Luna Absentia

A long low grumble of thunder bowled across the sky above Chisawa village. There was no moon, and the only light came from the dying fire and the tip of Michael Banda’s cheap cigarette. Five men sat in a circle under a tin roof, taking turns at a draughts board. The white pieces glowed luminous; they fumbled for the black ones. The other villagers were in bed. There was an occasional squawk from a chicken that had not yet gone to roost, and pitiful yowls from a mangy cat who was on the hunt for sustenance. Moses Jere stroked the thin scar on his cheek with a long fingernail, and made a move. It was countered by Kenneth Ngoma, who swiftly took two of his pieces.

“Aye! A man couldn’t have luck on a night such as this,” moaned Jere.
“Ah ah, stop complaining man. If you cannot play, then one of us will step in.” Red Kasunga had not yet had a turn at the board and was becoming restless. The plastic jerrycan of chibuku made another round. John Mumba cocked his head and listened to the night.

“What is that sound now?” He paused his foot, where he had been dragging his toes through the dirt.
The others looked up briefly and shrugged their shoulders.
“Drumming at Luanje. Another funeral,” said Ngoma.
“It’s 20km to Luanje, the drums will not carry that far. No, something else.”

Another peal of thunder rolled out in to the night, but in its aftermath the whine of a car engine became more audible. Twenty minutes later a weak light began to cut through the Kwanga forest, heading for Chisawa.

“Now!” proclaimed Mumba, “Did I not say there was something!”
“Who is travelling at this time of night? It can’t be good news.” Banda stubbed out his cigarette and stretched his arms.

Jere moved another piece on the board, and Ngoma took one more of his pieces. Jere sucked on his teeth and took a large swig of chibuku.

“Ah ah, it’s not for me tonight this game. Let another one play.” Jere swept his pieces off the board in disgust and carried on drinking. Kasunga jumped in and was in the middle of rearranging the pieces when the car swung into the village compound. A large white saloon, its doors were vibrating to the sound of ‘House…Car…Money’ coming from the stereo. A few of the women who had been asleep in their huts yelled out, but the music did not abate immediately.

The men in the circle watched the car shake from side to side as the driver heaved himself out of it. He was a large man, both in height and girth, and he swaggered over to where the men were playing draughts. The woman who had been in the passenger seat disappeared over to one of the huts. Jere looked up at the newcomer.

“Leo Siwale. The Big Man.”

A streak of lightning low on the horizon lit up Siwale. In contrast to the others, who were dressed in torn trousers and ragged t-shirts, he was wearing a smart silver and black shirt, and a blue baseball cap which was too small for his head. His jeans were tucked into an expensive pair of leather boots.

“Jere man! So! What’s up? How is everything? Fine? Great.” Siwale dragged a white plastic chair into the circle. He immediately reached his large hand into the bowl of caterpillars on the low table, and shovelled some into his mouth. A gold watch dangled loosely from his wrist. He stank of onions. He greeted each of the men in turn, before focusing back on the table.

“A new game! Let me play, I am champion at this one!” Kasunga and Ngoma looked at each other, as if to decide which of them would bow out. But Moses Jere got there first.

“Fine, Big Man. You can play me.” Kasunga threw up his hands in disgust and reached for the jerrycan instead. The dog by the embers emitted a growl. Ngoma threw a stone at it; it yelped, then hobbled off into the dark.

“Sure, sure. But what is this nonsense you are drinking? You need beer man! Proper beer.” Siwale yelled out to the woman who had accompanied him. She unloaded three crates of Mosi into the circle and disappeared again. A chill had settled on the air, and the crickets and frogs stopped chirruping. Another thunderbolt unfurled, this one accompanied by a flash of lightning which lit up the whole village.

By the time Moses Jere had lost his third game of draughts to Leo Siwale, he was well and truly drunk. He was also angry.

“You are cheating Siwale! You have bewitched me!”
Siwale threw back his large head and laughed long and loud.
“Jere man, you are just no good my friend. It really is that simple. Have another beer, we’ll play again.”

“Who do you think you are anyway, Big Man?” The others turned in surprise to look at Banda, who was hunched over a fresh cigarette. “Coming up here with your flash car and your filthy woman.”
“We never said we wanted your town beer, Big Man,” cut in Ngoma.
“Throwing your money around, while our maize rots in the ground,” this from Kasunga, who was still sore over missing out on his game.
“The devil’s work you’re doing Siwale,” shouted Jere, “You are a trickster!”

“My friends! What is the meaning of this? I am from this village. You know me, come on. I am here to visit you.” Siwale’s protestations were drowned out by the shouting of the others, and another belt of thunder. The first drops of rain splashed on to the ground, churning up the red dust. Water started to ping off the tin roof, and within seconds it was torrenting down. The men’s voices had now reached a crescendo, but none could hear another over the ferocity of the rainfall. Darkness and noise suffocated them. The water seemed to fall back and forth, like threads weaving on a loom. It was only in the next skywrap of lightning that the men noticed Siwale was no longer fighting his corner. His head was once more thrown back, but he was not laughing now. Banda stood and went over to him, shaking him by the shoulder.

“Big Man! Big Man!” Siwale’s head lolled forward.
“Get a candle, go!” Ngoma yelled at Kasunga to head for the nearest hut.

They saw that the stab wound was neat, quick and clean. They also saw that it was lethal. Blood poured out of Leo Siwale’s side and dripped on to the sand in unison with the rain which had now slowed to a steady thrum. Banda turned and threw up in the fire. Ngoma did not react to the hot wax which was dripping on to his hand. John Mumba was nowhere to be seen. Only Moses Jere spoke.

“Let his town woman take him back to Lusaka now, in his flash car.” He turned and walked away into the darkness. The women had come out of the huts now, and started wailing.