MAANE MEKA

 MAANE MEKA

It happened one evening. I was returning from school, bypassing an old man's hut in the village. My path passed near his hut, overshadowed by long, tall grass. I heard a faint, hoarse voice following me through the grass. I stopped and stooped to see where the voice was coming from. I realised there lived a very old but cunning man who was not well looked after by his relatives. Reason? He is the number one suspected witch in the community.

Sweet honey

I fought and defied my fear of meeting him. I had heard terrifying stories about him bewitching people and conning unsuspecting adults and children. People believed he gave people charms for ailments and funny problems, such as failure to hook up with the desired girl. He was also known to have been a hilarious storyteller.

I approached him, his walking stick in one hand and an empty hard-rind gourd in the other, by the tattered mat on which he sat helplessly in the remnants of his veranda. He asked who I was, and I told him I was the nephew of someone he knew well. He then asked for a favour.

"Please, hurry; get me some water from any of my neighbours. I am awfully thirsty."

"Okay, Shikulu," I said, picking up the old brown, open-ended utensil. The cracks on the outside of it would fool you into thinking the water would seep through. It smelled like a local millet beer called Kataata. Obviously, that was his last drink. The man smiled wryly as he saw me dash to fetch him water.

"Do not clean the inside!" he bellowed.

I pretended not to have heard him.

Did you hear me? Please don't clean the inside. You will open up the cracks.

"Yes, Shikulu. I got you."

I walked to the nearest house and told them I was sent by the old man.

"You should never accept to help that witch," said the woman, pointing to a bucket in the sun. "When he recklessly killed his daughter's brood, he never thought he would grow to crawl and would never have anyone to fetch him water."

The water was as hot as possible when left in the sun all day. I cleared floating dust particles before dipping the gourd in clean water to ensure I got him clean water.

This woman cannot give me water from their clay pot, which is cooler and better for human consumption. I thought as I watched my steps to ensure I delivered enough water.

Shikulu received the water with much gratitude. I expected him to complain about its temperature, but he gulped it down like a thirsty elephant. I wondered how it tasted. I reminded myself that he enjoyed it because he had no choice. His only desire at the time was to quench his thirst. He did not care about the quality of the water.

I rose to leave when he asked me if I had ever heard of a tree species called Maane Meka, literally translated as moneymaker.

"No," I replied.

"I have a piece in the hut."

"What about Shikulu?"

"It gives you luck."

"Luck? For what?"

"Everything you need. Good grades at school, attracting girls, and making money when you grow up

"No Shikulu. I do not need Maane Meka to pass exams, and I'm too young for girls."

"Yes, my grandchild, you need it more than adults. When you clean my place and fetch me water in my small bucket, I will give you Maane Meka."

"Alright, Shikulu, I will come on Saturday," I said as I picked up my plastic bag containing my books.

I missed the appointment with Shikulu that Saturday. It was not on purpose, but I had an assignment. I had a "more important" task: preparing for a high-profile visitor. Remember that I did not tell anybody about my encounter with Mr. Maane Meka a few days before for fear of possible reprimand for my inappropriate association with a dangerous human being?

Let me digress and tell you about some transitions I was going through then. I joined my uncle's family in Ng'ungwa, a consortium of Bisa villages along the Lukulu River in Chief Chiunda Ponde. Ng'ungwa is partly woodland and partly swampy. I was comfortable regarding the environment, with very little to miss. I lost my mother in early March 1974 on Ncheta Island in Lunga District. Apart from the shock of losing my mother and separating for the first time with my only sister, my treasured faith was threatened.

I grew up in the Catholic faith, my mother being a highly committed church member who dreamed that someday her son would become a priest or a catechist. I grew up being reminded of the importance of serving God and that I would look so handsome in a priestly robe when I grew up. My role model was my cousin, who was a dedicated catechist. However, my mother's wish for a Samuel now was uncertain. For the first time, I came to live with a family of Jehovah's Witnesses! In fact, there was no "Chitawala" (as most people commonly and derogatorily referred to Jehovah's Witnesses), and I had never seen their church building where I came from.

However, my uncle (my mother's older brother) was wise and figured out the emotional disaster my immediate change of faith would cause. He initially allowed me to go to my church while they went to theirs. He neither denounced my beliefs nor commanded me to go with them to their church. He could not openly suggest anything pointing to a change in my thoughts. Nevertheless, he deliberately left those easy-to-read brochures and handbills near my books and encouraged me to read the Awake magazines because they contained some of the things taught at school.

My quick observation was that we were a world apart regarding activities.

Their men always carried heavy cases full of books and wore jackets and neckties whenever they went to church, while our men wore anything as long as they were clean and bright. Their priests never wore robes, they never beat drums, and they had no choir group. There was no bell to signal the beginning of their meetings. They towed families along when going to church and usually went around people's houses talking about paradise lost and gained. They called their grass-thatched building a Kingdom Hall, while our better iron-roofed structure was a church. My life was at an indisputable crossroads. These glaring differences were getting me more and more confused about which faith was genuine.

Let's get back to Maane Meka before I bore you with details you already know about these two faiths. That Saturday, I accompanied my uncle to look for the relish for an important guest. We were expecting a "circuit overseer" from their church to arrive on Monday. Therefore, preparations had started a week or so before he arrived. The house was cleaned, the toilet roof repaired, and the surroundings and path slashed. We had all the flowers and plants watered every morning and the clothes washed, ironed, and arranged in order. We had lectures on how to behave and when to talk while visitors were around. We were not to disturb them, as they usually read important religious material.

We had to prepare relish, fish, meat, and birds while women were busy processing cassava mealie-meal. That appointed Saturday with Shikulu would instead see me go far away into the dense reed and fibre-filled swamps in search of delicacies for our visitor. We successfully checked the snares set out by my uncle. Fortunately, we found a struggling sitatunga trapped in one of the wire snares, which he quickly and skillfully slaughtered. He cut its throat and let the blood ooze out—another religious ritual I was to learn.

Mother Nature has her own way of arranging events. Little did I imagine that the respected visitor I worked hard for would be an open and firm bridge between Mr. Maane Meka and me.

We zoom in on the happenings of a Saturday during the "special week," a week in which JWs receive the Circuit Overseer. We were to attend a congregational meeting in the afternoon. Before that, all baptised members of the congregation met in the morning to go out preaching from house to house. They took members of their families along, and all shared in the preaching activities in groups of two or three. This time, my uncle had to take me along, too. He would visit 'studies,' interested individuals who had agreed to study the Bible with him at different times. The visitor would accompany us.

Long story short, we approached and preached to some men. I was impressed with the simplicity with which the Overseer explained the meanings of what seemed to be complicated Bible verses. I still vividly remember how he answered questions with precise verses from the Bible and verbally painted a new earth, paradise regained, and how events then confirmed that we were living in a world that was about to end soon. I had never imagined such an experience before. I also sensed the urgency to become a JW to survive the soon-approaching and dreaded Armageddon.

As we left for lunch at the house of another congregation member who had volunteered to host our visitor, we used the path near Shikulu's hut. When he saw us, he called out that we preach to him, too, on the condition that we help him with something to eat. My uncle was seemingly uncomfortable with Mr. Maane Meka. He narrated stories of how they tried to preach to him several times in the past, but the man vehemently opposed JWs. He was once involved in setting their houses on fire when he was energetic and prominent. However, recently, he accepted the "good news" from anyone and used Christianity as the only applicable tool to attract sympathy and seek assistance.

"Doesn't your big book teach that true worship is all about caring for the helpless?" he would ask.

Thus, Uncle knew precisely what to expect. Nevertheless, the visitor wanted to draw this man out and pass on the kingdom message.

"Exactly, Sir… We must do that as true Christians, especially to the aged, widows, and orphans. The Overseer said as he sat close to the old man.

"But many of the members of these churches do not practice what they learn. Are you different?"

"Yes, we're. That's why you see us preaching publicly, including from house to house."

"Alright then, first give me something to eat. I will then listen."

Surprisingly, the Overseer promised that we would return with food in a short while. As we reached the house where we were to have lunch, the Overseer indicated that he would not have his lunch; instead, he would give it to Shikulu. The brother would use the remaining time to preach to him. He let us have a quick meal while he asked someone to deliver lunch to Shikulu. We had about two hours left before the congregational meeting.

Fast forward, and we were back at Mr. Maane Meka's hut. He had a very sumptuous meal that day, delivered on the best plates, with various relishes, clean water, and Munkoyo (sweet beer)! I am sure you can visualise how much he enjoyed himself!

After the meal, he suggested that we keep the leftovers for his supper. And boom, he stunned us with some peculiar behaviour! He fell quiet! Whatever was going on in his head was beyond my comprehension. The man could not answer any question; he could neither agree nor disagree with any statement. He was mute. Wholly taciturn and unconcerned! What was the old, tricky Mudala up to?

What followed was a bright, windy Sunday morning. Our visitor would be bidding farewell to his brethren after a week-long evangelisation. Due to my mid-week school calendar, I missed one popular talk he presented that encouraged congregation members to be more dedicated to spiritual work. However, I got a whiff from those who attended, who were full of praise. I secured my space in the second pew alongside the family that Sunday and was very eager to hear this allegedly gifted minister for myself.

The Kingdom Hall was packed! Many congregation members had to sit outside to allow invited guests to sit comfortably and listen to this experienced and eloquent speaker. People clapped in unison at very close intervals to applaud the man. I sat there dumbfounded, imagining what training one had to go through to attain such levels of oration. The theme of the discourse was "Show respect and love in your Christian marriage. The Samson and Delilah marriage story was repainted and dissected into small, bite-sized pieces so that everyone understood the gist of the subject. His well-prepared Bible discourse hooked me. I wanted to learn more. Well, the rest is, you know, history.

Back home. The family tasked me with delivering food to Mr. Maane Meka, accompanied by my cousin, a young girl. The visitor ensured Shikulu got some of the best food they served the Overseer. After Shikulu had eaten, we got the plates and headed back home. A few meters from Maane Meka's hut, we met the Overseer with something that looked like a parcel. I later learned that it was a shirt and a pair of trousers. He was going to see the old man, escorted by my uncle. This time, it took them a lot of time to return home. Could the Shikulu have opened up today? Did he agree to listen to the good news?

He did. After their presentation, what he told the two men made me think differently about old people and witchcraft. Some of what they narrated that I remember is here.

"I have heard it all," Mr. Maane Meka said. "Christianity. Sin. Repentance. Heaven, Earth. Angels and Jesus, including morals—everything! All from people who claim to be Christians. For the simple reason that the preachers of these things do not believe in them, I cannot take anything anymore on the subject of religion."

Why did he say so?

"At their churches, they say men die because of sin. At funerals, men die because of an old man, an uncle, or their father. At church, they preach respect. In the neighbourhood, they abuse others, especially the elderly. The same people who preach faith in God do not believe in Him. I have slept without food several times because I am not just a suspected witch; I am a confirmed wizard in the eyes of the same Christians who say death is because of sin.

"To survive, I play on their minds. For example, I get deadwood from behind my hut to give to young men who lack confidence and tell them it is Maane Meka. It would provide them with luck or whatever they need. Even if this plant would perform wonders, should Christians believe in dead plants to help them rather than the living God? I give people useless leaves and sticks as vengeance charms to get revenge against those who wronged them. Guess what? They believe! They provide me with food in exchange for dead leaves! I have asked men to bring dangerous snakes so we can make portions for courage, which they usually do. The same men cannot face life's challenges with the same bravery they used to encounter poisonous snakes!

"Women frequent my place for love portions when the Bible has everything for them. How can these people teach me anything from the Bible? I fear for young people who lack the wisdom to realise that they are growing each day and that as they celebrate new birthdays, they are ageing, slowly declining, becoming like me."

Pause here. The three might have discussed many things, but my takeaways were many. See? It took a 'stranger' to get the man to talk about the challenges of old age. Not one in the village could unlock this man's case of wisdom due to perception. The generosity of the Overseer made the man open up and tell the truth about the Moneymaker plant.

After that evening's discussion with the Overseer, we all agreed that Mr. Maane Meka was never a dangerous man. Most of what people accused him of was a creation of people's imaginations and negative perceptions of old people. He understood this very well. The Mudala might have known some herbs that could cure certain illnesses, as is common in villages, but as he grew older, he might have forgotten how to concoct them but capitalised on black magic believers to survive. Isn't this wisdom?

From then on, my uncle allowed and encouraged us to visit and help Bashikulu-bantu whenever we could, without fear. Thanks to the resilience of the Overseer, whom I later met and interacted with in my adult life in Lusaka!

Based on this true story, I wrote a fiction book about the philosophy of death, Uluto Mu Ciswango (Fructose from a Beast), which is an attempt to teach young people that old people are valuable assets and resources in society from whom we can learn a lot of valuable life lessons.