Masuku

The 'masuku' is an optimistic-looking act of God that grows freely across tropical Africa - on an evergreen tree of unisexual flower, and other things naturalists like to say. Mel is a delightful lady in glasses we met at a book-club once, who terrifies even us, somewhat, with her creative intensity, and who sees sunsets on these orange beasts. Without further ado...

The brown fruit was piled in bucketfuls outside the farm gate. A third vehicle passed by, leaving a cloud of red dust, and as Chela waited she wondered whether she would reach the market in time to sell. She sucked on the large seeds, and stared at the yellow pulp of the sweet wild fruit as she split open the next golden yellow ball.

The baby moved on her back. He had been feverish in the night and now slept fitfully, relieved only by his mother’s rhythmic rocking.

The familiar rattle of the neighbouring farm’s old van sounded from a kilometer away and Chela sat up hopefully. As long as the milk urns left a little space for her to sit, she’d be able to put her harvest into the back and her wait would be over. Kelvin would not leave her by the roadside unless there really was no room. The van slowed down as it approached, its faded blue paint blending perfectly with the early morning sky.

‘Mama, let’s go.’ Kelvin jumped out of the van dragging with him a large paper box. ‘I found this for you. All this fruit will go inside.’

He began shovelling the masuku into the box with his hands and in a few minutes, Chela helped him lift the large box into the back of the van. She climbed in to join the other farm-workers, as the van headed for the small town market.

Less than an hour later the blue van drove off the road, downhill to the central bus stop and the main market place in Kabwe. A group of marketers rushed to meet the van with various containers, making it difficult for Chela to remove her load. She sold a few packets of the fruit in twists of old newspaper, as Kelvin poured the farm milk out through a funnel to serve his customers. The activity round the van subsided; with the help of her friends from the vegetable section, Chela balanced the large box on her head. She stopped only to leave a bagful of fruit with Kelvin, and then made her way to where she stared a stall with her aunt.

As she prepared the small pieces of fruit for sale, her aunt chatted nervously about the latest problem to befall the vegetable section. The market sellers had been rounded up the day before and told that  there would be new rental prices for their stands.

It was always the same, Chela thought to herself. Every three or four months the market management would come round and say how they, the sellers, had to pay for this and pay for that, all these brand new charges from the government - but nothing in the market ever got better. The drains were always blocked with rubbish and the council police continued to harass the women for free produce, even though they paid their daily levy. She fingered the few brown notes she had and hoped that today would bring at least enough to get a tonic for her baby’s cough.

She watched the newspaper sellers dart amongst the crowd across the street, and recalled the headlines that had changed her life forever. The bus tragedy… “Horrific,” the newspapers had called it. She’d lost her family in that fateful accident. The bus had been washed off the highway and took every single passenger in it to their watery grave. Even in the rising heat of midday, Chela felt a cold shiver run through her slim shoulders, and unconsciously she gently squeezed the right foot of her four-month old baby. A new generation. Her parents and younger sisters had been coming back from a funeral when they met their death in the accident. Her difficult pregnancy had been the only thing that spared her the journey.

Her mother’s and father’s families gathered together over the next week. A mass burial was necessary as white-coated local hospital officials warned they didn’t have the capacity to hold over a hundred bodies for any length of time. Bewildered and out of place in the crowded council hall, where the recovered bodies were laid out only for identification and nothing more, they joined other families in filling out  all the endless, necessary forms. Both families tried to spare Chela more trials as she mourned.

Joshua had left the farm the same day news arrived of the accident, deserting her and the unborn child. By the time her relatives had gathered for the funeral, the issue of a possible marriage, and a father for her child, was pushed far into the background. She’d moved back into the family house with a cousin – a week after the burial, she gave birth to her son.

Her cousin had done everything she could, but after a month she had to go back to the village and her own home. Chela limped slowly back to health, and once she was back on her feet she was back in the market, selling with her aunt.

A little cry indicated that Joel was ready to feed. She slung him around from her back and suckled the little boy, unrelenting in inviting customers to her small stall. No time for memories now.

All the farm workers had lots. Most of them grew maize, but not having a man to help concentrated Chela’s efforts on nurturing the masuku trees that dotted the farmland and beyond. Every day, Chela nurtured the wild trees, cutting back the dead wood and rescuing the seedlings from the harsh elements of the dry season…

The branch manager swung out of the office doors and the cashiers sat up expectantly behind their booths.

‘Ladies, lots of work to do this morning. Doors open!’ he called over his shoulder at the guard at the front.

He stood six feet tall and he was immaculately dressed as usual. It was general knowledge in the banking community that he was one of the most sought after bachelors in town. His customary morning greeting over, he moved back into his office and closed the door gently behind him. Investment and saving had been his business for the last seven years, and with a lot of hard work he had managed to avoid some bad risks, easing his climb quickly up the promotion ladder.

The buzzer rang, and the grey-haired woman stepped comfortably into his office.

‘Too many pretty girls out there,’ she laughed and continued. ‘I’m not staying long.’

The visitor reached into her large bag and drew out a flask.

‘I just wanted you to have a taste of the first fruits of the season.’

Joel knew what it was. All his senses imagined and anticipated the familiar honey-coloured liquid in the silver container.

They talked for a short while. There was so very little to say. A lifetime had taught them both that it was infinitely easier to just agree with each other.

The village children had teased him mercilessly as he grew.

Your mother is masuku. You eat masuku. Masuku boy. Masuku boy…

She found herself alone and rearing her son, sidelined because of her determination not to marry.

He learnt soon enough that they laughed even more when he cried, and so found his retreat in a voracious appetite for reading. It did not surprise his teachers when he wound up the highest scorer in the district, after the public school leavers’ exam, with the choice of any college in the country.

As he finally waved her off from the front doors of the bank, a regular customer approached him.

‘Mr. Kalaluka, is she one of your customers?’

‘Yes,’ Joel smiled. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Of course, doesn’t everybody? She’s the biggest producer of wine in the country. Runs that farm a few kilometers out of town.’

‘Taught me everything I know about investment.’ Joel said, slapping his customer on the back.

‘Smart lady,’ continued the customer. ‘Who would have thought that a little village girl could have seen so far into the future?’

He left the customer still muttering to himself and stepped back into his office. Taking a polished glass from the wooden counter he poured the fresh fruit juice into a glass, and turned back to his work.