an expensive phone!” bellowed Amina with envy tinged in her voice.

“My new boyfriend, Welemu bought me this phone, cash! Do you think my husband could afford to buy this phone — a man who uses an out of date Nokia 3310?”

“So, what do your husband say about this phone?” asked Amina as she admired the phone.

“What can he say? My husband is a fool. In fact, every man is a fool. Men readily believe everything we say at the opening of our legs. Every woman’s body is gold — it gives us whatever we want in life. I don’t know why some women stupidly install themselves in indigent homes whilst they have an expensive asset between their legs! I don’t know why God loved us women more than men so much by giving us this expensive asset that drives men or even highly religious men insane all the time?” asked Christina, casting her mocking glances like a net over the men, who had been quiet, stunned and subdued by her blasphemous oratory.

“Because, without that God would not have created a woman,” mumbled a voice from the back. Christina and Thoko got up simultaneously like marathon runners at the shot of a gun.

“Aha! This is interesting, indeed, that means Eve brought happiness in the Garden of Eden,” said Thoko still standing.

“Eve brought problems. All women are whores!” fired out a hoarse voice from the back seat that sounded like a maize corn in the pan.

“Your Maa! Come out and show up your ugly face! You shiftless nincompoop!” snapped Christina as she got out of her seat and walked defiantly to and fro in the passage.

“Woman, sit down!” thundered the muscular man as he got up from his seat, scurried out and confronted Christina.

“Don’t dare your filthy hands lay on me! Don’t touch me!” barked Christina with venom.

“Man leave her! Or else we’ll deal with you in Pretoria!” warned Thoko brandishing a stiletto heel shoe and a knife. The muscular man grabbed Christina by the waist and picked her up, Christina kept on pummelling his head with her hands as the man traipsed to her seat and threw her onto it. Thoko attempted to stab the man but he quickly grabbed her hand, and as he was about to smack her in the face — the other driver, Chamunorwa, ran quickly and stopped the scuffle.

“Hey! Young man these are just women!” The tall and lean Chamunorwa towered in between the fighters like a referee in a boxing ring and asked them politely to return to their seats. The driver urged the passengers to avoid talks that could ignite a tiff.

The sun was busy burying itself behind the hills. If it were a person’s internment, then we would say the undertakers had reached a point where they were shaping up the mound with their bare hands. The veil of darkness was descending down very quickly like the motion of an automatic gate sliding to close.

Thoko and Christina remained silent for a while until Christina thundered out: “I think when we’re in South Africa I must phone Welemu to meet us at the Bosman depot and teach that twit a lesson.”

“I will call Chezwiche too, he knows bad guys in Garankuwa, who would vice-grip that nitwit’s testicles at Chezwiche’s order!”

“No man can sit and do nothing when his dearest lover is being attacked by another man. Welemu would bring bad guys too.”

Out of the blue, the muscular man got up at the back and traipsed to the women quietly. Other passengers got up too from their seats in anticipation of the fight. Christina and Thoko got up to confront him. The man skulked stolidly in subservient gait, his hands clasped behind his back like a losing soccer coach at the touchline.

“I have come here in peace,” he bowed, “and I’m here to apologise to both of you for everything. I have realised that a man who fight with a woman is a coward. I am not a coward. Please sisters forgive me for everything.” There was silence for a moment. The man stood stock-still waiting for a friendly reply.

“It is not easy for a woman to forgive and forget when she has been ridiculed beyond endurance by a man. I require you to come again to apologise on your bended knees tomorrow morning!” ordered Christina balefully.

“I will do as requested,” said the muscular man solemnly, and he strolled back to his seat. There were chants of ooh and aah amongst the passengers as the muscular man tottered back to his seat, his eyes magnetically looking for a ringleader to catch, but he at last dismissed his malicious intention and quietly proceeded to sit on his seat satisfied with his signature of truce with the women. He had feared for his life — he knew the women were prostitutes who knew a lot of bad guys in South Africa and could easily mobilise skolies to kill him — as it is evidently known that life in South Africa is so cheap that one can go under the knife by as little as an offer of a bottle of beer.

This time the bus passed through Harare and it was cruising towards the town of Masvingo. The magnificent full moon blazed out in the deep blue sky and stars were thinly scattered across the skyline. It was very hot. Christina tried to lean her head against the open window but the fiery breeze that wafted through the window scalded her head. She withdrew her head from the window and rested it on the shoulder of Thoko. By now most of the passengers had retired in their seats and slept.

As the bus hit the vicinity of Polokwane city, the propeller shaft of the bus broke off from the centre bearing. Luckily, the bus driver stopped the bus without causing an alarm. In consternation, the driver got down and discovered the dreadful truth — the propeller shaft was hanging down and had made a trail of engraved zigzagged marks on tarmac from where it broke off to where it had stopped.

“What’s the matter?” cried the muscular man as other passengers encircled the bus driver.

“The propeller shaft is broken,” said the driver solemnly, “I am sorry, we will have to wait for a bus from Jo’burg”

“What?” exclaimed the angry passengers. The driver tried to weave his way out of menacing wall of the passengers as others had started to push him into the centre. The muscular man grabbed him by the right arm and pulled him out.

“Didn’t your mechanic check the bus before we left, huh?”

“Leave me alone,” pleaded the driver as he tried to shake off the man’s hand.

This did not go well with the passengers who were very tired and wished their interminable journey had come to an end. Many passengers expressed their disappointment and others vowed that they would never travel by Mufambe Zvakanaka bus again. The driver, reeling in a fit of uneasiness after being chaffed by the passengers’ reproof, ran a few yards away and in a brief solace phoned the Johannesburg office to bring them another bus. After a while, the driver’s face inflamed with enforced unctuousness coated over his apprehension, informed the passengers that another bus from Jo’burg would come in five hours.

“Five hours! My goodness! Your boss would pay for this!” cried the muscular man pointing an accusing finger at the driver who had gone and sat down against the bus’ rear tyre, his head glued to his hands.

The angry and intractable passengers did not say much as it appeared to them that the writing was conspicuously on the wall — whatever they would say would not change the scenario at hand so they collectively watered down their burning anger and wondered about Polokwane city like cows without a herdsman. The time was around three in the afternoon, the sun pitilessly churned out its mighty hit and it was scorching hot. And the ground burned enough to make the sweet potatoes buried underground on farms readily roasted and edible.

Five hours later, the bus from Johannesburg arrived. The driver went about calling out to the passengers to board the bus quickly. The bus left exactly at eight-fifteen PM. Christina took out her phone and phoned her boyfriend Welemu to pick them up at the Bosman depot in Pretoria. The muscular man indeed in the morning had apologised to Christina and the spirit of goodwill and friendliness pervaded the bus. Thoko had tried to call Chezwiche but his phone went on voice.

Nonetheless, the bus arrived at Bosman depot before midnight. Welemu had arrived earlier at the depot. He had been drinking and playing pool in Marabastad when Christina had phoned him. Welemu, a Zambian national, was in a company of his friend Joao, a Mozambican who worked for a security company, Fidelity, and as a DJ at Club Obrigado in Gezina. Christina stepped down from the bus and, like a bullet, shot into the open hands of Welemu. Welemu staggered a few steps back from the impact and after regaining his balance scooped up Christina off her feet, turned round and round and almost falling from dizziness, stopped, staggered a little backwards and kissed her loudly: mwah! And placed her gently on her feet again.

Meantime, Joao was reversing Welemu’s BMW E90 which was parked a few metres away.

“I’ve two friends here,” said Christina to Welemu.

“Are they coming with us?”

“Thoko and Amina, will you come with us?” asked Christina.

“Is there a hotel nearby?” asked Amina quickly.

“Tell him to drop me in Laudium at Chezwiche’s house,” said Thoko.

“Why can’t you go with us, my beautiful lady?” said Joao fondly as he walked towards Amina. Amina stepped back and stretched her hands forward like a traffic officer trying to stop a speeding car, her two palms bent at 90% on their wrists. Obediently, Joao stopped in his tracks shaking his head in disbelief as someone not used to rebuffs from women.

“Come on Amina, why must you waste your money while there’s a man at hand to look after you? He will give you everything — accommodation, you name them, and no one at home will know it,” said Christina.

“Of course, my beautiful lady, every time you come to South Africa I will take care of you. I will do everything for you and you won’t spend a kobo out of your purse,” coaxed Joao as he attempted to touch her. Amina placidly moved away. Welemu opened the boot of the car and took four Savanna Dark beers from the cooler box and offered each one a bottle. Amina refused the beer and expressed her immediate wish to get a room at a hotel. Thoko and Christina drank quickly like water and begged for more.

Joao drove to Welemu’s apartment in Sunnyside, where Christina and Welemu were dropped off, and then he took Thoko to Laudium and returned with Amina to Pretoria city to help her get accommodation at a hotel.

“You know what, as you can see all hotels are fully booked and full. This is Sunday — it is difficult to get a place.”

“So what?” exclaimed Amina. Deep down, she knew that he was lying.

It was now around one in the morning. Amina was very tired and needed a bath and sleep badly. Somewhere in Pretorius Street Joao stopped the car.

“There’s nothing we can do, and I don’t stay far. I stay in Schubert Street,” said Joao as he started the car.

“Are you married?”

“No…no…no…”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Is not easy these days to get a good woman. It seems modern women are not interested anymore in marriage, I don’t know why?”

“Young men and women of today indulge in long sensual vices well up into their 30’s, some even into their 40’s, and in an abrupt emotional turn — regretfully, seek to start families whilst one leg is already in the grave,” said Amina gravely.

“We want to enjoy while we’re young, before constraints of marriage lock us up in bondage,” countered Joao.

“That’s why most of you would not taste fruits of old age.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Young boys and young girls must marry whilst they’re young, so that they can live to see their children get married and give them grandchildren — and if fortunate enough, live to see great grandchildren,” said Amina.

“Mmmmh… It’s late — let us just go to my apartment,” said Joao parking the car in the parking lot.

Amina said nothing.

Joao’s face glowed with delight at the prospect of sleeping with Amina. His apartment was on the third floor so they had to climb the steep interminable steps to his apartment. It was a one bedroom apartment with a living room, kitchen and bathroom. Joao ushered Amina into the living room which was excellently furnished with maroon leather sofas and linoleum flooring, and the aroma of lavender hung around the room. He darted to the kitchen and returned a minute later to the living room and asked Amina fondly with love glistening in his eyes to take a bath as he would be busy frying chips and chicken pieces in the kitchen.

After eating the food, Joao coughed as if dislodging a fish bone stuck in his throat and croaked:

“Let me show you where you will sleep.” Amina’s heart skipped a bit.

“Is there another bedroom?” she asked pointing at the curtain that covered the door way of the bedroom.

“No… my dear,” said Joao cheerfully.

“Don’t trouble yourself — I will sleep here on the sofa.”

“No, my dear, the sofa is not meant for sleeping. You’re a beautiful woman. I will treat you like a queen. Come… on,” said Joao as he stretched out his arms in anticipation of hugging her. Amina remained sitting on the sofa. She fumbled into her handbag and fished out two bed sheets. She got up, unfurled one sheet on the sofa and then lay down on the sofa and covered herself with the other sheet. Joao darted to the bedroom to fetch a duvet.

“Would you please uncover yourself and take this duvet?”

Amina shot out her head like a tortoise from its shell and looked at Joao sternly. She received the duvet and asked Joao to switch off the lights as he walked to his room. Joao could not sleep — his licentious desire had tortured his manhood extremely. He sat down, his head in his hands and at last resolved to go to Amina and beg for coitus.

It is now around three in the morning, and in two hours’ time day light will be out, Amina might decide to leave early, thought Joao pensively. He got up violently and stopped at the door way, his erection stiff and rebelling libidinously in its underpants confinement. He grabbed the two door frames and contemplated on a move to seduce Amina. Meantime Amina was snoring — her snores reverberated into his room. He switched on the lights, doddered quietly to her, sat down quietly next to her and watched over her lasciviously, his guard still stiff and rebelling, so much that the weight of two bricks could not weigh it down. He was trembling with lust and fear, and every time he tried to lift up the duvet, Amina stirred sleepily and Joao had to stop, his heart racing, and this confused his erection.

When he tried for the third time to gently lift up the duvet, by pinning it with his forefinger and thumb at its corner, he discovered that Amina was sleeping in her clothes — in a pair of pants and a robe. His detumescent erection went dead. Then, out of the blue, Amina stirred and got up awestruck when she saw Joao sitting by her side in a boxer’s shorts without a vest.

“What are you doing here?” asked Amina frightfully, yawning loudly shooting her arms sideways. Her eyes were puffy from unfinished sleep.

“I can’t sleep,” said Joao as he moved closer to Amina.

“What are you doing now?” said Amina moving away.

“My beautiful lady, do not act like…a small girl…come here,” said Joao as he tried to pull her to his chest.

“Let go off my hand, please!” yelled Amina angrily.

“Come here,” whispered Joao as he tried to encircle his hands around her waist. Amina summoned all her strength and wrenched her hands free from Joao’s grip. Joao stood ramrod straight with his eyes flashing fire — he gazed at Amina for a second and stomped off to his room.

Amina quickly picked up her handbag and raced out. Her footsteps could be heard dwindling like water filling up to the brim in a pail, as she ran down the steps. A strident muezzin was heard from Pretoria Central Mosque. It was now around five AM. Joao was very stultified, and cursed himself for not using enough force to screw Amina. But later he gave in to common sense — sex that is forced upon someone is so nauseating and always cannot slake one’s lust.

At around eight in the morning after wandering in the streets of Pretoria, Amina decided to sit down on the terrace at the Church Square. When she turned back she saw Christina, Welemu and Thoko getting out of the car, a few metres away in Paul Kruger Street. She got up immediately and raced to them.

“Amina!” cried Thoko excitedly.

“Look at you Amina!” said Thoko her eyes wide open in wonder, “your hair is tousled, your clothes creased and you don’t look well at all.”

“Why did you run away from Joao?” asked Christina.

“I did not run away, I just decided to leave early that’s all,” fibbed Amina.

“Joao called us to say you had run away.”

“I just wanted to leave early that’s all.”

“To where? And you hardly know Pretoria. What if you got lost, huh?

“I got your cell numbers guys.”

They took her to Welemu’s house where she had a bath and breakfast before they proceeded to Johannesburg to order their goods.

Thoko had an intriguing story to relate to her friends. When Joao had dropped her off at the door of her boyfriend, Chezwiche, in Pendant Street, she had learnt that Chezwiche had run away to Malawi after conning an Indian businessman, Mr. Tayub of about five hundred thousand rand. Chezwiche was a bogus herbalist. He had sold to an Indian a magic toad. He had instructed the Indian to blow at it all the time at his shop and customers would come in droves. Chezwiche had demonstrated the act and indeed customers came in large numbers, others had to wait outside impatiently as if the goods sold in the shop couldn’t be found in any other shop. Three days later, when the Indian had tried to blow at the toad, no customer stepped into his shop. Those who quickly walked in quickly walked out like running from something unpleasant. Mr.Tayub was stultified and shocked — he grew more and more crotchety at the trick Chezwiche had played on him. He warned that he would skin Chezwiche alive if he happened to show his ugly face in South Africa again.

On the very same day, Chezwiche had conned the Indian, he bought a brand new secondhand E46 BMW and on it stuck a sticker that read: Am so fly, and raced to show off to his friends in Area 25, in Malawi. Chezwiche’s friend Saddam related the whole story to Thoko.

That night Saddam screwed Thoko and the two agreed to meet in Johannesburg in the afternoon. Saddam was a driver — he worked for Home Hyper City in Pretoria. He was younger than Thoko, probably in his early twenties, but Thoko did not mind, what had cared for was his money. Saddam withdrew almost all his money from his Post Office savings account and bought Thoko a new pair of shoes and an expensive handbag at Edgars and gave her one thousand rand as pocket money. All these transactions took place under the nose of Amina who was just looking on quietly — a look that was difficult to decipher whether it envied it or abhorred it.

On the other hand, Christina received from Welemu about five thousand rand and after their shopping spree were taken to eat at Nando’s in Market Street.

Nonetheless, Amina remained adamant and determined not to be captured by an alluring of money, and had readily agreed to sleep in the filthy Mufambe Zvakanaka passengers’ restrooms than commit adultery. Thoko and Christina returned to Pretoria with their boyfriends. The restrooms were a hell of a place — filthy and smelt like a public toilet. The rooms were furnished with cardboards that served as mats and cheap ‘dog’ blankets that were infested with lice. Thoko had warned her of the place, but Amina was so obdurate and determined to face whatever hardships came her way than squirm under the slab of adultery. Mufambe Zvakanaka bus was to leave on Wednesday, so she slept in those squalid rooms for two days whilst, Thoko and Christina shagged their boyfriends on comfortable beds.

On Wednesday morning they regrouped at Mufambe Zvakanaka and the bus left thirty minutes late at exactly half-past twelve in the afternoon.

They arrived at Mwanza, Malawi border post next day in the late afternoon. Everybody got out and took his or her goods into the building where custom officers checked the goods and prescribed duties to be paid. Amina had found out that she was short of money by about twenty thousand kwacha to clear her duties. Thoko came to her rescue.

“But…next time,” said Thoko as she counted the money, “if you had played your cards right you couldn’t be paying any duties here at all. These officers need women like you. We have paid absolutely nothing, look, you’re ruining your business already. See you tomorrow in Limbe, we have to rest a bit, go well and think carefully, next time.”

Amina was completely poleaxed as Thoko and Christina disappeared behind the building — hand in hand with men.