William Kamkwamba - The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind

When the birds landed to eat the chaff, I’d pull the rope and release the sling, slamming the birds into the wall of bricks.

“Let’s hunt,” I said, and Khamba followed me into the trees.

We hid behind a small thombozi tree that allowed me to see clearly without being spotted. As soon as we got there, Khamba lay down beside me and stared keenly ahead. He never moved, never barked. After about half an hour, a small flock of four birds swooped over and spotted the bait. They fluttered down and began pecking at the dirt. My heart began to race. Khamba’s ears perked up and his mouth began to quiver. I was about to release the rope when I saw a fifth bird land just behind the others. It was giant, with a fat gray chest and yellow feathers.

Come on, I thought, a little more to the right. That’s it, come on .

After a few long seconds, the fat bird nudged his way into the group and started to feed. Once they were square in the kill zone, I pulled the rope.

WHOO-POP!

The birds disappeared in a cloud of feathers and chaff.

“ Tonga! ” I shouted, and Khamba and I dashed out of our blind.

Four birds lay dead against the bricks, while a fifth had managed to fly away. The large bird was still flapping against the mud, so I picked it up before it revived. Its body was warm and soft in my hands. I could feel its tiny heart fluttering against my palm. I pinched its head between my two fingers and twisted its neck.

I picked up the others and dusted off the mud. Normally I’d carry a sugar bag, but today I’d forgotten. I stuffed the limp birds into my pockets.

Once the trap was reset, I waited for another half hour, then finally gave up.

“It’s time to eat,” I said.

Khamba and I then set off for mphala .

MPHALA MEANS “A HOME for unmarried boys,” which is exactly where my cousin Charity lived. It was more like a clubhouse, situated on our property just across from Geoffrey’s house. James, the seasonal worker who’d fought Phiri, had once lived there. But after he’d been laid off, it remained empty. Charity had taken over the house with his friend Mizeck, a big fat guy who’d dropped out of school and now worked as a trader. Although they both still lived with their parents—Charity’s house was near Gilbert’s in the blue gum grove—they slept at the clubhouse at night.

In the corner, someone had built a bed from blue gum poles and maize sacks stuffed with grass. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, along with mango peels and groundnut shells and other strange pieces of rubbish. One wall featured a poster of the soccer club MTL Wanderers—otherwise known as the Nomads—which were my favorite team in the Malawi Super League, and possibly the whole world. A poster of their chief rivals, Big Bullets, adorned the opposite wall, and I can’t tell you how much I hated Big Bullets. A fireplace sat in the corner—just a large shallow pot with holes poked in the sides for ventilation and filled with charred maize piths and wood. A small window above ventilated the smoke, but not very well. It also let in the room’s only light, a thin beam of sunshine that was polluted with hanging dust. The air stank like dirty feet. To me, it was the greatest place in the world.

Because I was young and annoying, I was mostly forbidden from entering the clubhouse, unless, of course, I earned my entry. A few times I was allowed in after helping steal mangoes. Charity would make me wear a mpango sack around my neck and sneak into the neighbor’s compound. With my knife in my teeth, I’d climb the trees and quietly snip the mangoes and drop them into the sack. I’d take them back to mphala and they’d let me inside. It was like paying dues.

Once inside, the conversation was lurid and often confusing for my eleven-year-old mind. Much of the talk was about girls, and I was lucky if they forgot I was there. One time, Mizeck stopped midway through a story about a certain girl he’d seen in town and said to Charity, “We should take care, we have a child among us. This boy can’t handle such stories.”

I started pleading. “I’m not a child. Come on guys, carry on. I’m a big man. I know some things about girls.”

“Oh yeah, and what do you know?”

“I know…I know what you know.”

As KHAMBA AND I walked home from the hunt, I knew I’d earned enough loot to gain myself an entry. As I got close, I heard Charity and Mizeck inside. I knocked and Charity swung open the door.

“What?”

“Guys, I got four birds just now! They’re here in my pockets. Can I come in?”

Mizeck appeared at the door. “What do you have for us?”

“Four birds.”

He smiled. “This is the type of man we need here at mphala . Good job.”

“We’ll make a fire,” said Charity.

I walked inside beaming. Khamba followed.

“Get that stupid dog out of here,” shouted Mizeck. “He’s going to think he lives here or something. Dogs don’t belong inside, don’t you know this? I bet you even talk to that thing.”

“Khamba,” I screamed, “get outside!”

I reared back my leg, and he scurried out the door, then looked at me confused.

“Just wait,” I whispered.

I began cleaning my birds, plucking off the feathers and shaking them from my fingers into a pail. I popped the heads off and scooped out the entrails. When I opened the door, Khamba was waiting. This was his hunting treat, a reward more treasured than life itself. I tossed each head into the air, and Khamba leaped up and grabbed them. One crunch and they were gone. The entrails were slurped in a gulp.

Back inside, Charity and Mizeck already had the birds laid over the coals. The sizzling meat smelled delicious.

“Guys,” I said, “I’m really starting to salivate!”

“Be quiet.”

Once they finished cooking my birds, they even allowed me to eat one. But as soon as I was no longer useful to them, the inevitable happened.

“Hey boy,” said Mizeck, “don’t I hear your mother calling?”

“What? I don’t hear anything.”

“He’s right,” said Charity. “That’s definitely your mother.”

My marching orders had been given. Without protest, I holstered my knife back into my waistband, called my dog, and together we returned home to a houseful of girls.

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