The Greedy Zombie

Short Story

The Greedy Zombie

By Lawrence Kadzitche

 

That afternoon, I was having a hair cut in a barber shop in Area 25C. The barber had just started cutting my hair when two middle aged men entered the shop.

 

“Phiri, you were talking of the story of Mr Khwethe,” the taller of the two men said when they had sat down on a bench to await their turn. “What really happened?”

 

“It’s an interesting as well as sad story, Banda” the shorter man began that way.

 

I love writing short stories. The sources of some of the stories I write are real stories. I immediately became attentive.

 

This is the story as I heard it from the short man:

 

*

 

Everyone wants or at least needs money. These days, almost everything needs money. Food, clothes, house rent, school fees-all these things need money. Therefore, it was not strange that Khwethe needed money.

 

But what was out of ordinary was the way he craved for money. To Khwethe, nothing was more important than money. I don’t doubt that he was in the group of people that could even sell their mothers if the price was right.

 

Therefore, even though his business at Mponela Trading Center was doing well, Khwethe was far from being satisfied. Every time he saw his friends who had businesses bigger than his, he would be filled with envy and a zest to find ways to make his business grow very fast.

 

The idea to consult a witch doctor to get charms to make him rich had always been at the back of his mind. However, it was only after he met Jefutala in Ngozo’s tea room that he decided to do something about it.  Jefutala is that gentleman who owns the big shop near Ntchisi Turn off.

 

“Do you think the people who get rich do so through luck?” Jefutala asked him. “It’s through magic charms. The best witch doctor to consult in these matters is Ndengundengu.”

 

Khwethe had heard of Ndengundengu. But what he had heard was not encouraging. He had heard than the medicine man administered very difficult rituals.

 

However, encouraged by Jefutala, Khwethe finally made up his mind to consult the witch doctor. But when he told Nankhoma, she refused. You know she is a born again Christian. “God has already blessed us with a flourishing business and five healthy children; why should we consult a witch doctor?”

 

The problem with most men is that we disregard the advice of women. The following day, Khwethe paid the witch doctor a visit. He found him sitting on a tombstone in the large closed graveyard in Ntchisi where he operates from.

 

Because of Ndengundengu’s popularity, Khwethe had imagined him to be a fierce looking man. But the man he found there was small wizened old man who looked like a baboon.

 

“I’ve the right medicine to make you very rich but I don’t think you can meet the necessary accompanying rituals,” hissed Ndengundengu after Khwethe had explained why he was there. “So far nobody who got the medicine has been able to complete the rituals.”

 

Khwethe laughed. “Those that fail are not serious. There is no ritual that I cannot perform as long as it’ll make rich.”

 

The witch doctor looked at Khwethe the way one looks at a dying person. For the first time, Khwethe wondered whether he was doing the right thing in consulting the dreaded medicine man. He could have changed his mind at this point. But greed won.

 

Ndengundengu produced a small coffin shaped like a box. Khwethe received it with fear. “Choose one room in your house where you will keep this box. You will allow no one except yourself to enter the room. In this box, there is Nakumete, a zombie who’ll make money for you. Your part in the ritual will be just to make sure the zombie is fed as required.”

 

Khwethe almost laughed. So the difficult ritual they were talking about was to keep a box that looked like a coffin and feed a zombie? That was chicken feed.

 

But the worst was to come. “Now, Nakumete does not eat anything except drink blood of a human being.”

 

“What?” Khwethe asked, alarmed.

 

“The zombie eats nothing except drink the blood of a human being,” repeated the witch doctor. “Just make sure the zombie is always fed human blood.”

 

Khwethe found his heart beating like a drum. Even though it was cold, sweat formed on his brow. “Where will I get the blood?”

 

The witch doctor let out an evil, malicious chuckle. “You know where blood is found. You’ve children. Be warned that if you do not feed Nakumete blood, he will get it from your children.”

 

Khwethe took a deep breath. “Sorry, but this is something I cannot manage to do.”

 

“When we’ve revealed the ritual we do not allow one to change his mind,” the witch doctor cackled. “The zombie is yours. You don’t need to pay me anything. Relieving me of the zombie is enough payment.”

 

The witch doctor rose from the tombstone to show that the meeting was over. Very worried, Khwete left for home.

 

When he told his wife what the witch doctor had told him, she told him she was not going to be part of the evil ritual. She packed all her personal belongings and left. That was the end of their marriage.

 

But Khwethe had no options. He had to do what the witch doctor had commanded or risk the zombie sucking the blood of his children. He started killing people and feeding their blood to the zombie. At first, when the zombie drank a person’s blood, it would take two months before asking for some more. Khethwe was confident he could kill six people a year without people linking the deaths to him.

 

But when he started getting rich, the zombie also started getting fat and demanding for blood at shorter intervals. Khwethe started to grow worried. People began to grow suspicious at the frequent deaths or disappearance of people. The police were alerted. Vigilante groups were formed.

 

Now it was difficult for Khwethe to kill a person. Consequently, the zombie began to starve. Whenever he entered the zombie’s roomed, the wretched creature would cry, “Blood, blood.”

 

Khwethe didn’t know what to do. How was he going to find blood to feed the greedy zombie? While he was still trying to find a way out, he was surprised to see his eldest son gradually growing thin and weak. One day he collapsed. Khwethe rushed him to hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

 

“This is a very strange case,” the doctor told him. “The child has completely no blood. It is as if something sucked the blood from his body.”

 

Khwethe knew who had done this. Nakumete, the bloody zombie! He dashed home. He took a pestle and started hitting the zombie. But no matter how he hit it, the zombie did not die.

 

“Blood, blood, blood,” the repulsive creature continued to cry as he tried to grind it into pulp.

 

With a sickening feeling, Khwethe realized that he could not kill the zombie. But failing to kill the evil creature was not an option because that meant he either had to continue killing people or face the unpleasant prospect of having it suck the blood of his children. He had to do something.

 

*

 

I sharpened my ear to hear what Khwethe did. I was surprised when the man broke off. I raised my eyes. Through the mirror, I saw that a boy was kneeling before the man.

 

The man rose. “Banda, I have to leave. There’s a visitor at home. When you’ve had your hair cut, find me home so I can tell you the rest of the story.”

 

If I had already finished getting a haircut, I would definitely have followed the man to hear the rest of the story. Since I was still having my hair cut, I decided that I would ask his friend where the short man lived so that I could pay him a visit one day and hear the rest of the story.

 

I am sure you are also interested to hear how the story ended. When I get the rest of the story, I will definitely also tell you. If I forget, feel free to remind me.

 

End