By: Clive Aaron Gill

My name is Mwanza Mufulira, and I am sixteen. In Livingstone, Zambia, my parents and I live in a two-bedroom brick house with a corrugated steel roof. The city is named after David Livingstone, a Scottish missionary, explorer and physician who traveled in Africa during the 19th century.

At school, I met a boy named Chikondi who became my friend. Soccer and video games were our favorite activities. We both had round cheeks and full lips, and people mistook us for brothers. Chikondi was seventeen and often came to school with bruises caused by his father’s beatings. I wished someone would punish his father.

On a warm Monday morning at school, Chikondi asked in Tonga, “Muli shani?” How are you?

“Nshili bwino.” I am fine.

“Did you go to the soccer game between Zesco United and Livingstone Pirates?” Chikondi asked.

“No. I don’t have a bicycle, and the stadium is too far for me to walk. When I leave school and get a full-time job, I will have enough money to buy a bicycle. They are very expensive.” In frustration, I kicked pebbles at an imaginary goal. “With a bicycle, I can go to soccer games and visit you and other friends who don’t live close to me.”

I worked part time as a food delivery driver for The Elephant Café, using their scooter. The pay was low, and I didn’t have any savings. I thought of stealing a bicycle at the Mukuni Park Market, but I remembered my father’s words. “A thief has no honor.”

“I will look for a bicycle that is a bargain,” Chikondi said.

*

A month later, after a powerful January thunderstorm brought welcome rain, Chikondi rode the bus to visit me at my home.

“Do you still want a bicycle?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“My bicycle is in the shop for repairs. When it is fixed, you can buy it.”

“I did not know you had a bicycle,” I said.

“Well, you do not know everything about me.”

“How will you get around?”

“I’ll take the bus.”

“How much do you want for your bicycle?”

Chikondi took his time, as if he was calculating the amount, then he gave me a price that was one-quarter of what a new bicycle would cost.

“Why are you selling your bicycle?”

“I want to play in my friend’s band as a drummer. I have been saving money from my gardener’s job at The Maramba River Lodge for a drum set. But … I need more money.”

“My Baba and I will need to see your bicycle.”

“I will bring it soon.”

That evening, I said to Baba, “Chikondi is selling his bicycle.” I told Baba the price and that my friend would bring the bicycle for us to examine.

“When he brings it,” Baba said, “I will give my opinion. The child who listens to the old man’s advice will avoid the mistakes of the young.”

I nodded. “Ee, Baba.”

“If I think it is a bargain, I will lend you the money.”

Two days later, Chikondi returned to my home on his bicycle.

I checked the wheel rims, tires and spokes. They were all in good condition, and I did not see any rust. “My father must check your bicycle.”

Baba came out of our house and examined the frame, brakes, pedals, saddle and bell. “Chikondi, the saddle is badly scratched.”

“That is true. But the bicycle goes well.”

Baba took the bicycle for a test ride, the tires kicking up small clouds of dust as he pedaled over the bumpy road. When he returned, he shook his head. “Chikondi, the price is too high.”

I expected the customary bargaining about the price.

Chikondi lowered the price a little, but Baba shook his head again.

I bit my nails, worried they would not complete the bargaining. After a lot more discussion, they agreed on a price that was one-eighth the cost of a new bicycle.

Baba handed some worn bills to Chikondi, who bowed slightly in gratitude. With care, Chikondi carefully wrote out a receipt and gave it to Baba.

Then I believed dreams did come true. I rode the bicycle up and down my street, waving to my neighbors.

*

Every day during the week, I rode to school and back. It took me ten minutes instead of walking for forty.

The following week, I again met Chikondi at school.

He slapped me on my shoulder. “What’s it like having a bicycle?”

“You should know.”

“You can sell it back to me if you like.”

“No. Did you get your drum set?”

“I’m still discussing the price with the owner.”

*

On a Saturday, I rode to the busy Mukuni Park Market to buy mopane worms for Mama. She usually stewed them for a long time in onion, garlic, curry, and tomatoes, then served them with maize mush.

The market aromas of spices, dried fish and groundnut stew made me hungry. Tourists browsed at the busy market stalls, examining hand-carved wooden sculptures, copper bracelets and colorful woven textiles.

I parked my bicycle next to a stall where a friendly woman sold worms, mangoes and guavas. She wore a beaded necklace and a floral chitenge, a rectangular cotton fabric draped over her shoulders. She argued with a broad-shouldered woman over the price of the fragrant, ripe mangoes, her voice rising in pitch as she spoke.

I found the worms Mama wanted, and while I waited to buy them, I noticed a man with a deeply creased face getting on my bicycle.

I ran to him and said, “Mzee,” a respectful title for an elderly man, “please, you are on my bicycle.”

Mzee glared at me and shouted, “So, you are the one who stole my bicycle.”

Buyers and sellers stopped talking and stared at us.

“I didn’t steal it, Mzee. My baba bought it.”

“Your baba bought it? I knew this was my bicycle when I saw the scratches on the saddle.”

A vegetable seller screamed, “Mzee found the boy who stole his bicycle. He’s a kanjala,” a scoundrel.

A security guard ran to me and asked, “Why did you tell Mzee this bicycle belongs to you?”

“Because my Baba paid for it. He has a receipt.”

The guard called the police station, and two policemen, dressed in khaki shirts and trousers, arrived in a jeep. They questioned me and Mzee, then one of them lifted the bicycle into the back of the jeep. He told Mzee and me to climb in.

At my house, they examined Baba’s receipt, and at Mzee’s home, they inspected his receipt. When we arrived at Chikondi’s home, they questioned Chikondi about the bicycle’s ownership and spoke with his father about Chikondi’s bruises.

The police impounded the bicycle at the police station, and a court date was set.

*

Eight days later, Chikondi and his father, Mzee and his wife, and my parents and I, sat in a courtroom cooled by two fans. A limp Zambian flag hung beside a plain wall. The magistrate entered, and everyone stood until she settled into her seat at the raised bench. Mzee and Baba showed the magistrate their receipts, and she examined them carefully.

She ordered that the bicycle be returned to Mzee and the money Baba paid to Chikondi be refunded. Tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision as the weight of Chikondi’s betrayal settled over me.

Then the magistrate ordered Chikondi and his father to stand. Chikondi looked at the floor as the magistrate ordered him to attend a rehabilitation program and do five months of community service.

The magistrate looked down at Chikondi’s father, who stood with hunched shoulders. “I’ve reviewed the police report,” she said, her voice steady. “Your repeated acts of violence against your son place him at serious risk. In the best interest of the child, I am issuing a Supervision Order. The child shall be placed in a foster home under the supervision of the Department of Social Welfare. A social worker shall monitor his well-being and submit regular reports to this court. You are ordered to report to Child Welfare Services and comply fully with all directives, including counseling or rehabilitation programs, as recommended.”

*

When Baba, Mama and I arrived home, Baba said, “Chikondi has suffered from beatings. The child who is not embraced by a parent will burn his home to feel its warmth.”

Chikondi and I never rebuilt our friendship, though we exchanged polite greetings when we saw each other at soccer games.

*

After graduating from high school, and working full time for three years as a front desk receptionist at the Avani Victoria Falls Resort, I bought my first new bicycle. I felt proud that I had achieved my goal.

Baba congratulated me and said, “The patient person eats ripe fruit. Go well, my son.”

I rode my shiny bike to soccer games and to friends who did not live close. Leaving the city behind on weekends, I cycled into the wide-open grasslands. Scattered acacia trees, each surrounded by hardy wild jasmine shrubs, dotted the peaceful landscape.

Riding fast along dusty paths, the cool breeze rushed past me, carrying the scent of the dry savanna grass. Hawks glided effortlessly on currents of air, filling me with a sense of freedom.

Feeling I was living an exhilarating life, I said to myself, “I am the luckiest man in the world.”

###

Clive Aaron Gill’s stories have been widely published in literary magazines and anthologies. He has shared his tales and engaged audiences at writers’ workshops, and at public and private events.

Having lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America, and Europe, Clive’s diverse experiences infuse his storytelling with a rich global perspective.