By Kenneth Manda | Feature Writer
It was the way he swung his hand that gave him away — weak, trembling, and still marked by the night we would never forget. No one in the village knows what really happened to Nkhanga’s hand. No one, except me. Because I was there. I saw it all, on that moonlit, solitary night that changed everything.
We were the village’s notorious duo — restless, mischievous, and convinced that the moon itself approved of our nighttime ventures. That night was too beautiful to waste; the silver light painted everything clear as day. We decided it would be the perfect time for “the ordeal,” though we didn’t realise that decision would haunt us for years.
Nkhanga came prepared. He wore his “armour” — his prized gondoloshoes. They were a spectacle: dark leather, with small chains on the sides that jingled softly with every step, like Rango’s boots. They made him look like a night walker ready for battle. Little did we know, those very chains would betray us before the night was over.
It all started with a rat. A stupid, meddlesome rat. I’m sure it’s dead now, though part of me still blames it for everything. The trouble began when someone shouted “Uyu apa!” — “He’s here!” in Nyanja — followed quickly by a desperate cry, “Mama ine!” — “My mother!” I remember those words vividly. I was in the room when it all erupted.
The darkness was thick, the kind that eats sound, but we could hear everything — the shallow breaths, the rustle of clothes, the scurrying of that cursed rat. I lay still on the ground, my skin crawling as red ants bit at my ankles. I told myself the pain would keep me from laughing, that it would help me stay silent. But then, out of nowhere, the rat bit me.
That was it. Chaos.
In panic, I sprang up, knowing the door was still unlocked. The air grew suffocating, as if smoke from green twigs had filled the room — the kind we used as boys to smoke out a mouse. Nkhanga was gasping for air beside me, cornered. Desperate, he pulled one of his judo moves — and, somehow, it worked. Our attacker fell like a felled tree.
At that moment, the rat dashed across my face, and instinct took over. I bolted. Outside, I collided with a bucket of water, soaking myself completely. Behind me, I heard shouting, then barking. The dog had been unleashed.
Poor Nkhanga — his fancy shoes betrayed him. The chains clinked and sang with every step, leading the dog right to him. I veered off, trying to draw the dog away, but by the time I reached him, it had already clamped its teeth around his hand. Something snapped inside me. I launched into action, wrestling-style — a move we used to call the 619. It worked. The dog released him, and we ran, the night birds echoing our silence all the way home.
By the time we reached his hut, neither of us could speak. We sat in silence until he finally whispered, “She could have killed me.” I wanted to laugh — out of relief, maybe — but I only muttered, “My clothes are wet.”
He nodded, then sighed. “We still have a problem,” he said. “You left your right shoe in Amai Ozuna’s house — and Jacinta knows it.”
My heart sank. Jacinta — his girlfriend — had been the real reason for our visit. The village thought we’d gone to steal Amai Ozuna’s famous homemade wine, but no one knew the truth. We had gone there because of love — foolish, risky love.
The next morning, as the sun rose, the whole village was buzzing with talk. The drunkards who gathered at Amai Ozuna’s house were already gossiping about the “mystery shoe” left behind. How could we have been so careless?
One shoe. That was all it took to unravel everything.
That evening, as the village settled once more under the silver light of the moon, we made a pact. We would return to Amai Ozuna’s house. Not for the wine, not for revenge — but for the shoe.
The rescue mission was on.
To be continued…
