There is a feeling in the air of a party that already happened, like a few hours after midnight in Manhattan when the crowds have left the streets leaving the spirit of the city to finally greet the New Year alone. I get the feeling I was expected yesterday and anything that had been planned was postponed for this very moment. Now that I am late it takes a few hours for the reorganization. There are whispers on both sides of me while Isaac prepares my bath water and Edward tidies the house. Tuff Gong lets the truck breathe for 30 minutes then disappears down the road that brought us here. The truck's fading voice in the distance reminds me of when the Peace Corps vehicle had done the same that May afternoon in 2004 when I first arrived in Zolokere. There’s an initial surge of panic and vulnererability that loosens my tight clasp that I hold to the modern world, followed by a reincarnation into the maternal hands of my hosts. In this environment I am like a baby who needs to be fed, watered, bathed and told what certain words mean.
I had no expectations that the small compound of fences, coops and gardens I had left would still be intact. On the contrary, the day I departed I had pictured people coming to disassemble doors and frames, salvaging costly reeds from the fence and digging through the pile of plastic I had left. It wasn't just the area encompassing my house that has been broken down. The maligna trees that line the path to the road that provided 50 years of shade have all been topped. They now stand bald and angry peering at the brick kiln that burned its limbs. The royal family is growing.

Mlawa now had a son and a wife and needed bricks for a royal house. The sigatone trees that had guarded my gardens had also been clipped so the mangoes are the last relief to the burning September sun. Unfortunately they aren't yet ripe, I think, as I look around for more change among the familiar faces who come and go for greetings. I now come to the realization that the exterior charm of Zolokere and Hewe is diminishing, slowly being cut away for timber bricks and fuel-wood. As development advances so to does the loss of landscape.
Little by little the soccer team assembles right here at my old house. Before I know it there are women cooking rice and chickens and crates of beer being hidden behind doors. Just like I never left. I shake hand after hand, some bow some kneel others smile shyly then return to the shadows from where they came. Nearly all of them ask of my family and how I left them, a reflection of the importance Tumbuka people attach to their own families. We sit and chat by candlelight while the women finish the food intended to welcome me. I am offered a mammoth size portion of white rice, stewed chicken, green vegetables and 2 glass bottles of Fanta. As I look around the room I notice 15 or so men with salad bowl size portions of food on their laps, some with soft drinks others with Carlsberg Stout in their hands. They had each contributed 200 kwacha for the party and had intended on getting their money's worth. I was only part of the attraction.
As bowls are emptied and stomachs filled a few representatives from the club spoke words of thanks and praise for my past and present efforts to help the team. I had sent three sets of uniforms, hats, caps, flags and water bottles so that a league could be informed in my absence. Tony Bomber's team committee had taken on the burden of coordinating that league. At its conclusion the team had won second place but had deferred their prize to the third place team, a display of extreme generosity to the more disadvantaged clubs. I explain how proud I am for this action as it reflects an impressive amount of team spirit and thoughtfulness. Finally, the team expresses their condolences for the loss of our beloved friend and brother, Gama. I solemnly address the topic and say that his spirit is still with us but don’t go into details surrounding his death. I tell them of my plan to visit Mulanje and build him a proper gravestone. They agree that this would be a fitting remembrance.

Once all of the salad bowls are empty and words have quieted I realize that despite updating me on their performance, the condition of the equipment and requesting new cleats, no one had mentioned a word about the team's money. Something fishy was going on but my arrival wasn't the time or place for an inquisition. I had two months to go fishing.
When the team leaves I realize I have had no idea what time it is since I got off the plane, which was five days ago. I physically feel good but am experiencing a subtle form of jetlag meshed with my mind's recalculation of African time. I retire to bed without the mosquito net I forgot to buy in Mzuzu. Within minutes I am dead to the modern world as the spirit of my former village life begins its reentrance.
I wake with the sun already high in the sky and still have no idea what time it might be. I could lie back down for another eight but force myself to get up. With the first rooster's crow there had already been visitors for proper morning greetings. As they and their frequency decline I notice my Chitumbuka coming back. Little by little I'd find my form but realize that I'll never reach the level that I had achieved before I left. This was actually a common question from many of my old friends. So after a few attempts I could now at least proficiently explain how I hadn't any practical use for the language nor any Tumbuka friends at home.
My first morning and I am welcomed by the news of the first funeral. In the next three days there would be three more or four in my first four days in Zolokere. Two were from old age, one a suicide and the other from AIDS. Traditionally, a funeral stops everything in a village for three days; no farming, working, preparing gardens, only life's chores continue combined with food preparation for the visiting mourners. Four in four days means Zolokere is at a standstill, no field preparations, meetings, events or celebrations. Many of the shops are closed and the dusty paths are quiet of the voices that normally accompany them. Chatwa explains its officially funeral season and their frequency are a direct result of the change in weather. It is true that I am hearing a lot of complaints of 'chikhoso' their word for common cold. He further explains that, as bodies adjust, things will calm down before the season reopens with the start of the rains in November.
Jacklyn stops by to greet me. Jacklyn has many names and many roles as well. To some she's Estara, to others Vitumbiko. But to me she's simply 'Walangosi' or big sister because she genuinely considers me her brother. This was validated by the impression it left on the new Peace Corps Volunteer a few days later when he came to visit me but had no idea where my house was. He found Jacklyn at her shop in the village center and inquired, 'Do you know Jake?' She answered, 'He is my brother let me show you the way.’ To have someone like Jacklyn on your side here is vital. Her Father is the ruling chief in Zolokere but she shares part of his power, much to his disliking. She's different from the other women here. She's not scared to challenge a man, the norm or even her Father. She is sneaky but that can be said for many other Malawians. This is just a consequence of poverty and her maternal obligation to Madalitso, her only daughter. Madalitso is the Chichewa word for blessings which is a fitting enough description for a 15 year old girl with such a strong mother. Her illegitimate Father was Gama, my late helper and friend. This is only a secret in words as their resemblance is self-revealing. She even looks more like him now than she did when I left.
Jacklyn and Gama were once an item, probably up to the point of my arrival in 2004 when he began working for me. I had questioned him on the matter a few times but he never seemed to really talk about their history. Out of respect I just let it rest that way. Being privy to all this information though allows me to make several assumptions. First, if Gama died from AIDS then Jacklyn is definitely HIV positive. Second, when I observed a division between the two in 2005 it was likely because she informed him of her status. There was a striking shift in Gama's personality and a sadness that he carried with him all the time. As many times as I inquired or encouraged him he never told me the truth of his health status. Although I knew it in my heart, I also never let the truth breech the surface of my consciousness. We just lived, worked and loved each other. In retrospect, I could have pushed harder but ultimately it was my own wish for him to live and his own to perish.
I had anticipated this conversation for a long time. She brought Mada with her. I knew that Jacklyn loved Gama on a deeper level than me. She shared my loss perhaps more than anyone. There was a relieving sense in her presence and the conversation that would ensue. 'I saw him in Mzuzu drunk,' she says then alludes to the need to take care of oneself. She had a cough that sounded deep and chronic. She goes on into a detailed account of the people speculating that she was HIV positive as far back as 1992 (the same year Mada is born) and now 16 years later she's still around. She was trying to tell me something without telling me. She continues, 'Maybe the next time you come back it will be for my wake Walangosi. When we go to sleep here in Malawi we never know if we are going to wake. When we do we see that the day is a blessing.' I explain to her that I knew Gama had been ill and that was the reason why I had found him a place and work in town, closer to his home. After all we went through together I used to tell him if I left him in the village alone the people would end up killing him from the jealousy. Instead he killed himself in town with beer. He didn't want to suffer. When the Sub-Chief addressed the issue he said Gama would have been better controlled here as opposed to town and that he was like his own son. (Unbeknownst to him Gama didn’t consider him a Father.) But Jacklyn assured me that my effort to put him to rest among his own people was the right thing to do. When she comes back the next day we watch Cy’s film, 'The Troubles in Zolokere' together and I observe her reaction. There's a segment in which she denies being HIV positive. These days she's a bit more open about her status. She tells you as much as she can without saying those exact words. She acts as an advisor to people living with HIV/AIDS and supervises their ARV regiments. Gama waved the white flag but Jacklyn is still fighting a hell of a battle.
I had forgotten how hard it was to get anything done around here. Even within myself I'm feeling lethargic and happier when at rest. I think it's just an adjustment period. In order to get the blood moving I hop on Chatwa’s local bike and take the 4 km road to Katowo, Hewe’s trading center. Now that I am back home my butt hurts, but I can't complain too much.

In Katowo I visit my friend Mr. Boyd Munthali or V.H. (Village Headman) Mkwindan'gombe the owner of the only shop with the only fridge in the valley. This is where anyone who can afford cold Carlsberg Greens or Cokes comes and why I discovered the place in the first place. It didn't take long before I could see Mr. Munthali was a man of good character. He chooses his words carefully and speaks as honestly as one can in this society. His shop was always a good venue for discussions on politics, agriculture or local gossip. Many of its patrons were dedicated to using their English in my presence but always appreciated my level of fluency in Chitumbuka. Mr. Munthali recently had surgery on his anus and quickly described to me the events soon after greetings. He went into a detailed account in Chitumbuka, which I could only interpret as a possible 'pumba' in his colon. I had always found difficulty translating this word 'pumba' but knew it was either an abscess or a boil. Whichever one it was I'm sure it wasn't a pleasant experience whilst being removed under the knife at Rumphi District Hospital. Quite frankly, I can't believe how good the guy looks considering. He is, however, still in pain as I see him wince when changing positions on his stool.

Katowo is also where Judith lives with her new husband. Judith is one of the subjects in Cy's first documentary in which she talks about her status. I do hope the husband knew. I had heard that she's pregnant. Maybe he didn't know. I can't say whether she is or isn't and I certainly couldn't ask (at least not in Tumbuka culture). I only took notice of her chapped hands and gaunt face. Her husband is taking a bath while humming the tune that's playing on the radio as Judith sadly looks away from me and asks of my Mother and Father’s health. Confused, I return home to Edward who is cooking my lunch. My questions will have to wait, Edward is Judith's younger brother. Later on when I finally get to ask Chatwa the skinny on Judith's new life he answers that she is negative now and laughs. When he sees I am perplexed he further explains that that is what she is now telling people, that she doesn’t have HIV. Maybe they really don’t know.