A Cinderella Story
on Me Talk Pretty One Day (Malawi), 14/Oct/2009 13:14, 34 days ago
Once-upon-a-time, in a land far, far away, there lived two poor young travellers known as Misja and Stuartee, and their evil night-guard who went by the rather absurd name of Benedicto...And so might begin a very Malawian fairytale. I was away when most of the events unfolded, so provided here are the basic details of the story as I remember them in the beginning, and as told to me by my housemate, Misja. The story is not yet complete, however—we’re still waiting for the happy ending.Richard, our old guard of whom I have written previously, had travelled north to attend the funeral of a family member. After several weeks he had still not returned, so, assuming he had decided to stay up north with his kin, we asked the landlord if he could hire a replacement. One fine evening, Benedicto arrived. He came bearing a letter of recommendation from the landlord and a list of items he required to perform his guardly duties. I was reluctant to provide a machete, especially as there were chickens to think of, so Benedicto made do with a slingshot and a handful of stones to protect himself and our property.I remember him as being a man of few words, English or otherwise. Whereas Richard had been a bit of a clown, Benedicto had an intense seriousness about him. His otherworldly quality put me ill at ease and so I never complained about his occasional unexplained absence, being instead grateful for the relaxing solitude. After I left, Misja informs me that one of the chickens went missing. No remains were discovered, he says, and no feathers. Given the slim probability that the chicken was in the process of migrating and following me to Europe, I immediately thought of Benedicto.His absences became ever more common. So too did the occurrences of his arrival inebriated. Getting drunk is easy in Malawi for there are beers to suit all income levels. Chibuku, the cheap local brew made from maize porridge, is served warm in cartons and continues to ferment long after it is packaged. Eventually, Misja lost patience and informed Benedicto that his services were no longer required. I cannot complain at the decision—I’d have taken vengeance for the missing chicken far sooner. Yet without a guard—competent, sober or otherwise—our home was more at risk to burglary.And indeed within two weeks the house had been broken into on two different occasions, all of my clothes stolen, Misja’s camera, a pair of dessert spoons and a host of other random household items. More troubling, however, was the loss of a second chicken. Both break-ins occurred on Saturday when Misja, according to habit, was away from home. The coincidences were accumulating.My housemate spoke with the landlord and soon our home was protected by metal gates across each door and a new night-guard on patrol, the ever-vigilant Aaron Phiri. The following Saturday, Aaron sensed movement in the storm drains out front, and from the small gap beneath the brick wall where the water drains away in the rainy season, he saw a head emerge. The details of the events that followed are vague and confusing. A chase ensued and some shoes were recovered. Aaron declared that the shoes belonged to the would-be thief and our new cleaning lady, Mrs Aida, identified them as being Benedicto’s. She claimed also to know in which village he lived.And so, a few weeks after my return, I sat in the great pumpkin that is the Toyota Hilux, accompanied by Mrs Aida, our new cleaning lady and fairy godmother, and several soldierly police officers, and took the magical slippers on tour around the local villages of the kingdom looking for a princess with just the right sized feet.I wish I could provide a happy ending to this story and say that we found that particular princess, but alas, life isn’t really a fairytale—there are no happy endings, just missing dessert spoons and empty chicken coups.