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Authors: William Kamkwamba
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farmer in the country who needed it. Seed was also cheap, allowing any Malawian to grow tobacco to sell. This meant that as long as it continued to rain, no family would go hungry.
On the other hand, Muluzi had been a wealthy businessman before entering politics and believed government had no business dealing in fertilizer and seed. He wanted to be different from Banda in every possible way, and this included stopping all subsidies and making the farmers fend for themselves. The free market allowed wealthy companies to flood the auction floors with mass-produced tobacco that drove the prices down and squeezed the small farmer. Soon, the value of our burley tobacco was so low that many farmers didn’t bother growing it. My family managed to plant a few small plots, in addition to our normal maize fields. But withoutthe help of seasonal workers, it was up to me and my cousins to help keep our farm running.
T HE YEAR AFTER U NCLE John died, my uncle Socrates lost his job as a welder at Kasungu Flue-Cured Tobacco Authority when the estate closed. He and his family were forced to leave their quarters there and move back to our village, to a large shed near our house.
Uncle Socrates had seven daughters, which was good news for my sisters, but to me, their arrival didn’t mean much one way or another. However, as we unloaded their things from the ten-ton lorry, I saw something leap from the truck bed.
Out of nowhere, a large dog appeared at my feet.
“Get away!” Socrates shouted, kicking the air above the dog’s head. It yelped once and scampered off. Once at a safe distance, it sat down and stared at me.
“That’s our dog, Khamba,” he said. “I figured we’d bring him along to watch the chickens and goats here. That’s what he did best at the estate. Maybe it’ll remind him of home. We’ll sure miss it there.”
Khamba was the most unusual thing I’d ever seen: all white with large black spots across his head and body, as if someone had splattered him with a pail of paint. His eyes were brown and his nose was peppered with bright pink blotches. He looked exotic, like something from another land. Plus, he was big—much taller than the dogs around our village, but certainly just as skinny. In Malawi, dogs are kept only for security, and as a result, they aren’t fed like their cousins in the West. Malawian dogs eat mice and table scraps, when there are any. In all my life, I’d never seen a fat dog.
Khamba sat there watching me, his long white tail fanning the dirt behind him. His long tongue hung out the side of his mouth, dripping saliva. As soon as Socrates went inside, Khamba came over and mounted my leg.
“Get away!” I shouted, making a swatting motion with my hands. The dog scurried against the house.
“Go chase some chickens, you stupid animal!”
His tongue came rolling out again, slobbering on the dirt.
The next morning when I awoke, I tripped over something as I stumbled out toward the latrine. There was Khamba, lying square in my doorway, ears perked and waiting.
“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” I said, then realized what I was doing. I couldn’t let anyone catch me talking to animals. They’d think I was mad.
Walking back from the toilet, I met Socrates coming out of our house with my father. He smiled and pointed at the dog now attached to my shadow.
“I see you found a friend,” he said. “You know, the good Lord blessed me with seven children, but they’re all girls. I think Khamba is happy to have found a pal.”
“I’m no friend to a dog,” I said.
Socrates laughed. “Tell that to him.”
A FTER THAT, I GAVE up trying to get rid of Khamba. It was no use. And to be honest, he wasn’t all that bad. Since I’d never had a dog of my own, it was nice having someone around, especially someone who didn’t talk or tell me what to do. Khamba slept outside my door each night, and when it rained, he’d sneak into my mother’s kitchen and curl himself in
On the other hand, Muluzi had been a wealthy businessman before entering politics and believed government had no business dealing in fertilizer and seed. He wanted to be different from Banda in every possible way, and this included stopping all subsidies and making the farmers fend for themselves. The free market allowed wealthy companies to flood the auction floors with mass-produced tobacco that drove the prices down and squeezed the small farmer. Soon, the value of our burley tobacco was so low that many farmers didn’t bother growing it. My family managed to plant a few small plots, in addition to our normal maize fields. But withoutthe help of seasonal workers, it was up to me and my cousins to help keep our farm running.
T HE YEAR AFTER U NCLE John died, my uncle Socrates lost his job as a welder at Kasungu Flue-Cured Tobacco Authority when the estate closed. He and his family were forced to leave their quarters there and move back to our village, to a large shed near our house.
Uncle Socrates had seven daughters, which was good news for my sisters, but to me, their arrival didn’t mean much one way or another. However, as we unloaded their things from the ten-ton lorry, I saw something leap from the truck bed.
Out of nowhere, a large dog appeared at my feet.
“Get away!” Socrates shouted, kicking the air above the dog’s head. It yelped once and scampered off. Once at a safe distance, it sat down and stared at me.
“That’s our dog, Khamba,” he said. “I figured we’d bring him along to watch the chickens and goats here. That’s what he did best at the estate. Maybe it’ll remind him of home. We’ll sure miss it there.”
Khamba was the most unusual thing I’d ever seen: all white with large black spots across his head and body, as if someone had splattered him with a pail of paint. His eyes were brown and his nose was peppered with bright pink blotches. He looked exotic, like something from another land. Plus, he was big—much taller than the dogs around our village, but certainly just as skinny. In Malawi, dogs are kept only for security, and as a result, they aren’t fed like their cousins in the West. Malawian dogs eat mice and table scraps, when there are any. In all my life, I’d never seen a fat dog.
Khamba sat there watching me, his long white tail fanning the dirt behind him. His long tongue hung out the side of his mouth, dripping saliva. As soon as Socrates went inside, Khamba came over and mounted my leg.
“Get away!” I shouted, making a swatting motion with my hands. The dog scurried against the house.
“Go chase some chickens, you stupid animal!”
His tongue came rolling out again, slobbering on the dirt.
The next morning when I awoke, I tripped over something as I stumbled out toward the latrine. There was Khamba, lying square in my doorway, ears perked and waiting.
“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” I said, then realized what I was doing. I couldn’t let anyone catch me talking to animals. They’d think I was mad.
Walking back from the toilet, I met Socrates coming out of our house with my father. He smiled and pointed at the dog now attached to my shadow.
“I see you found a friend,” he said. “You know, the good Lord blessed me with seven children, but they’re all girls. I think Khamba is happy to have found a pal.”
“I’m no friend to a dog,” I said.
Socrates laughed. “Tell that to him.”
A FTER THAT, I GAVE up trying to get rid of Khamba. It was no use. And to be honest, he wasn’t all that bad. Since I’d never had a dog of my own, it was nice having someone around, especially someone who didn’t talk or tell me what to do. Khamba slept outside my door each night, and when it rained, he’d sneak into my mother’s kitchen and curl himself in
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