Muyenda bwino, 2007

The watering cans of heaven are at work in Malawi, and green is very much this seasons' fashion. The bedraggled vendors in Blantyre market hover protectively over their treasure trove of fruit and veg - aubergines in stark purple, pineapples and bananas in yellow, mangoes in every shade from green to red, coconuts, bird's-eyes...even the fly-covered meat in the butchery somehow feels a little fresher in this weather. But Francis and I aren't here to shop - we bee-line for our favourite little restaurant - rice and beef stew for a modest K100. We've just come from a music session at CPC, preparing for tomorrow's celebration. Fairly typical of such sessions, except that three of the musicians present were students of mine, very much fresh-faced and wanting instruction, so I was trying to hold three conversations at once while meeting the new bass-guitarist and trying to keep up a conversation with God...that's what we're pruporting to be doing in these sessions, and I like to keep up appearances ;p
So it's with a certain amount of satisfaction that we sit down on our favourite rickety wooden bench, order the only meal the venue provides, and look out over the marketplace. Saturday. Busy, despite the rain. But it's my last day in Malawi this year, and I have nothing at all to do. Like the song, my bags are packed and I'm ready to go. Christmas cards drawn up and mostly distributed... presents given...ticket bought and safe at home...lift to the airport arranged. And one afternoon to kill. It's a rare and pleasant feeling.
Let me tell you about Francis. He's odder than I am. Born in Malawi to well-to-do parents, a doctor and a manager of a secretarial business, he grew up with a hunger for knowledge, in any sphere. Sunday morning mass may have sparked his curiosity, but school was more interesting. In seceondary school he was sent to a well-respected secondary school in Zimbabwe. There three things happened. His thirst for knowledge was cultivated into a good education. His cursory interest in church developed into a full-blown love for God through a personal encounter with a famous man who died on a cross 2000 years ago. And he fell in love with Zimbabwe. But school days end, and he came back to Malawi and home. His aspirations to join the RAF didn't come to fruition, so instead he went to University in Russia. After a year, the culture shock still hadn't worn off, so he tried Kenya instead, studying business. But during that time, he received the terible news that his mother had died, early and, I think, unexpectedly. He came home for the funeral, but then retreated to Kenya, University and a world of late-night parties, drunken friendship and numbness. It was easier then trying to get on with Dad at home. And then funds ran out. By this time he was having to acknowledge that the plain-sailing he had experienced in childhood was not the norm for humanity. Things fall apart. He came back to Malawi, swallowed some pride, and began to live with his Dad again. And that's when I met him. His love for God had not abated through the ups and downs of life, and he came along to City Pentecostal Church one day, to be greeted by many there - he'd been at the church longer than I had, but had been away on his last term in Kenya. He became a guitar student of mine, and then a friend. Over rice and beef, today and in the past two weeks, his story came out.
So anyway, we were chatting. Francis is passionate about travelling, so we talked about India. The afternoon wore on. He had an engagement party (a cousin) to go to, I was planning to meet my jazz crew. But it was raining, so why get wet?
There's this not-ended feeling in me. It's like a dull pain. It's like a rainy day. It's like...it's not really like anything.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to Rory and Charlotte, and all the staff at Fisherman's Rest. I will drive the old Land Cruiser from Fisherman's Rest to Matt and Becc Armstrong's house, where I will leave my stuff to await my return on February 7th. Then I will drive to church. There I will say goodbye to various people, friends, not-quite-friends, strangers who know me as the worship leader...I will then drive with Matthew Maramba to Chileka airport, where I will deposit the Cruiser with Horace Masaule for repairs. I will say goodbye to Matthew. I will pick up my bag, my guitar, and my faith, and board a plane bound for Nairobi. By 1030 on Monday I will be in Woodhouse Eaves...home. Home? Where the family are, anyway. This excites me. This makes me happy. Most days.
But there's this not-ended feeling in me. Should I be saying this? Wouldn't it be easier to end on the word 'happy? and skip this paragraph? No, because it wouldn't be straight, and crooked happiness isn't worth the adrenaline it uses up. This is my last blog episode 2007. Roll on 2008.