Blood and Steel in search of Edgar Makwinda's Africa Part 1

Blood and Steel Part 1.

12th March 1979

The flight from Dodoma had been some what slow and jerky as the Tanzanian Airlines DC-3 struggled to stretch the distance to the supposed Airport that was Lilongwe International. Aiport and International in name only.

I was in no ways new to this part of Africa, but this was my first time to the Republic of Malawi and it was with some Chichewan phrases, and the elusive myths of this man who I had heard so much about, that I set of on my little journey. From the outset it was a quest without end or structure, it was something I had convinced my editor to do with a great amount of reluctance on his part.

I had heard from several parts of Southern Africa of this wise teacher of men, one who could defy the logical world in which we lived. A man who was a throw back to the dark days of pre colonial Africa, a man who could show this pale skinned 'white man' just what this part of the World was really about.

I was in search of Edgar Makwinda.

I was approached by two round faced men, whose sweat stained Khaki's seemed to be two sizes to small for their rotund though perfectly orbital trunks. Each man greeted me with a wide smile, and shook my hand with a vigour that I can feel still just now as I type away.
One of the men, who called himself 'Cook' explained to me that he could show me to any part of Malawi that I was interested in. Cook seemed to have learned English at a young age and spoke with only a slight accent. His companion however though the same age was completly bald spoke only the slightest of English. He had introduced himself to me as 'Hendrix". For no other reason other than he seemed to be a fan.

Our Land Rover rolled away and carried us over dirty roads and barely walkable tracks as we neared our destination of Salima. This was where we were to meet Edgar, or as my contacts had called him, The Teacher.

It was slowly ebbing into darkness as we reached the hotel, a four bedroom two story building with a Pepsi Cola sign leaning against the entrance. Grabbing my belongings I ventured into the building with my two guides close by. All the time Cook was explaining to me why the subtle nuances of the his favourite Jetsons episodes.

It appeared that Edgar was not going to be in town tonight. Or so I gathered as Cook and Hendrix spoke to the Hotel owner and the town leader. The conversation was fast and aggressive at times, but it soon relaxed into laughter and smiles as each man took their turns at looking in my direction with varying smiles and nods. It seems that they forgot I was isolated in my lack of lingual ability.

Cook later explained to me that Edgar had been here earlier in the week and had fought of several 'badmen' that had stolen the local chicken venders stall.

"These badmen were defeated by Edgar as he beat them to death with his fists. They stood little chance not even their weapons or guns could stop him. It was a great victory for us."

Cook had explained to me excitedly. Though I found no evidence of a great battle from where I had visited, nor could I see any proof of this show down other than those excited retellings by my local friends.

I went to bed that first night some what tired and drained. It was as I fell into a deep sleep that I had the most vivid of dreams, it was what my Malawi friends would call a 'story sleep'. In this Story Sleep a crying woman kept yelling at me, I could not answer her, but some strange faceless man helped her. I could not get near and every time I did I heard a voice whispering "Go home strange man" followed by some Chichewan curse words.

I told Cook about my dream, he retold it to Hendrix and the hotel owner. Each man looking at me with only what I could deem to be a concerned look.

Cook told me some what somberly that I had been warned away. That my dream was more a warning or a bad omen. It was with this in mind that we went on our journery deep into the dark, untamed jungles of Central Malawi. My two local friends sitting in silence the joyous conversations of yesterday far gone, only to be replaced by darting eyes and a cold sweat slick across each mans forehead.

And some hours into our safari it seemed that my Story Sleep truely had been an Omen for the worse.

The Land Rover came to a sudden halt when Hendrix noticed two obviously placed logs in the road. Several armed men stepped out of the foliage and approached us. They exchanged savage words with Hendrix and Cook, disarming each man of their token side arms. I at this time was helpless and isolated by the language barrier.

"Who are they and what do they want Cook?" I asked desperate to understand the situation.

"These are badmen" He answered moments before being thrown into the mud of the road with Hendrix and I.

I looked up to protest the situation, my naive Western sensibilities kicking in. As I opened my mouth it was filled with a leathery boot followed by pain and blood.

I could hear Hendrix say something only to be answered by a loud muzzle blast that sent his body into a limp and lifeless state. I felt numb. Though frightened I felt more as though I were spectating the inevitable and not experiencing it.

The armed men stood over Cook and I, pressing their rifles into the bases of our necks. I closed my eyes and accepted that I shall meet my end, foolheartedly in pursuit of a Myth in this narrow, muddy and soon to be blood soaked African road in the centre of Malawi.

End of Part 1.