A DEDICATION TO A GREAT PEOPLE OF NGERENGE, KARONGA: THE FOOD, THE BULL FIGHT AND THE KACHASU DRINK Living among the Ngondes of Karonga North was one rich experience I will forever cherish. They had the richest diets, the funniest dances when drunk, the complex surnames. Though I lived among them in 1983-1984, quiet young myself, but I still remember names like Kapyayilire, Mwaipopo, Mwangopile, Mwakabagha, almost all the names started with Mwa. I thoroughly enjoyed roaming in their compounds well fenced with banana live fences, swampy and smelling with cow dung, the most disgusting sites and yet thrilling life styles. I can still recall the rich aroma of their rice, the sweet ripe bananas of every variety, their chambiko made the natural way, their mixed dishes, my favorite being green bananas cooked in pork, their mphasa fish. Their soils as rich as their culture. Those were my most memorable days. I still remember the nearest villages of the Mwaipopo. In this village lived one old couple, the Kapyailile. Their house was very close to the school where father taught, and when they were drunk, they could completely be different couple, they could sing and dance, it gave us pleasure to make fun of them at the time they were drunk On one beautiful afternoon, I convinced my younger brother to come with me to the rice fields around, to catch the grasshoppers and gather the after harvest rice with the hope that from there we could sneak into the villages near us. There was something about the grasshopper that fascinated me and I could imagine the grasshopper was my herd of cattle. later we could Cage the unfortunate grasshopper in a small khola made from tiny sticks . As we were still in the open field, my brother saw the herd of cattle coming our way, he called out to me to look out. My face lit with excitement, the time we spent with the herders was exhilarating, they allowed us to ride on the back of the calf, sometimes they allowed us to suckle from the cows, and the warm creamy milk was everything we needed, it was foamy and its taste very fresh. We abandoned our grasshopper catching exercise and followed the herder around until he settled at some open uncultivated ground a few meters away from the main farms. It was almost a bush filled with some natural shrubs. We patiently waited as the cattle fed on grass. Our expectant faces anxiously waiting to hear from the herder whether we would be suckling from the cows udders and riding the calf. I cannot make out the face of that herder, but all I remember is a talk dark Mr. Mwaipopo who always wore same clothes and I don’t think he ever took a bath, however as young as we were that did not matter at all. The man had his specific time to milk the cows, and late in the afternoon, on that day, he allowed us to put our mouth to the udder and suckle out the milk, the cow did not have a pleasant smell, it was a mix of cow dung and freshness of the milk, in fact I could see cow dung on its tail so close to my face. I did not mind, in the bush herding cattle, was a place where we used cow dung to roast bananas which we could take with the fresh milk straight from the udder. I dont remember having a dull childhood in Ngerenge While we were still there, my brother climbing an older calf with the help of Mr Mwaipopo, we saw another herd coming towards us. I knew there would be trouble as the two herds from different kraal would engage in a fight. I held my brother’s hand tightly and pulled him out of the place. We climbed a small tree a few meters from where the two herd were gathered. We were filled with excitement, we knew that any minute the bulls would engage in a fight. Bull fight does not just stop, unless the herders separated the bulls. One giant bull charged at the other bull from the other camp, they fought like they already had grudges against each other and yet it was just fighting over dominance and territory. We cheered from the small tree we had climbed, fascinated with the way the bulls locked their horns and then releasing the hold on each other as if a referee was there to direct them. The fight went on, the bulls chasing each other around, charging, retreating and locking horns, their heads working hard as if they were going to get a price at the end of the day. A crowd started gathering, mostly young boys older than me and my brother. With every cheer, the bulls fight became stronger. One thing I could not understand was how the animals could fight that much for no reason known to me. The bull fight went on and on, until I lost interest,and grabbed my brothers hand, we wandered off into the nearest village of the Mwaipopos . We could hear people sing but it was difficult to trace the songs and the source. We stopped, trying to figure out from which direction the songs were coming from. Finally we traced the song to the compound of Mr Kapyayilire and his wife. The kapyayilire’s lived in a one bed roomed hut, perfectly thatched and smeared with cow dung, enclosed in a banana live fence. We managed to find our way past the banana live fence and standing behind their tiny kitchen, we saw a lot of middle aged to old people, all drunk, a kachasu distilling equipment all set up. The more they sung and danced, the more we moved closer, their compromised voices drew us closer, sounding as awful as the songs they sung, their musical tone drowned in the bitter spirits. They pulled us in to join in the dancing, we danced as badly as the drunken bunch before us. They laughed at our amateur steps and we laughed along enjoying the whole thing. Mr. Kapyayilile offered us some bitter kachasu drink, it was hot on my tongue and it was like my throat had been set on fire, that one sip was my worst and I could not take any more, my brother did not even try. I went near the distilling setup and I saw that maize bran was used to make the kachasu. Mrs Kapyayilire gave us a clay pot of cooked rice from the previous night with home made chambiko, we ate the nice food . After we were tired watching drunks, our bellies filled with the food and the cow milk from earlier, we decided to go home, knowing mama was looking for us. Three days later mama pounded the maize, and my brother and I took the maize bran to give to the Kapyayilires knowing the brew kachasu. We did not find them, so we poured the maize bran on their well cleaned (khonde) veranda and went home to take some more. We made about 5 trips to and fro home to the couple’s hut, we were not aware we were making a mess. We were so proud to be of help, because we were very sure the couple would need the maize bran to make the kachasu. We proudly told our mother what we had done and mama had been very scared, she knew we picked a fight with the wrong people. The wife came home shouting at mama and complaining bitterly at what we had done, I could hear everything and mama kept apologizing to the older woman. I took my younger brother by the hand and pulled him towards the many bags of maize which were in the house, we hid behind them, not making a single noise. The woman asked my mother if she could to talk to us, mama called and called, but we did not respond, we kept hiding. Finally she gave up, went on her path cursing and shouting. Three hours later mama found us behind the bags of maize, fast asleep. We were tired after a long day.
Posted on: Sun, 20 Jul 2014 20:37:40 +0000
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