Uncle Joe

Short Story

 

Uncle Joe

 

By Lawrence Kadzitche

 

I found Uncle Joe waiting for me at the bus depot. A tall thin man with a boyish face and a rakish moustache, he was resplendent in a black suit and matching pointed shoes. His shirt was pure white and his tie blue. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth.

 

“Welcome to Lilongwe, village boy,” Uncle Joe said hugging me. “But don’t worry; I’ll make you a town boy in no time.”

 

Uncle Joe was jolly man, always laughing. He took everything casually. When he had left the village years ago vowing to strike it rich in the city, everyone had taken that as dreams of a joker. They had all said he would come back poorer than he left. But he had proved them wrong.

 

Nobody knew what it was he did, but it must have been important because every time he visited the village he showered his relatives with gifts like clothes and blankets. Now, if Uncle Joe who had only gone up to primary school could afford all that, what about me who had gone up to secondary school?

 

He was the reason why I had turned down the offer of a clerical job at a tobacco estate and opted to trek to town to look for a job. Like my uncle, I wanted to make it big in town.

 

“We’ll take a taxi from here,” Uncle Joe said leading me out the bus depot.

 

There were about a dozen taxis at the taxi rank. They were all old cars- dented and rusty. Uncle Joe seemed very popular with the drivers and they treated him with respect. I felt proud. Uncle Joe was my idea of a man.

 

We took a battered white Toyota Corolla that looked better than all the other taxis. The car’s shock absorbers were completely worn out, the road full of potholes. I had to cling to the seat to avoid hitting the roof as the taxi bounced him up and down in the potholes.

 

The sun, low in the west, painted the city a lovely gold. I watched the imposing buildings disappear as kilometers slipped behind. About twenty minutes later, the taxi stopped.

 

Everywhere my eyes went, I saw houses. There were thousands of them- a honey comb of tiny dilapidated dwellings of all shapes made of iron sheets, cardboards, flattened oil drums and unbaked bricks. There were even thatched houses made of mud.

 

Why had we stopped here? But the taxi driver was taking my suitcase out of the boot meaning that we had reached their destination. Uncle Joe gave the driver some money and the taxi took off with a jerk and wheezed off.

 

The place looked like some sort of trading center. There was a parade of tumble down shops on the left side of the road. Posters of various advertisements were stuck on the crumbling walls. Opposite the shops was a small market where women were selling vegetables. Children were scavenging on a big heap of rubbish inside the market.

 

Then I noticed the smell. It was everywhere. The odour of rotting rubbish and human wastes. The air was thick with it that I felt as if I could almost touch it. Garbage was strewn everywhere. Any space in the jumble of houses served as rubbish dumps.

 

“Welcome to Chinsapo Location,” my uncle interrupted my thoughts. “This is your new home. How do you like it?”

 

I glanced about him. A group of dread locked young men sitting on a culvert passed around a marijuana stick. A fat ugly woman, selling tomatoes, stared boldly at me. Two shirtless youths stared at him from the shelter of a shop porch. A drunkard staggering along the road was singing an obscene song while kids pelted him with rubbish. Mangy dogs sniffed about for food.

 

God! How could his uncle think a sane person could like this? All the same-

 

“It’s alright,” I replied, avoiding disappointing him. “Only that it’s so different from…” I wanted to say from what I had thought but instead said, “from the village. I guess I’ll like it here.”

 

“Boy, here in the location is where life is,” Uncle Joe said. “Life in the suburbs is dull, just like in the villages. Don’t be fooled by the imposing mansions. The locations, that’s where the people are, and where there’re people that’s where life is. Welcome, nephew, you’ll enjoy it.”

 

Enjoy living in this pigsty? I wanted to ask. Maybe, if you call wallowing in the mud enjoyment. In any case living in a pigsty had never been part of my plans.

 

“Now it’s time you saw my humble abode!” Uncle Joe said snapping his fingers.

 

There was no road, only gaps between the shacks. The hovels faced different directions. What was one’s front yard was equally someone’s backyard. A girl scattered garbage where an elderly woman had just finished sweeping. Obscene graffiti covered most walls. Tall grass grew in between the buildings. Pools of water from bathrooms were everywhere. A young lady was answering the call of nature in a toilet that could not entirely conceal her.

 

We came across a small dilapidated house. Aunt Lelia, sitting on the verandah, was waiting for me. She was a big woman by any standards-tall and fat. She was dressed in an expensive two-piece blue suit.

 

“Jack! Welcome, my son,” she greeted me affectionately. “Oh, you’ve grown into a handsome young man. You’ll have all the beautiful girls in town chasing after you like dogs on heat.”

 

I followed her into the house. The house had only two rooms. If the location looked squalid, the living room looked as if it had survived a terrible storm. Household items littered the room: a rolled mat and a mattresses, a mound of beddings, heaps of unwashed clothes, several suitcases and a collection of washed and unwashed kitchen utensils. The room also contained modern conveniences that looked as if they were there only for decoration as the house had no electricity: a video screen, a stereo and a fridge. Four armchairs stood in the middle of the room.

 

I eased myself in one of the armchairs. Light came into the room through one small window so it was already dark although darkness hadn’t fallen yet outside. The walls were dirty and the paint peeling. A big rat stared at him before disappearing behind a curtain hanging in the opening leading to the bedroom.

 

I looked at Uncle Joe and aunt Lelia, both immaculate in expensive suits. How could they choose to live in such a dump?

 

“Please go and take a bath while I prepare something for you,” Aunt Lelia said.

 

She showed me the bathroom, a small structure standing behind the house built of unbaked bricks. For whatever reasons, the walls were built only halfway up. On one side, some of the bricks had fallen off so that the wall rose only up to waist level. On this side a group of women facing my direction were chatting at a borehole. I took the bath crouching. It was the most uncomfortable bath I had ever taken.

 

The pit latrine offered greater challenges. The gunny- sack covering the door did not reach the floor so that when I squatted to relieve myself I saw see my aunt cooking. A dirty-faced boy in torn shots peered at me with a grin.

 

Uncle Joe and Aunt Lelia did not have any children. At bedtime, the furniture was heaped in one corner. I slept in the other. Sleep came quickly because I was tired but before I fell asleep I made up my mind that I was going back to the village the first thing in the morning!

 

End