As fascinating as it was by day, Malawi was treacherous by night. One had to observe self-imposed curfews and plan trips in order to avoid travelling after dark. During the six months I was in the country, a number of expats driving along the highway after sunset were attacked by highway robbers and killed – including a family with children. When a house in the neighbourhood was ransacked by a mob of looters, the inhabitants all died in the blood bath.
We lived in Blantyre, in a three-bedroom house in a suburb off Chileka Road, a few kilometres past the quick mart and north of the Church of St. Michaels and All Angels.
The white, one-story brick building was surrounded by a generous garden. A high cyclone fence followed the perimeter of the property, beyond which there was only brush. It was a quiet, isolated location, situated at the end of a road that reached the top of a hill. A narrow valley, at the bottom of which a tributary of the Shire River flowed, separated us from the Ndirande Township expanding on the opposite side.
The township comprised rudimentary dwellings the size of garages without running water or electricity. At night it was dark, but you could hear the distant voices and music. It smelled of wood fires.
Our home was patrolled. During the day, an elderly gentleman of retirement age sat in the shade of the service-entrance doorway napping or reading the newspapers. Whenever he heard our Land Cruiser approaching he jumped to his feet, smoothened his uniform jacket with his hands, put on his cap then leaped to open the gate with long strides.
The two night watchmen were altogether different. They were young, muscular and looked rough, with blood shot eyes and large machetes. From dusk till dawn, they loitered outside. Sometimes when one of them fell asleep, his machete slipped through his fingers and dropped on the concrete with a jangle. Other times, they rapped on the living room window, asking for money, machetes in hand.
My friend reassured me by pointing at the buzzers that were installed in our bedrooms. Supposedly, if we pressed a buzzer in the event of a robbery, an alarm would go off at a security operation that would be on the spot in less than six minutes. ‘A lot can happen in six minutes,’ I said. We tested the buzzer a number of times but no one ever came.
Another disturbing fact was that our phone was disconnected. We were two women living in an isolated house, in a dangerous location; the landline was our only means of communication, but despite repeated requests to the phone company, the phone remained silent. Eventually we learned that someone had appropriated our telephone line to sell the copper wires that ran from our home to the local telephone exchange.
So every night we bribed our night watchmen with cash donations and flasks of hot coffee.
The Writerly Pursuit 