Makala Amoto

The soft mellow funeral hymns were constantly punctuated by the wailings of mourners. These wailings were slightly muffled by the velvety white cushioned interior of the oblong-box which was my coffin.

Judging by the sorrowful sobs, there must have been over 3800 mourners out there. The distinct cries of Mother and the piercing shrieks of Manyuchi Darling’s wailings were two of the loudest. It was strange hearing my British Auntie grieve like a Malawian woman, crying out and pronouncing my name in that proper English accent of hers;

“Meykalaar, Meykalaar my nephew, sob! sob! sob! Ooooohohoho my dear Meykalaaaaar!”

Laying here in my coffin felt rather chillingly calm and somewhat peaceful. Everything I had imagined and dreamt about the state of death was not to be. Most of my friends and relatives had come to pay their last respects. Osalephela there was a minority of mourners that came just to make sure that Makala wankadi, I could hear their faint hypocritical sobs and could picture them shedding crocodile tears whilst staring at my coffin uku akutafuna dzipalapatilo and nsima; typical funeral hypocrites.

I had a feeling my dear Agogo was somewhere amongst the men, holding on to his nkebe of piri-piri while silently crying for my sudden departure. For all Agogo’s hard-core stance or poking people in the face with his walking stick, deep down he was highly emotional and prone to crying. It was no secret that Agogo considered me his favourite grandson and I knew his eyes must be gushing tears more than Nkula Falls.

I could hear Amalume angrily telling off a demented relative who had callously ventured inside the house grabbing a few of my suits, shirts and shoes; funeral scavengers…akuti kulanda za-Achimwene. Amalume, then, shouted advice to the grief stricken Manyuchi;

“Go lock the bedroom door and hide the key inside your blouse!”