My father was dying. I knew that but nobody said it. I saw how the other passengers on the bus looked at him, like he was already dead. Like whatever was killing him, might kill them too. There was a look of fear and pity all mixed up on their faces. And when we helped him down the aisle to a seat they stood back to let us pass.

All I could do was pray to God to heal him. When I looked in his eyes I could see that he was fighting with all the strength he had in him, but the sickness was taking him away from us. What if he died on the bus before we got him home? What then?

“Munthuyu ayenela kukhalaku chipatala siwoyenela kuti akwele nafe, He should be in hospital,” the women who sat next to us were whispering to one another.

I just stared out of the window and prayed. I was terrified.

The bus was full of people going back home; it was November and everyone was returning to their families. Everyone was in a festive mood, except for us. For us it was the worst time. I saw my mother trying not to cry, and I knew she was thinking of my brother.

“If you take him back to Malawi you will be killing him. You have to create his future for him now, so that he can have a better life,” his teacher had told us on the day before we left. “He is such an intelligent, smart boy. He only has a few more years at high school. Don’t spoil his chances now.”

I had looked at his teacher and then at my mother. My mother opened her mouth to protest but no words came out.

I saw the struggle in my mom’s heart when the teacher said this. It seemed a terrible punishment for being clever, I thought.

My brother cried so much when we left him, and my father cried too. My father told him:

“My son, may God give you wisdom and bless the work of your hands until we meet again. Do not forget who you are.”

He gave him R100. All he could afford. My brother put it carefully in his pocket. We didn’t know how long that would have to last him. We didn’t know how long it would take for my father to get well again. Or if he would get well.

The night that Mama had told us we were going to Malawi, and then told my brother that he would not be going with – that night I had prayed that my father would get better from me just saying the words. I wished for a miracle, or some kind of magic, for that was the only answer for us to escape that nightmare.

Baba said, “Allow me to go and die in the land of my father.” Those words felt like cold water shooting through the veins and arteries in my body. The pain was so hard to carry for a girl my age. It was too much to carry. I was only eleven.

“How can he be cured?” I asked Mama later that night, when Baba was sleeping.

“Your father believes in traditional medicine,” Mama said, but she wouldn’t look at me. She looked out of the window.

“And do you?” I asked her. “Do you believe?”

She didn’t answer me.

*****

Takulandilani Malawi, Welcome to Malawi.

The Via Afrika bus was crossing the border and I woke up from a long sleep. So this was my parents’ home. I could see the relief on my father’s face.

The windows of the bus were tinted and it was hard to see outside, although I tried to look at what this new country was like.

“Wonanji, sisifikile ekhaya, we have arrived at our home,” my mother said, as we stepped off that bus in Bitchayi village in the Salima region.

It was the season of mangoes. They were beginning to get ripe and my grandmother’s yard was filled with them, and with banana and guava trees and sugar cane.

An old lady came out to greet us. I saw that the shape of her eyes resembled my father’s.

“She must be Gogo, angithi Mama? right Mama?”

My granny and my mom hugged. Grandma was happy to see us all, but seeing her son so helpless made her sad. He was immediately taken inside. The house was still being built – the windows didn’t have frames. They were covered with sacks against the weather.

I looked at my mom when my grandma spoke. I couldn’t understand what she had said. They laughed.

“Gogo, ngulambe kuthweni, kubenthu, Grandma I am hungry. What do you have here to eat?” My granny took my hand and looked at my mother who told her what I had said. I only knew one word in Chewa and that was how to greet.

I wished Irene and Esther and Mapule were here to see all this. Outside, a girl stared at me and I stared back at her. Would I make friends here? Not like my friends in Katlehong, not best friends.

It was late in the afternoon when the elders in the village arrived to heal my father. I was not supposed to go into the room with him, but nobody saw me slip in and stand in the shadows. I wanted to see how these men were going to bring my father back to life. What miracle were they going to perform, that would bring the husband back to my mother and the father back to me?

In the dim light I saw a man holding dolls made of clay and herbs. Before I could ask why a man would carry dolls he started burning incense all over the house.

“Yingani kuqhuma kubo’mzi ngemphepho numenza ubaba wam, Why are you burning incense? What are you doing to my father?” I asked the people who were surrounding him as he lay on the bed.

I asked the man who was holding the doll, this time in English, which amazed everyone, “What are you doing with that doll?”

This time he spoke, “It’s not a doll. This will help heal your father.”

“Go outside. You shouldn’t be here,” they hissed at me. “Leave us alone. You are too young to be in here. Leave us so that we can save your father.”

I ran out into the sunlight. They were going to save my father! A rush of joy bubbled up inside me. We were going to go back to Katlehong the next day on the bus, when he was well. I would see Esther and Irene and Mapule again. I would tell them about the man with the clay dolls and the herbs and we would laugh. I might even tell Bright what had happened. I would have such a story to tell, better than any story he would hear from the other girls. The bet would be back on for which one of us he would choose.

I went rushing to find my mother to tell her the good news. “Dad is going to be well and we can go back home. When is the next bus?”

She poured cold water on my fire when she answered.

“If only it was that easy. It will take more than that to make your father well. I don’t think he will…”

I started crying. My mother had just stolen my joy.

“Dad still loves us,” I told her. “He won’t allow us to be orphans. They will heal him and we will go back to Katlehong.”

***

Tell us what you think: What would have been hard for Wonanji living in Malawi?