The sun hangs heavy in the Lusaka sky, a molten ball of orange sinking through the haze of dust and heat. You squint, watching the shadows lengthen across your worn-out courtyard, the familiar scent of roasted maize filling the air. It's a Friday, the day of the market, and the street buzzes with the usual cacophony of hawkers, bartering voices, and the insistent honking of taxis.
Except, today, there's an undercurrent of something else, something unsettling.
You remember the nervous knock at your door earlier, the way Mr. Banda, your neighbour, stood there, his face drawn and his eyes filled with a silent plea. He didn't say a word, just pointed towards the empty space behind his house where his prized goat, 'Mwana,' usually grazed.
'Mwana is gone,' he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. 'Someone must have stolen her.'
You offered him a cup of tea, the bitter brew of local herbs, and listened as he spoke of the goat, how she was his only source of income, his hope of someday starting a small business, a future he had meticulously planned. He went on about the thieves, the malice in their hearts, the betrayal… but you noticed his gaze never lingered on you. There was a guilt in his eyes, a fear that felt strangely familiar.
He left soon after, promising to look for Mwana himself, to scour the market and the surrounding streets. But you knew. He wouldn't be looking for Mwana. He would be on the dusty road, heading north, to his village.
You watched the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of fiery orange and deep crimson, a spectacle of beauty juxtaposed against the gnawing unease in your stomach. You knew Mr. Banda wouldn't be spending his Friday evening at the market. He would be at the witchdoctor's, seeking answers, seeking a solution in the tangled web of superstition and folklore.
It wasn't the first time. You've known Mr. Banda for years, a quiet, hardworking man, fiercely independent, yet deeply rooted in the traditions of his village. He'd always believed in the power of ancestral spirits, the whispers of the wind carrying secrets, and the potent remedies of the witchdoctor. Every time something went wrong, every time his life took an unexpected turn, he sought solace in those ancient rituals, those whispered incantations that promised answers. He found comfort in it, a sense of control in a world that often felt chaotic.
The next day, you see him again, walking slowly, his shoulders slumped. He doesn't look at you, his face a mask of defeat. You know the witchdoctor has failed him, the answers haven't come, and Mwana remains lost.
Later, while you're preparing dinner, Mr. Banda comes knocking again, this time, a strange desperation in his eyes. He speaks in hushed tones, about a dream he had, a vision of a shadowy figure, a whisper of a name: 'Chimuno.'
Chimuno. You remember the old woman, a notorious thief, the terror of the market, who was rumoured to have a knack for disappearing with animals as if by magic. She'd been missing for months, rumoured to have gone back to her village in the north.
Mr. Banda's eyes are filled with a desperate hope, a flicker of defiance against the crushing weight of his despair. He's found a way forward, a path to follow, even if it means embracing the ancient beliefs that had always been a part of him.
As you watch him leave, you feel a pang of sympathy. You understand his desperation, his need to believe, his need to find a solution, any solution, to the theft of his goat.
But you also feel a flicker of frustration, a sense of injustice. Why not look closer to home? Why not talk to the neighbours, ask questions, investigate? You know the answers are often right there, hidden in plain sight, overshadowed by the allure of the unknown, the mystique of tradition.
The world outside your courtyard is a tapestry of contradictions, of modernity juxtaposed with ancient beliefs, of progress and stagnation existing side by side. You watch Mr. Banda disappear into the maze of streets, his journey driven by a desperate hope, a belief in the power of the unseen. You wonder if he will ever find Mwana, if he will ever find true justice, or if he will remain forever lost in the labyrinth of his own beliefs.
