The air in Lusaka is thick, a humid blanket clinging to your skin even at dawn. You know it's going to be a scorcher, another day of the sun beating down on the corrugated iron roofs and the dust swirling in the streets. It's a perfect day for a braai, you tell yourself, pulling out the rusted charcoal braai from the back of the garage. A braai – a simple, smoky ritual that speaks of relaxation and conviviality, at least in theory. In reality, a braai in Lusaka is fraught with peril, a delicate act of balancing fire and smoke.
You've got the basics down: the charcoal, the lighter fluid, the paper. You strike a match, a small orange flame erupting. The charcoal, however, stubbornly refuses to catch. You try again, and again, eventually resorting to pouring a generous amount of lighter fluid, making a small bonfire of the charcoal. It takes, finally. A plume of smoke rises, instantly engulfing the backyard.
You know the drill. You've lived in Lusaka long enough to be intimately familiar with the dance of fire and smoke. First, you fan the flames, trying to coax them to burn hotter, to consume the smoke. Then, you race to grab a wet blanket, dampening the smoke at the source. It works, kind of. The dense cloud of smoke, smelling of burning wood and lighter fluid, has subsided, but only to be replaced by a lingering haze, a constant reminder of your transgression.
Your neighbour, Agnes, who you swear can detect a single wisp of smoke from across the city, appears at the fence, her arms crossed. 'Afternoon, dear,' she says, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. 'Enjoying the bonfire? Did I hear you having a braai? I'm planning one myself this weekend.'
You stammer out a nervous greeting, your cheeks burning as red as the charcoal. 'Just a small fire, Agnes. Getting rid of some rubbish.'
Agnes scrutinizes you, her smile widening. It's a smile that says, 'Don't think I haven't seen that bag of plastic you're burning,' and you can't help but laugh, a nervous, strained laugh.
'Well, you have fun,' she says, her voice tinged with sly amusement. 'But be careful. It's quite windy today. Don't want to start any fires, do we?'
You nod, thanking your lucky stars she hasn't seen the state of your braai. The rusty grill is more charred black than steel, the charcoal an unburnt mess. But, you think, at least the neighbours are none the wiser.
After a tense hour of carefully navigating the smoke, your braai is finally ready. The meat, marinated in a mixture of chili and garlic, starts to sizzle, the smell of charring and spices filling the air. The neighbours are curiously silent, a rarity in Lusaka.
As you're enjoying your braai, you hear a commotion coming from the street. A group of kids, all under ten, are running around, yelling excitedly. Then, you see it. An enormous black plume of smoke billowing from a house down the street.
There is a moment of stunned silence, followed by a scramble of activity. Neighbours rush out of their houses, calling out to one another, pointing at the smoke. You stand frozen, watching, as the cloud of smoke engulfs the entire street, obscuring the sun.
You've learned your lesson well. You may be able to light fire, but hiding the smoke, in Lusaka, is an impossible task. The truth has a way of finding out, no matter how diligently you try to hide it. And as the smoke clears, you can't help but wonder, with a touch of morbid amusement, what they're burning down the street.
