“We haven’t got long,” the boy said, looking over his shoulder.

“Shhhh! Shut up.”

There was grinding and squeaking, and then a hollow-sounding pop!—like a tiny skull

cracking—as the lock finally gave out.

The boy and his friend rushed inside the house, their chests bumping in the doorway.

It was only midday on a summer afternoon but the living room was as dark and as

gloomy as midnight. The boy parted a curtain to let the light in.

“Don’t do that, you dummy,” his friend said. “We’ll get caught…here.”

A golden light filled the room.

“Eh-ehheee,” they said, together, their mouths agape.

The chandelier was an upside down wedding cake of glass shards and shimmering

silver. There was a scent of old leather, lemon and sweet flowers in the air. It was like

a hotel room. To their right was a big screen television. Facing it, an L-shaped couch

with plump little pillows carefully laid out. Directly behind—in the dining area—was

table of six chairs with a flower vase and a bowl of guavas on display. Porcelain, all

over the floor, made for a cool but pleasing sensation on their bare feet.

“You’ll fix it, right?” the boy said, pointing at the lockset behind them. “No one should

know we were here. And remember we said we wouldn’t take anything that’ll give us

away, right?”

1His friend ignored him. “Where is this madam from, anyway?” he said, surveying her

wealth.

“Zambia.”

“That’s near Mozambique, isn’t it?”

The boy shrugged.

Out of the silence a fridge coughed, and then began to grumble in the distant corner.

The thrill of breaking into someone else’s house was intoxicating. It gave them

goosebumps. They were in equal parts scared and excited, and so eyed each other,

giddily.

The boy sprawled himself out on the couch like a loose spring, one foot over the other

on the surface of the coffee table, as if watching television.

His friend walked round to the dining table, and stuffed a couple of guavas in his short’s

pockets. There was a photo of an elderly woman with sparkling brown eyes on the

fridge door. A real poster of bliss. Her hands rested gently over the shoulders of a

teenager—whose cap was turned backwards; her son. “Spoiled little bastard,” the

boy’s friend whispered while shoving chicken in his mouth. He both loathed—and

envied it, when Africans made a show of their love like the white people on television.

Going “Mwah, mwah,” and other such things.

“D’you want some of this?” he called out to the boy while licking fat from his fingers.

“We agreed we shouldn’t.”

His friend scoffed. “The madam and her bastard son aren’t gonna miss anything—

especially chicken wings, alright! Now…” he kissed his teeth to recover from what he

took to be a snub. “Why is there no husband in this house?”

“She’s divorced. He lives in Zambia, I think. With the son.”

“No wonder he looks soft. Soft as dog shit is what he looks like. Let’s check the

bedroom.”

When they were planning all this, they agreed to only take “a little” money; they weren’t

going to steal anything else. They searched for Kwachas under the bed; in the closet;

the drawers; the various suitcases and bags hidden away. When they were side

tracked, they dipped their noses in her private business like sniffer dogs, flinging her

panties at one another, and as a dare, pissing in her toilet bowl (while sitting down, no

less). It was exhilarating and it felt like justice. A preview of the promise in the book of

Matthew, that the meek shall inherit the earth. When they were tired and couldn’t find

any money—not even a single tambala—they walked with their shoulders slumped to

the living room.

“We have to go,” the boy said, squishing a pillow in between his knees.

His friend was visibly disappointed. “Let’s just take—anything,” he said. “A memento.”

The boy rubbed his arms like he caught on to a sudden chill. “I don’t think we can—”

“Fine, you little flower…” His eyes peeled back. “Hey, check it out!” Beneath the coffee

table was a black purse and he almost tore it open to pull out a passport with bank

notes inside. These weren’t the usual snot-yellow notes of their homeland; ravaged by

the disease of devaluation; no, these notes had a white man with long hair printed on

them. “It’s U-S-A dollars!” the boy yelled. All the way from Donald Trump in Washing-

town—he paused to take in the immense complexity of the coincidence— to right here,

in our hands, in Malawi. “We’re rich!”

The boy—who was used to having his leg pulled, said carelessly: “How much is in

there?”

“Let me see, now.” His friend began to count. “One, two…” he stumbled, then started

over again, this time in the style of a foreman doling out wages to simple-minded

pieceworkers. “That’s one, two, three, four, five, six, six dollars.”

“Six dollars?!”

“Six!”

“How much is it in Kwacha?”

All four of their eyes rolled up, past the chandelier, to the barely used calculators of

their minds. “At least fifty thousand,” the friend said.

“Liar.”

“Hey!” He stared the boy down, fiercely; an alpha cautioning a weak but unruly sigma.

“You call me that again and I’ll smack you. Let’s go to the black market traders and

you’ll see for yourself.”

They flew out of the house, leaving the faintest impression of their visit. The purse,

and other items, were (according to their best memory) put back in their original places.

They also made sure to lock the door with prudence. The only and major error—being

children who never went to school—was that they should have counted a total of six

hundred dollars. Not six.

Gama’s ears perked up. He was a man of extraordinary intuition, who could always

sense a car’s approach sooner than anyone. He could even tell you the make and

model of the car before it came into view. But, how?! many wondered. Was it a kind

of magic? Whenever the query arose, Gama would pinch his floppy but otherwise

regular ears and say: “Any decent guard knows the prey must hear the predator before

he leaps; to have seen him is too late.”

The silver Pajero slithered up quickly, its engine hissing like a snake. The front gate

had already been drawn wide open. By the guardhouse—which was to the right of the

driver—Gama stood at attention, his hands balled into fists beside his hips. The driver

entered the parking area without acknowledging the guard, or his labour. He didn’t

mind; Madam always seemed to have some kind of conference in her mind. He figured

it was why she spoke in a jarred manner, like each thought was tugging and pulling on

the other; tying up her sentences. It didn’t help that Chichewa was her second

language—though technically, her country’s Nyanja belonged to the same lineage of

Bantu languages. Despite the impediment, the Zambian woman demanded attention

whenever she spoke.

She had lived in the guesthouse for six months now. Not more than two weeks after

moving in, she called Gama and his two wives to ask why their children weren’t going

to school. They had six kids and were crammed together in a single bedroom shack.

Gama said he couldn’t afford the fees. And added that he didn’t see the benefit; he

himself had made it fine without a classroom. “All the wisdom God wants us to take is

in the act of living,” he said. His wives—whose docility the madam found vexing—

nodded to what seemed like a wise response. She threatened to report their flagrant

5law-breaking to the authorities, but after some consideration, bought books,

backpacks and pairs of uniforms for the children who were willingly attending school.

Another time, when one of Gama’s wives became pregnant again, the madam said to

him “If you can barely afford to feed these children, or send them to school, why do

you keep having more?”

“Madam,” he said with utmost sincerity. “If God has blessed me with potent seed, isn’t

it my duty to sow?” The madam was astounded; even the most illiterate Africans had

grasped the very best thing about the Europeans’ religion: it could be used to justify

almost anything.

Gama was a rooster who loved the jiggle of his own wattle. Seeing “hens”—women—

with strings of chicks in his likeness gave him infinite pride. Something like The Creator

after the first seven days. He was poor. But there was a sweetness to him that attracted

the uneducated women of the villages. He was nearly sixty, yet he was more robust

than most forty-year-olds. He was not particularly handsome, but his aloof demeanour

was enough to tally up his dalliances. He sired for pleasure. And it was known he had

fathered plenty of children outside of his two marriages. Madam’s mistrust of him grew

as a result of this. His unrestrained member spawned negative associations in her,

like “sleaze” or “gigolo” and “playboy.”

Because Gama had been tending to the house longer than Madam had been renting,

he took himself to be the main authority of the place. He knew what the landlord liked,

and he talked tirelessly of previous occupants; a way of reminding her that he was

(and had been) the place’s only constant. From his humble beginnings as a

“watchman,” he grew to become a guard, gardener, carpenter, plumber, until it was

best to declare himself—though, unofficially—to all his friends and his lovers as

“caretaker.” He was serious about work. And even more serious about being the man

of the house. And when his children misbehaved, he whipped them black and blue.

Despite these qualities, the Madam sustained her distrust of him. It was the “fooling

around” she couldn’t stand.

When the Madam struggled to insert her house key into the front door, the first thing

she thought was, “What’s this guy done?”—“guy,” meaning Gama. Left and right her

wrist twisted; the lock would not budge. She looked over to the guard like, What the

hell have you been up to? She had asked the landlord to install burglar bars on the

premises but he kept delaying. Even after she said she didn’t trust the guard since

little things had gone missing from time to time.

“Gama!” she called.

“Yes, Madam,” he called back, half his face in a syrup coloured sunset.

“Can you—argh! What is going on?” She got on her haunches and noticed dents and

scratches on the keyway and around the latch.

“Madam?”

“Can you—there’s a problem. Come…”

Gama smiled; her foreigner’s Chichewa was no different to a child’s. “Let me have a

look,” he said.

She stepped aside.

With high strength and little effort, Gama opened the door.

The Madam knew immediately that someone had intruded—and felt nauseous for it.

Her heart scurried all the way up to her throat. The cushions were all wrong and the

coffee table was out of place. The terror of losing her passport was eased when she

found her black purse, but the emergency money had been stolen.

“Come inside,” she said aggressively.

He hesitated.

“Just come on, for goodness’ sake!” she could no longer contain her rage. “Did you

leave your post at any time today?”

“No, madam.”

She walked up to him until their noses were almost touching. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Sure-sure?” she said.

From the flames in her eyes, Gama imagined she was the type of woman, who might,

as a girl, have easily beaten up a boy or two. “The Lord strike me if I did, Madam” he

said.

She made him wait outside as she scoured the bedroom and the bathroom. She took

pictures (on her phone) of anything that was off, including the greasy smears on the

fridge door and plastic containers with missing pieces of chicken. What kind of dumb

thief snacks while robbing a place?

Gama craned his neck into the living room. “Did something happen, Madam?”

“Listen,” she said, blocking the doorway with her arms crossed like a bouncer.

“Tomorrow, I am going to call the landlord and the chief of police. To the landlord I’ll

request burglar bars, right here”—she patted the wall beside the door— “and to the

police I’ll tell them to come and question you. Think carefully before you answer, did

you or anyone else come in here?”

With stress piling itself on his heart, Gama remembered seeing his son, Mishek, with

Charles, the neighbour’s dirty little teenager who had twists of hair pointing out of his

head like nails. Gama also recalled that he had spent the better part of thirty minutes

taking a shit—thanks to a recent hernia operation. The children could have used the

time gap to mess around. “Was anything stolen, Madam?” he said.

Her right thumb felt the tips of her fingers. “Ndalama”—money.

“How much?”

“Six hundred dollars, from America.”

“Oh-oh!” he gulped. Those lazy, dumb and stupid devils! he thought, while upholding

a fake sense of composure. “Well,” he bounced his shoulders. “I don’t know anything

about that.” He adjusted his red beret and brushed away dust from his well-worn but

immaculate uniform. “Why don’t you leave it with me, Ma’am? Promise we’ll get to the

bottom of it.”

Before the Madam could say anything else, he about-turned and marched off.

Mr Usman, the landlord, had no less than fifteen properties in Blantyre. His

countrywide “portfolio” included shops, restaurants, office space and student housing.

He was the type of man people addressed as “Biggie”. Big man. And his tailor-fitted

suits, designer watches and loud, exotic ouds more than qualified the title. For being

rich he expected preferential treatment wherever he went. And he got it. Mostly.

Except at Shoprite, the supermarket, where the poor (and the rich alike) had to stand

at each other’s side in slow meandering lines of equality. Mr Usman was only two

customers shy of the till when his iPhone buzzed. Caller ID: Judith Tenant P Hill.

“I want to inform you,” she began in English, “that one of Gama’s kids stole six hundred

dollars from me.”

“Ah-ah!” he said. Even losing ten kwacha was a tragedy to him. “When?”

As the tenant spoke, Mr Usman shuffled up to second place. She told him about the

night before, and said that when the police arrived that morning, Gama had already

“beaten a confession” out of his boy.

“Good!” he cheered. “But how did he know?”

“The boy came home drunk wearing a Louis Vuitton belt.”

Mr Usman sniggered. The poor were always trying to boost their status in the most

unconstructive ways. Failing to heave his shopping basket onto the till with iPhone in

hand, a Shoprite security guard came to his rescue, laying out his items before the

cashier.

“As I was saying,” said Judith, annoyed by the commotion. “He told his father the items

were a gift from the neighbour’s cleaner’s son.”

“Oh, yeah. And then?”

“Gama beat him with the belt buckle and until he talked.”

“Good!”

“It was brutal, actually, even the policemen thought it was excessive. But Gama said

he had every right to because the bible—”

“What about the dollars?” Mr Usman was walking to his Range Rover in the car park

now, and the guard who had helped him at the till was hauling his shopping bags.

“Well, those two idiots thought it was only six dollars.”

“Shaaahhh.”

“They took the money to a Burundian trader who gave them forty thousand kwacha,

and then flipped the US dollars into a million four hundred thousand. When we got to

him, he had nine-hundred-k left.”

“Did they arrest him?”

“No. He was given a ‘stern warning’ by the chief.”

“That Burundi bastard,” said the landlord, stressing the word “Burundi” like it was the

epithet. “They should have locked him up.” Poverty breeds criminality: his motto. He

scrunched up some change—for the guard’s services—but quickly changed his mind

to hand him a leftover doughnut from the dashboard instead. The man bowed, spread

out his gum-revealing smile, and then backed away like an insect turning from a wall.

Mr Usman felt a degree of responsibility for the incident, but reassured himself that

Pleasant Hill was safe. People had guards and German shepherds and CCTV. It was

just bad luck for her. He didn’t (and wasn’t going to) use his hard-earned money on

burglar bars. “So, what will you do?” he said, clipping in his seatbelt.

“At least I got some of my money back. And the child was punished. I don’t see what

else I can do.”

“Go after Charles—he’s old enough.”

“No. It’s alright,” she said.

“I’m telling you, you have to show these people.”

“No,” she insisted. “It’s fine.”

“I myself I was born in a village. I never stole a day in my life. Look at me now, five

cars, and fifteen…”

Judith sighed. She wished all the men involved had found her act of mercy more just

than retribution. But it only made her appear weak and soft and nice. Qualities ripe for

derision. A self-deprecating despair overcame her, bursting the swell of emotions she

had contained for almost a year since her divorce. Old pains spilled out. Like why her

son had chosen to live with his father despite his infidelities. It hurt. And it made her

heart thump against her breast like a jackhammer.

“Are you there, Judith?”

“Look”—she was having a panic attack—“I’ll speak to you another time.” Then, click!

Mr Usman’s was flabbergasted. Had she really cut him off? He wanted to call her back

but he hesitated, and then decided against it; the woman, after all, was more than

capable of taking care of herself.

J.G. Jesman

J.G. Jesman is a Malawian-British author and animator. His debut novel, Chisoni, was published by Penguin Random House, South Africa in May 2022. His short stories have appeared in The Common, Water~Stone Review, Image Journal, Allium, Stand and elsewhere. J.G. holds a Master’s Degree in Film and Media, and has worked mainly in the videogames industry. He founded a blog in 2014 exploring the human condition through aspects of religion and spirituality. He is particularly interested in the "pathos of things" and most of his stories deal with that theme.

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