John hired to help with planting and harvesting was named Mister Phiri, a man of near-heavenly strength. Uncle John didn’t even use tractors to clear the land and trees. Instead he sent Phiri, who was so powerful he’d walk from tree to tree and rip them from the earth, as if they were weeds.
Everyone knew Phiri’s secret was mangolomera, a form of magic that delivered superhuman strength. Mangolomera was the ultimate self-defense, a kind of vaccine against weakness. Only the strongest wizards in the district could administer this potion—a kind of paste made from the burned and ground bones of leopards and lions, and mixed with roots and herbs. The medicine was rubbed into small incisions made on each knuckle, usually by a magic razor. Once mangolomera was in your blood, it could never be reversed and was always gaining strength. Only the toughest men could manage this ever-growing power, or else quickly self-destruct.
Phiri was so strong that no person or animal could challenge him. Once while working in the fields, a black mamba snake slithered over his foot and prepared to strike. But Phiri wasn’t afraid. He took a simple blade of grass and whipped the snake on the back, leaving it paralyzed. He then grabbed it by the head and snapped its spine. People said he carried another mamba in his pocket as a charm, and this snake was too afraid to bite.
But Phiri’s power was so potent and always growing that it made him constantly want to battle. When this happened, my father had to intervene.
One afternoon I was playing in the yard when I heard a frightening noise coming from the fields, like the sound of twenty leopards roaring. I raced down to find Phiri nose to nose with another worker named James. Phiri was breathing heavily and ready to attack. His hands were in fists and the veins in his arms bulged like tree roots. When he opened his mouth to scream, the earth below our feet seemed to tremble in fright. Someone said Phiri had given James money to buy some items in Kasungu. But James wasn’t educated and couldn’t read or count, so the shopkeepers cheated him and kept their pay.
Before I knew it, Phiri began punching James. Phiri was short and thick, and James was tall and also very strong. The two traded blows back and forth, and for the moment, James was holding his own. But I knew it was only a matter of time before Phiri’s mangolomera exploded and crushed poor James.
Around that time, my father also heard the commotion. Fearing for James’s life, he rushed over to break up the fight. Although mangolomera never weakens, it can be neutralized for short periods of time using the green vines from a sweet potato plant. You know how Superman becomes weak at the sight of those shiny green crystals? The same is true for magic people and sweet potatoes, I don’t know why.
Anyway, the second Phiri saw my father arrive, he shouted to him, “Mister Kamkwamba, PLEASE…some vines for my head! I don’t want to kill this man!”
Seeing no vines nearby, my father instead ran over to Phiri and wrapped him up in his arms. Phiri kicked and screamed like a tethered tiger, but my father held on tight. He took him to our garden and pulled several long stems, then wrapped Phiri’s head and elbows. Within seconds, Phiri’s heart cooled down, and he collapsed from exhaustion. That day, seeing my father wrestle something as dangerous as mangolomera made me believe every story I’d been told about the Pope’s awesome power.
The next morning, Phiri arrived for work looking and feeling okay. However, James reported being sick and had to miss the entire week. His hands and arms were so swollen he couldn’t move, and his legs wouldn’t even carry him. I’d watched James defend himself well, so this wasn’t the result of Phiri’s blows. Phiri’s magic had been so strong it had simply rubbed off like poison.
PHIRI HAD A NEPHEW named Shabani who went around boasting that he was a real sing’anga who possessed mangolomera. Gilbert and I suspected he was just a lot of talk, but we were never completely sure. Shabani was a small boy like us and not that powerful, yet he boasted like a man with biceps the size of anthills. This made us wonder. Since Shabani never went to school, choosing instead to work the fields with his uncle, he was usually hanging around the house when I returned in the afternoons.
At the time, I was nine years old and not very strong. I wasn’t the most athletic chap, either. Despite an incredible love for soccer, I wound up on the bench most every match. Bullies stalked and tortured me in the schoolyard. It was a time of crippling humiliation.
One day, after hearing another of my pathetic stories, Shabani took me aside.
“Every day you’re complaining about these bullies, and I’m tired of hearing it,” he said. “I can give you mangolomera. You can become the strongest boy in school. All the others will fear you.”
Of course, possessing superpowers was my most frequent daydream. I’d imagine myself a Goliath on the soccer pitch, with legs like rocket launchers. With mangolomera, bullies would crumble at my touch and wet themselves from fright.
My father had always warned us against playing with magic. Now as Shabani stood there, smiling like a mongoose, I saw my father looking down at me, standing next to Jesus. I then felt my head shaking yes, and my mouth beginning to move.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
“We’ll do it in the blue gums behind Geoffrey’s house,” Shabani said. “Meet me there in one hour, and bring twenty tambala.”
I arrived in the forest first and waited in the dark shadows, my mind racing with all the possibilities. Shabani then appeared through the trees. He held a black jumbo that sagged at the bottom, containing something heavy, something powerful.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yah, I’m ready.”
“Then sit down.”
We sat down in the dirt and leaves and he opened the bag.
“We’ll start with your left hand, cutting the knuckles and inserting the medicine into your veins. Then we’ll do the right.”
“Why the left hand first?”
“You’re right-handed, man. Your right hand is the strongest. I’m giving you equal power, so your punches will be deadly from both sides.”
“Oh.”
He reached into the bag and pulled out a matchbox.
“In here are the blackened bones of the lion and leopard, along with other powerful roots and herbs.”
He fished out a wad of paper that contained more black ash, which he began mixing with the other potion.
“These other materials are very scarce, found only on the bottom of the ocean.”
“So how did you get them?” I asked.
“Look boy, I’m not just another person. I got them from the bottom of the ocean.”
“Okay.”
“I stayed there for three whole days. If I wanted to, I could take every person in your stupid village and put them into my scarf and sling them over my shoulder. Don’t play around with me, bambo. If you want this kind of power, it will cost you lots of money. What I’m giving you is only a small taste.”
I didn’t even see him pull out the razor. It just suddenly appeared, and before I knew it, he’d grabbed my left hand and dug into my first knuckle.
“Ahh!” I screamed.
“Be still and don’t cry!” he said. “If you cry it won’t work.”
“I’m not crying.”
One by one, my knuckles began to swell with bright drops of blood that poured down my hand. Pinching the powder between his fingers, he rubbed it into the bloody wounds. It stung like hot coals. Once he finished with both hands, I exhaled with relief.
“See, I didn’t cry,” I said. “Do you still think it will work?”
“Oh yeah, it will work.”
“When? When will