Chapter 4 – Muyambango

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The landscape was unfolding quickly, the old car shaking suspiciously. They were going fast. Ignoring the speed, some specks of dust were hovering calmly inside the cockpit of the black sedan. Sayowa was on the passenger seat, on the left. On the right, the driver was nonchalantly holding the steering wheel with one hand. His eyebrows frowned, he was looking right in front of him. He did not address her even once. He probably wanted to show that he would had preferred attending to his usual business, rather than to carry out that run.
But the fisherman had said “bo Inyambo” and the man had taken Sayowa into his car. He was now driving her somewhere, she did not really know where, but she was confident. Her grandfather’s sphere of influence evidently manifested all the way until there. He had everything under control.
She took the sheet of paper out of her t-shirt’s pocket. It was damp because of their adventure at the falls, but its integrity was not in danger. She read it once more, front, back. The list of ingredients, the address of Stefano. Two missions she was in charge of. Two important missions.
The refolded the paper, put it in the pocket, straightened her back and put her hands on her thighs.

They drove like that for a few minutes before reaching the city, Livingstone.
That name was written on countless signs: green, white, every colour; in different styles; preceded or followed by the words “hotel”, “gift shop”, “craft centre”, “museum”, etc. Big billboards spelled names of brands, supermarket chains, service stations, fashion stores, fast-food restaurants. Names she knew, although she did not remember where she had seen them before.
All those signs came with huge buildings, even bigger than all of those of the school put together, on both sides of the large four tracks road on which they were driving (two tracks on one side, two tracks on the other). Some had two, three floors. She even caught a glimpse of a hotel that must have been at least six storeys high. In front of each of those constructions, big parking lots hosted dozens of cars. Sometimes, where a building should have been, there was a vacant lot. An abandoned car or a dog was then lying on a field of dirty sand.
The artery was regularly interrupted by traffic lights, allowing the residents of the city to cross. They were walking next to each other, dressed in their job outfits, not making eye contact. It was almost eight in the morning.
The sky had turned grey, probably inspired by the omnipresent colour of the concrete, which was still sprinkled here and there with a few colourful spots.

They did not remain in this scenery for long. Soon, the buildings got less imposing. The stylised logo changed into handwritten painted store-fronts: “café”, “china shop”, “shebeen”, etc. The road hoarded itself with sand. The quantity of cars and pedestrians increased. The driver had to slow down to manage traffic, people walking in every direction, crossing in front of them without a look.
He steered right at an intersection, paying no attention to the red light. The density of car and people increased again, almost forcing him to a stop. The road went down in the middle of various stalls selling fruits, vegetable, grilled maize, impinging the way. It led to a big crowded square.
He parked the vehicle on a spot that seemed appropriate, even though the surrounding disorder blurred the line between wrong and suitable parking.
A crowd was moving in chaotic fashion around big buses randomly ordered, like a swarm of angry bees, or an anthill on which someone had stepped.
The man got out of the car. Sayowa also, carefully. She had never seen that many human beings in one place. She understood absolutely nothing of what was going on and had no desire to go in there.
– Come, the driver said in a rush.
He went in there.

As they were sinking into the heart of the bus station, she could hear a thousand voices, a thousand conversations, shouts, engine noises, but could not make out any of it. All was jumbled together, nothing made sense.
Her guide was flying in front of her, weaving in and out, elbowing his way through, one moment turning one side, one moment the other, self-assured. She could hardly follow him. She fixed her eyes on a small red symbol stitched at the back of his black jacket. That was her life preserver. She knew that if she lost that red spot, she was lost.
All which was not the jacket was a blur.
The driver stopped abruptly, she almost crashed into him. In front of them was aligned a succession of buses, smaller than the ones from the entrance of the station, all of different colours.
With his finger, he showed a green and yellow bus, around which a group of people dressed in green and yellow were bumbling around.
– There, he said. And he disappeared.
There? What there?
Sayowa hesitated for a moment, looked over for the man. She quickly had to accept that he had dissolved into the anthill (or manhill?)…
All right, there.
She moved towards the men in green and yellow. They were busy and did not seem to see her. She stood there, motionless, following each person passing by with her eyes.
A green and yellow man noticed her.
– You looking for something?
– Err… yes. My cousin Muyambango.
She had spoken timidly, almost in a whisper. But the man seemed to understand because he stood on tip-toe and scanned the crowed.
After a few seconds he crouched, to get at Sayowa’s level.
– He’s over there. Do you see him? he said showing a man (green and yellow) with his back against a pole, barely visible through the ballet of moving legs.
– Litumezi, Sayowa thanked him with the customary bow and two claps.
– Shangwe, the man said, before he also disappeared, swallowed by the crowd, just like the driver.
Sayowa took a few seconds to lock her eyes on her new goal before she launched herself forward, colliding with a few legs on the way.
She arrived face to face with the indicated person, opened her mouth, and did not know what to say. She remained like this, her arms dangling, her mouth half-opened.
He looked like her brother, but older. He had the same distant yellow eyes.
Muyambango must have felt observed, because he turned his head towards Sayowa. He stared at that tiny being who was staring at him. Now that he was facing her, Sayowa reconsidered her judgment: she would have rather said he looked like a younger version of her grandfather.
– What? You need something? he asked with a lazy voice.
Sayowa remembered they had never met before. She resolved to introduce herself.
– I am Sayowa, Inyambo’s granddaughter.
Muyambango thought for a moment.
– Lungowe’s daughter?
Sayowa got relieved. She relaxed her shoulders.
– Yes, that’s it!
– Oho, okay. Yes, I heard of you, he said with an almost indifferent tone, I don’t think I saw you before right?
– Yes, Inyambo told me to come see you, so that you drive me to Swakopmund.
Muyambango’s expression shifted, as if the information was taking time to sink in.
– To what? Where? Swakop? What do you mean? he said, finally opting for a disconcerted look.
– By car, Sayowa clarified.
– But, why should I drive you to Swakopmund?
His face switched back to confusion. Sayowa hastily unbuttoned her t-shirt’s pocket and took out the paper. She showed the address written by their grandfather.
– This is where I must go. We have to be there tomorrow morning.
– Wait, wait, I don’t understand anything.
Sayowa did not understand what was to be understood. She again put her finger on the address and insisted:
– We need to go there, to this address. It’s in Swakopmund.
– And Inyambo told you I would drive you there?
– Yes, she said with evidence.
Sayowa’s look took on the same expression as her cousin’s. They were foolishly facing one another. He had been caught off-guard by that appearance, that incongruous request, she did not see the use for all those questions.
Muyambango’s traits changed back to serene and weary. He rolled his eyes.
– Grandpa’s getting old, he doesn’t know what he’s saying any more.
Sayowa received those words like a load of water in the face. The world phased out all around her. The confidence and optimism she add gained when she had found her cousin disappeared. Not only disappeared, they were replaced by nothing, no emotion, no reaction.
A horn blasted in the abyss. Then that phrase:
– Listen, I need to go to work now.
She remained paralysed.
– Shit, what am I supposed to do with you? Inyambo, you’re a pain.
Sayowa felt motion around her. People dressed in green and yellow were boarding the green and yellow bus.
– All right, come with me. Never mind, we’ll see in the evening to get you back home.
Sayowa got pulled forward (or maybe backwards?), climbed the stairwell of the bus. She crossed the aisle, sat next to someone. Next to Muyambango.
She twitched. Actually, the bus twitched. The station moved and got replaced by other things. Thirty heads were swinging in sync. They all tilted right at the same time, then came back to their original position, before they all tilted left, still in phase.
Things were going by through the windows, heads were oscillating, thoughts still did not form in Sayowa’s mind. This lasted for… some time.

– I should have sent you to church, to Mass, with my wife!
Muyambango had spoken without a look for Sayowa. It startled her. She regained a semblance of consciousness.
She was in a bus going who knows where, not to Swakopmund anyway, they were driving since a few minutes at most, they had left the city and were moving across the country on a small chaotic road. She was seated next to a cousin who could have done without her company.
Those simple observations inspired her a feeling of powerlessness. The tables had turned so quickly! Would she be able to take back control over the situation? And how?
She realised she never really had control. She had done little more than sit where she had been told to sit, go where she had been told to go. She could not decide if she should take a decision. Her mind was still numb.
She gave a sideways glance to Muyambango. She decided that for then, it was best to refrain from asking any question. To wait and see.
The inside of the bus was dark, despite its tall windows, calm, in spite of the purring of the engine. Only a few conversations were disrupting the relative silence.
There was like a musty smell.
The sky was still grey.
From time to time, she would put her hand on her t-shirt’s breast-pocket, to trace with her fingers the reliefs of the paper still inside it.

The journey lasted twenty more minutes.
Finally, the bus stopped, tilting every head forward. Through the windows, immense yellow fields were visible on each sides of the road. That sight seemed familiar to Sayowa, maybe had she seen it in a textbook, or something like that. But she did not really intend to rally her memories in order to identify the place.
The passengers stood up and got out in a shamble. Muyambango nodded to Sayowa, informing her she had to follow.
She took the stairs down and arrived to a compact wall of thin yellow straws, almost as tall as her, ended by cobs of some sort of cereal (not maize, something smaller). Those plants bent lightly at the top and danced with the wind, like in slow motion.
The green and yellow uniforms were still exiting the bus. She had to excuse herself and move aside. They scattered in every direction, some following the road in front of the bus, some going towards the back, some crossing.
Muyambango went towards the back. Sayowa followed him. They walked along the tarmac for two hundred metres and forked to a perpendicular path sinking into the field. A green and yellow uniform had preceded them.
They followed that track until a kind of clearing, cut out directly into the cereals. In the middle of the clearing, a shelter made out of four posts and a stretched out canvas, was giving shade to a white plastic table and a few chairs. The man who had been in front of them had sat down and taken a lunch-box out of his bag.
When Muyambango and Sayowa arrived at the shelter, the man saluted them with a nod.
– Bon appétit, Muyambango said as he leant under the table.
He uncovered a metal chest, from which he took out two pairs of gloves and two scythes with long wooden shafts, ended by sharp metal crescents. He put it all on the table.
– Hum, the big man id. He had started to swallow the mixture contained in his lunch-box with a large spoon. Tiny grains were getting stuck in his moustache.
His eyes, circled with little wrinkles, were oscillating between his dish and Sayowa, with an amused look.
Muyambango put on the gloves, took hold of one of the tools and moved away, towards another path cut out further into the field.
Sayowa gave a shy smile to the man with the moustache, who grumbled again, and she went after her cousin.

They walked a bit more, until they reached the end of the plantation. After that, the field continued, but the grass was low. The stems had been cut off.
Muyambango spread his legs and held the scythe with both hands. He lifted it above his shoulders and knocked it down on the straws, chopping off a good quantity. He then moved a few steps and started again.
Sayowa, who did not know where to stand, waited for a word from her cousin. But nothing came. So she just looked around, even though there was not much to see. On one side there were stems, on the other there were not. She wondered what those plants were. She knew she knew, but she could not make it out. Cereals…
The tranquillity of that place contrasted with the effervescence of the bus station. Only the shiver of the straws could be heard, regularly disturbed by the whistling of the scythe swung by Muyambango, like a pendulum.
Sayowa picked up identical sounds coming from other directions, but fainter, desynchronized. She noticed abnormal shaking of the straws in various places, giving away the presence of other workers.
While she was carefully studying that unusual scene (she had never seen such uniformity in a landscape: yellow everywhere, and grey above), a light buzzing became audible. It took her a while to identify its source, springing on her feet, scrutinising every direction.
Then, she saw a detail that had eluded her grasp: small grey roofs, which colour got mistaken for the sky’s, obstructed a portion of the horizon behind her. Actually, those must have been big grey roofs, they were just far away. The buzzing must have been very loud if one got close.
She wanted to ask what it was. But as she was about to open her mouth, she remembered she had not say anything since Livingstone. She refrained.
She dropped to the ground, sat cross-legged.

Little by little, Muyambango was getting further, tirelessly, at the pace of the swing of his shoulders and of the tshacs of the stems, giving away to the contact of the tool.
Sayowa let her mind wonder, boiling with incoherent thoughts.

When he was several tens of metres away, he let go of the scythe and stretched, raising his arms towards the sky. Sayowa could not have told how much time had gone by. Over an hour.
He turned and walked to her with slow steps. He sat next to her with a loud sigh.
They remained silent for a moment. Sayowa could see sweat dropping off his forehead.
– Do you want to scythe? he asked.
– No! Sayowa brusquely replied.
He moved back a little, as if to say “all right, all right, no need to get mad.”
Sayowa got surprised by her own tone. She was evidently still angry that he had not obeyed their grandfather’s command. Worst! That he had insulted him.
So they remained sat side by side, Muyambango breathing heavily, Sayowa avoiding his stare.
She should not have answered with such vehemence. After all, he had not been bad to her, she had obviously disturbed him that morning, and he could have simply left her at the bus station. Instead, he had taken her with him, even though he clearly rather not have had her around. She decided to calm down. Getting angry would not make the situation better. On the contrary.
– Muyambango? she said.
– What? he replied coldly, without a look.
– What is it over there? The roofs?
– It’s the plant.
– The plant… which kind of plant?
Muyambango turned his head towards her and sighed again.
– The plant that treats the wheat we harvest. They take it, sort it, wash it and make flour.
– They make flour with all that?
– Yes, but not by hand like the memes of the village, they use machines.
He had a light smile when he noticed the incredulity of his young cousin.
– Really? Machines how?
– I don’t know. Me, I chop wheat and that’s it. Then they come to get it. What happens next, I don’t know.
– You’ve never been inside the plant? Just to see?
– No. I’m paid to scythe, I scythe.
Sayowa flipped towards the grey roofs with curiosity. She squinted, hopping she could catch a glimpse of those mysterious machines. That was doomed to failure. She turned towards her cousin.
– So this is all you do? You chop all day? Even Saturdays?
– And Sundays. It’s harvest season, so we need to harvest. Not everyone comes in the weekend. But we’re paid more, so I come.
– What’s the use of having money if you have to work every days and don’t enjoy it, Sayowa said in a murmur, like a blame.
Muyambango breathed out and held his back with his hands. Sayowa noticed he was stooped, a symptom of his occupation. He suddenly looked exhausted.
– Sayowa, do you know how many cousins you have?
She started a quick calculation in her head, and gave up when she realised she had no idea. She shrugged, Muyambango carried on:
– All right, Inyambo has three kids right?
Sayowa nodded.
– Mbuyoti, my mother, Inonge, and Lungowe, your mother.
Sayowa confirmed.
– My mother had six children, of which three also had kids. I have a boy and a daughter. Inonge has five children I think, and at least one of them has a kid. And your mother has three children, that’s it?
Another uncertain nod of Sayowa.
– So how many cousins and grand cousins is that?
Sayowa resumed her computation, but was interrupted by Muyambango.
– It’s a lot! And I am the oldest! So I’m supposed to feed my wife, my kids and keep enough money to send every so often to my parents, who then redistribute it as needed amongst this mess! Pay school supplies for so-and so, food for another one. It’s never enough!
He looked more and more tired as he was explaining the details of his responsibly as the eldest. Sayowa felt a certain compassion for him.
– You know, my mum is also working, she’s taking care of us. Me, my sister’s studies…
– Yes, yes, I know. I’m sorry, I got carried away. And I don’t have a bad life. It’s good here. If I’m able to support the family a bit, I do it. What is your mum doing? She’s an English teacher right?
– She’s a principal now, she got a transfer in another region, Sayowa proudly said.
– Ho, that’s nice. And your father, who is it again?
– I don’t know, Sayowa said looking away.
– Ho yeah, right, I forgot about that.
There was a silence. A gust of wind came and stroked the field, making it softly whisper.
– I need to get back to it, our pay is tied to the quantity of wheat…
Sayowa’s brain clicked and she hurriedly took out the list of ingredient from her breast pocket.
– Wheat flour! I need wheat flour! she said pointing at the first line of the list.
– What’s that?
– It’s the list of ingredients, this is why Inyambo told me to go to Swakopmund!
– Let me see.
Muyambango took on the paper and read it front, then back. He shook his head slowly, murmuring:
– Inyambo…
He continued:
– You know, you don’t have to go all the way to the coast to find all of this.
– But Inyambo said it was important.
– Who cares about Inyambo! He had his moment of glory, but the world has changed. It seems like he doesn’t understand. Don’t pay attention to everything he says. When I was a small boy, he put a ton of stuff in my head, but the truth is this! You need to work to earn money, because if you don’t have money, you don’t live.
None of those concepts made sense to Sayowa. Or in any case, she did not like them. So she put them aside for now.
Seeing her lack of reaction, Muyambango did not insist.
– All right, do you at least want to take some wheat for your list?
– Okay.
Muyambango stood up and leaned to pick up a good quantity of wheat stems he had cut earlier. He made them into a bundle which he handed to Sayowa.
She unfolded the chitenge she was wearing around her hips and strapped it over her shoulder. She placed the bundle in the luggage she had thus created and slid it to her back. She flipped and gave a small nod to her cousin as a thank you. He said:
– You know how to make corn flour? It’s the same thing with wheat.
Sayowa felt a drop on her forehead. They lifted their eyes almost at the same time. Half of the sky had become dark grey. Wind had rose and made the wheat tremble. It seemed to have anticipated what was about to happen. The smell of rain got to their noses.
Muyambango pouted.
– We should get shelter.
He picked up his scythe and they took the track they had followed earlier, in the other way.
They arrived to the shelter almost at the same time as the shower, which pattered on the canvas roof. The man with the moustache was sat on the same chair as before. Nothing gave any evidence of him having moved. His lunch-box was gone. He still did not say anything but stared at Sayowa with his laughing eyes, his eyebrows shaped like backwards “v”, a half-smile hidden under his large salt-and-pepper moustache. Muyambango was excited and visibly upset.
The man with the moustache spoke, with a crusty voice, poorly articulated, surprisingly high pitched.
– They gonna bring de bus at noon. Me am takin’ it. Working in de mud, no thanks. What’s you’re doin’ you?
– I’m gonna wait for it to ease up. I hope I can make a few more kilos before they come.
– What ‘bout you, small girl? the man with the moustache said, leaning towards Sayowa.
She did not know what to answer. She looked at Muyambango who replied for her.
– Could you bring her back to town? My wife is at church until at least two o’clock. You tell her to take care of her until the evening?
– No problem.
– Thanks. Sayowa, that’s okay with you? You go back with him?
– Yes, yes, okay.
– Perfect.
The man with the moustache painfully stood up. He leaned over to grab his bag on the ground and raised even more painfully, every movement accompanied by a grunt.
– Let’s go, he said.
– All right, see you in the evening Sayowa.
The big man moved towards the path to get to the road. Sayowa left the shelter carefully. The rain was not as intense as the rumble it did on the canvas could have lead to believe. She turned to wave to Muyambango who waved back. Then she trotted to catch up with her new guide.

When they got to the road, she indeed saw a bus, which seemed identical to the one of that morning, waiting at the same spot, but positioned for the journey back. She entered, still following the man with the moustache.
Once more, she sat where she was told to sit. A few workers were boarding one after the other.
The bus started and left, although it was not full. They passed a soaked worker who was running along side them, waving hopelessly. Some passengers laughed, shouting cutting remarks through the closed windows: “Too late! You’ll get the next one!”
During the trip, Sayowa looked at the rain lashing on the panes.

When they arrived in Livingstone, the rain was almost over. Water was stagnating on the station’s concrete, making large brown pools that splashed under every worker’s foot as they left the bus. They each, with no exception, uttered a complaint, a cursing for the rain, as water was spraying over their legs.
Rain, which was rather something good in Sayowa’s mind, was not liked in the city.
The man with the moustache signalled her that he was going to buy something in one of the small shops surrounding the station.
Sayowa noticed that the place had calmed since the morning, probably because of the rain, or maybe because of the time. There were fewer buses, less people, more water.
In the corner opposite the one they arrived at, a group of cars, seven-seaters, caught her attention. She fixed them for a moment and did not see the man with the moustache who had came back.
– A ‘right, let’s go, he said.
She did not answer right away, still staring at the cars. She finally asked:
– Are there cars going to Swakopmund?

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Excerpt from “Recette de pizza pour débutant” © (SACD) Thomas Botte