As is always the case during this time of the year, when all roads lead to our tobacco auction floors, the ridicule I stomach from my good friend Zikomo Matope for still clinging to my teaching gets heightened ten-fold. Since his retirement from the civil service last year as a police officer, he insists that, in this day and age, it is unreasonable to keep on breaking the chalk until one reaches mandatory retirement age.
"And," he looked me in the face, as he emptied the remains of his Chimulirenji into a plastic disposable, "what maketh you think that you will get the privilege of reaching sixty? You? I doubt..."
"Ayise," I cut him, "ndimayenda m'dzuwa'tu." At that, he beckoned the bartender and signaled that he "see us."
As the drinks were being served--the cold Chimulirenjis--gave me a brief lecture, as he always did during this time of the year, on what he called the joys of retiring young and fresh. "Why should you stick to a government which devalues the kwacha by 50 percent today and dishearteningly ups your salary by twenty-percent?"
I gulped down two huge mouthfuls of my drink in rapid succession, wanted to say something, but...
"My friend," Zikomo Matope said, "retire as soon as possible and see that life is good in HD. Otherwise, if you continue dusting the chalkboards you will either not see your retirement benefits since you will certainly be dead or you will be nursing some cancer or some new Covid courtesy of these foods, beers and air we are breathing in."
Since it was around noon and Pa Museum was still deserted of customers, the good bartender had switched on to MBC TV and, as it were, was keenly following the proceedings.
"Ankolo," I said as he opened my third bottle, "why are you interested in the launch of the tobacco marketing season? Did you grow the green gold as well?"
"Tobacco farmers and teachers are in the same WhatsApp group," Zikomo Matope said, before laughing irritatingly. "You toil as if you are serving prison terms breaking your backs or choking yourselves with chalk dust and what do you get in return? Peanuts and spirited ridicule from people who are doing well in society like me."
Whosoever coined the "truth pains" mantra was not wrong at all.
"Ankolo," I turned to the bartender, a well-built man who looked fifty more than he looked thirty. "Don't mind him."
"Ah, do you think I am offended?" Ankolo, as we fondly call him at Pa Museum, said. "But to answer your question, yes, I am a tobacco farmer and last year I invested in three hectares..."
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"Ankolo!" Zikomo Matope jumped from his stool, and almost choked. "Ankolo, three good hectares! You are in for some real good cash then."
But the barman shook his head. "Not at all, mabwana. The prices are not good at all. It would have been better if the starting buying price could have been not less than 3 dollars. With these peanuts, as you rightly put it bwana Zikomo, of prices, how will we re-pay the loans we got from NEEF?"
Ankolo turned to my good friend Zikomo Matope. "Bwana Zikomo, do you mind buying me some shots of Malawi gin? I will pay you back once I sell my tobacco. It should be a small loan."
Zikomo chuckled, mockingly. "You are as stupid as this teacher-friend of mine. Where will you get the money to repay me when it is obvious you have lost with your tobacco this year? Just ask me for the shots, and stop the small loan nonsense."
Ankolo, the barman, turned to the fridge, took out a 330 ml bottle of 'baby gin' and half-emptied it. He gave us a lavish smile that also exuded thoughtful concern.
"I will sell my tobacco," Ankolo said finally, "at much better prices than what government is offering at the auction floors. The vendors are currently roaming our villages in Rumphi and loaded with good cash. If government does not negotiate for better prices at the auction floors, we have no option. The vendors are in our backyard!"
Zikomo Matope and I became solemnly quiet.
"How much is my bill?" Zikomo Matope, was standing up. "It is only three days before I get my 14. Give us a round, and add another baby gin for yourself. Don't exaggerate the bill like you did last weekend."
