OCTOBER RAINS

This story was once discussed at the Writers' Workshop before it appeared in the Malawi News a week later.It was authored by Innocent Chipofya and it now is being published on our blog wall.

OCTOBER RAINS
By
Innocent Chipofya

THE day began as any other usual day except that the roads were muddy and slippery due to the rains that had fallen the previous night. The rains had washed the red October dusts on the roofs of our houses in Mwazisi village. Despite the steepness and slippery condition of the road, Nyaviyuyi cycled at a speed down the slope. She had to deliver the news. Her mother had delivered a bouncing baby boy. She had to let the oracle of the land know. Her mother had waited for so long for this moment. She had given birth to girls only and had longed for this moment when she could hold a baby boy of her own in her arms. This was the moment. She had given birth to a baby boy. She was at this moment the happiest mother in the village. Nobody could blame her. She had all the reasons to make merry.

Nyaviyuyi could not hide her happiness. She now had someone whom she could call brother. One who, in return, will call her sister. Little did the newborn baby know the joy that his entry into the world of the living had caused. He was nevertheless the village’s joy, laughter and tears. The village had not had a boy since several decades back.

Nyaviyuyi was still cycling and smiling when Nyavidosi brought her back from the world of fantasies.

“Nyaviyuyi, you must have heard something really good. What is it?” she queried.

“Oh, it’s you Nyavidosi, I didn’t notice you were here,” Nyaviyuyi replied as she applied on the brakes of her Hamba bicycle against the slippery gravel road forcing it to stop unconditionally.

“But you haven’t answered my question; or are you that jealousy that you can’t even share a word with me?” Nyavidosi probed as she extended her hand towards Nyaviyuyi.

“It’s not like that my dear, I was going to tell you only that I wanted to make you salivate more with curiosity,” Nyaviyuyi replied as she took Nyavidosi’s hand. Not after many minutes, Nyavidosi knew why her friend was happy. In fact, she was also happy for her. Soon, just like salt in water, the news of the baby boy spread to across all corners of the Mwazisi village and beyond. Indeed, it was the cause for the village’s joy and admiration from its neighbors. Other female members of the village mockingly said they would be forced to cover their bosoms for now there was a man in their midst.

“Psaat!” the oracle spat the thobwa that was brought for him by Nyaviyuyi as a gesture of goodwill. He then quickly ran for a gourd of water that was perched on the corner of his shrine. When he turned to face Nyaviyuyi, his face revealed more wrinkles. He looked a little older now. Nyaviyuyi held her breath and waited for the oracle’s words. But to her surprise, the oracle just stood there, his gaze fixed on the gourd of thobwa. So, he stood there motionless. The oracle seemed to have been lost in the world of spirits. Nyaviyuyi had nothing to do but to wait and waiting she did. She waited for what seemed to be an eternity.

“That boy born of your mother is no son of your father!” at last the oracle spoke, breaking the stillness and quietness that had engulfed the shrine. “Your mother has committed an abominable sin. The spirits are not happy with her and are angry with this land,” he finished.

Nyaviyuyi did not know what to do neither did she know what to say. So she just sat there, moving not – motionless; opening her mouth not – speechless. The only sign that signaled that she had so much to say within her but could not muster the courage to do so was her trembling and shedding of tears. She wept for her mother’s sins. She wept soundless but uncontrollably.

Suddenly, Nyaviyuyi sat up and began to run. She might have accumulated enough adrenaline for this exercise for she ran like a cheetah. She was running to nowhere in particular but she ran all the same. By the time the oracle turned again to face Nyaviyuyi, she was nowhere to be seen. All what was left of Nyaviyuyi’s visit was the thobwa gourd brought for the oracle and the bicycle that leant against the mlombwa tree outside the shrine. Nyaviyuyi had run away. She could not bear the embarrassment, the shame, which her only mother had brought. She had to escape. And escape she did. She escaped to the world unknown.

The news about Nyaviyuyi spread like wild fire. The village’s valleys, forests, rivers and mountain peaks and even those of the villages beyond were searched but to no avail. Not even a trace of Nyaviyuyi’s shadow could be found. That was why the conclusion was made and the ultimate decision reached. It was put forward by the elders of our village that Nyaviyuyi had committed suicide and that the rabid hyenas of the forest had eaten her remains. Though there was no proof for what they said, we all agreed and a funeral service for Nyaviyuyi was mounted. It was Nyaviyuyi’s funeral in her absentia.

Fifteen years passed since Nyaviyuyi’s strange death. I still remember that I was five years old when the incident occurred. Just two years after the death of her mother, which is last year, Nyaviyuyi, resurfaced to the surprise of everyone? I had really no idea of how she looked like when she went missing but I must confess that I heard that she was beautiful. I always trembled at the thought of such an acclaimed beautiful young woman committing suicide. I swore I could travel through hell if need be to marry such an applauded angel on the other side of heaven.

Her resurfacing was what unearthed the top secrets: her mother’s shameful abominable act that had bore her a baby boy and consequently led her into exile. She narrated in detail the words of the oracle and how she self-exiled herself. She ended the narrative with her long kept greeting for her brother. She greeted her brother between sobs and tears. The tears that rushed down her cheeks even made her more beautiful than I ever imagined.

“Brother, no matter what happened, no matter where we are coming from and no matter where we are going, I still…” Nyaviyuyi did not finish her words. She fell on the ground with foam coming out of her mouth. She died instantly.
Nyaviyuyi might have carefully planned her return. She just wanted to chamber out what had angered her. She wanted her village folk to know why she went into exile for fifteen years.

And that incident happened last October just after the October rains had washed the red dusts on our roofs. I wonder if she ever knew that I wanted to ask her hand in marriage; maybe she did, maybe she did not. As I sit here today, watching the rainwaters dropping on the eaves of my mphala washing the red October dusts of my grass-thatched roof, I still wonder what tragedy the October rains will bring us this time. Surely, not the one like that it brought us last October.

FOR THURSDAY,25TH MARCH 2010 IN ROOM B FROM 6:30 PM

We are hosting the poet, the essayist, the political analysit and the erudite scholar.One whose hands can make the pen speak a language so easy to nderstand and difficult to hear or just put easily, get.His name is Bright Molande and from 18:30 hours in room B,he will be delivering a talk on writing to the people that will gather in the room.This is just one of those rare opportunities you cannot manage to miss.

By the way, this is just the beggining since the Workshop has embarked on a programme of inviting well-known writers apart from the usual school visitations that will also continue this year,2010.

Watch out this space for the program of the Workshop this year but remember that Bright Molande will be delivering a talk this Thursday in room B!

THIS THURSDAY,25TH MARCH 2010

We are hosting one of Malawi's literary giants,Mr. Bright Molande in room B from 18:30 hours this Thursday.He will deliver a talk on writing.This is one golden opprtunity you cannot afford to miss!

MESSAGE FROM THE MALAWI PEN PRESIDENT ON WORLD POETRY DAY,21 MARCH 2010

Malawi PEN


words, words nothing but words


Message from Mr Alfred Msadala, President, on the occasion of UNESCO World Poetry Day, 2010

Dear colleagues in the family of Malawi PEN. It is very gratifying, once again, that we commune together this year to celebrate the World Poetry Day, 21 March, 2010. As you may recall, it is now becoming a routine in our calendar that we observe the day together with the rest of the world. Our theme of words, words nothing but words is very pertinent with what poetry is all about because no language can stand on its own without poetics. On a didactic note, poetry is about beauty, sounds, images, emotions and insights which should be put onto paper thereby becoming words.

In her message to this year’s commemoration, Madame Irina Bokova, Director-General of UNESCO wishes us to observe the day with a conviction that poetry is part of our life; which at times, we find ourselves ignoring the fact and I quote:

‘Poetry is a collection of universal resonances. It needs, however, to be better known, brought down from its pedestal, so as to simply find its place at the heart of life.’

I would like to take this opportunity that the PEN through its Charter affirms that literature must remain a common currency among people in spite of political or international upheavals.

As you may recall, last year, we commemorated the day at the Catholic University, courtesy of the vice chancellor, Prof. Anaclet Phiri, who even graced the occasion. This year, we are joining our colleagues, the Poetry Association of Malawi, at The Warehouse for the afternoon of Chitsinda cha Ndakatulo. I urge you all to patronise.

The Words of Nature, the Nature of the Words is the theme for the day this year.

Best regards

OUR NEW PATRONS

We are introducing the new patrons, not patron, today at the Writers' Workshop in room B from 18:30.We will also have a Poem analysis.Watch this space for a longer article on the Patrons...

POEM FOR THURSDAY,11TH MARCH 2010

MY STORY
Heard.
Heard of heroic stories fold
Of southern, eastern, western
And northern men and women

These when I hear
Hope and courage in me appear
Knowing yesterday, today is theirs
But tomorrow is mine, me so dears!

My story will be heard far and wide
The bus from ‘led’ to ‘leader’, ‘conformer’ to ‘innovator’ I’ll ride
My story posterity shall hear
And with maddening admiration shall fear

My story will be heard, and I’ll be heard positively
Greatly and profoundly

WATCH THIS SPACE

The reality is slowly but painfully dawning on us,it seems the writers' Workshop is at a junction of either taking a path that will prophesy doom or otherwise.Just watch this space for more...