Chitandilla is 100 years old, this year he turns 101. Since no one can remember his birth date, it is celebrated on January 1st. He carried tree trunks up a mountain and built Chisenga’s first CCAP church. You may remember him as the hunchbacked hero I wrote about before. He is still a devote and faithful man. One thing you can always understand is when Chitandilla is talking about the lord, ‘Ambuye.’ Chitandilla lifts up his arms towards the ceiling to praise god. He broke my heart.
Adam and I went to see Chitandilla at his home in Chisenga. He lives in a nice, big compound, proof he has done well in years past to support his family. We Odi’ed and were led into the sitting room. It is a large room with a hodge-podge of different sofas and chair. There is a chicken clucking and running around, stuck inside. On the chairs and sofa are the typical Malawian doilies. Adam and I sit on one couch, waiting for Chitandilla. We don’t want to disturb him, if he is sleeping, we tell his daughter and caregiver to let him sleep. We are in luck however, because he is not sleeping, he is just finishing eating. His daughter disappears to fetch him and tell him he has guests.
He was lead into the room by his middle-aged daughter. Hand in hand they shuffled slowly out of the dining room and into the hall. His daughter turned and disappeared back into the dining room to clean up quickly. Chitandilla, hunch over, shuffled slowly forward with his arms touch, flapping gently, seeking a familiar surface. First he found the doorframe and painstakingly turned. Then he felt around for the couch. Our translator reached out and placed Chitandilla’s hand on the couch. Chitandilla shuffled slowly around the couch. His daughter re-entered the room and came up behind Chitandilla. She sat down on the near end of the couch and reached out. She gave a gentle tug and shouted in local language that he should sit here, patting the couch next to here. Slowly, with coaxing, Chitandilla sank down to the couch. He was hardly able to hear; his daughter sat close and leaned in often to translate even local language. Chitandilla was used to understanding his daughter’s voice. He was also scarcely able to see, his eyes glossy with cataracts.
Adam’s family had visited him and brought a hearing aid. For a while, Chitandilla was able to hear. He heard his grandchildren and great-grandchildren’s voices for the first time. I wish I had been there to see it. However, seeing Chitandilla interact with Adam, I had some idea of what it was like. Flecks of nsima remained stuck to his lips, remnants of his lunchtime meal. He has a tear track from his right eye, down his cheek, to his jawline. Every so often his daughter leans over and much like you would a child, with quick, precise action, not harsh but firm wipes a new tear from his face with a scrap of old chitenge cloth.
He is a small man upon first glance. However, not long after meeting Chitandilla, you recognize the length of his arms is too great for his short stature. You notice that when he shuffles to and from the room that his back is bent at a ninety degree angle. He must have been a tall man in his youth. His hands are long fingered and weathered but powerful looking. The palms are so much lighter, tinted yellow than his deeply browned skin. When he speaks, it’s a trial. His voice is a raspy and wavering whisper. His daughter is used to it however and translates easily, head cocked to his face to catch his words better. More often than not, a raspy stutter or cough disrupts his attempted speech.
Chitandilla still has a full head of hair, half an inch long and pure white on the sides moving to grey on the top. After he sits down he covers his head with a knit orange beanie. His daughter gently scolds his and takes of the hat as we talk. But as we are chatting Chitandilla slowly puts his beanie back on, he knows what he wants. His ears are proof that ears never stop growing. He also speaks with his hands. I have to bite back tears when Chitandilla finally understands that his daughter is telling him Adam in here. He praised god, lifting up his arms. Then he twists to the side on the couch, arms reaching, his face jubilant. He is confident that his guest will come to him. Adam gets up and crosses the room. Chitabdilla’s hands are still up like an eager child. Adam touches his hand. But Chitindilla does not want a hand shake. He pulls Adam to himself in the warm embrace. He has what is as close to a beaming smile as his half closed, sightless eyes, and weather worn face can show.
He held Adam tight, and rubbed his back in an enthusiastically jerky motion. When Adam finally was released, Chitandilla held his arm with both of his hands, his long fingers wrapped securely around Adam’s arm, refusing to relinquish touch. Adam did not mind, he sat down in the chair beside Chitandilla. As we began to chat again Adam held Chitandilla’s hands for a while. Chitandilla constantly moved his mouth; his teeth are large and protrude a bit, particularly on the bottom. They are only yellowing a little. His bottom front and left teeth are missing. He rasps out answers to questions as Adam records them with a miniature voice recorder. He tells us about how he won his wife, building the CCAP, having trips to Zambia, his favorite foods.
Chitandilla went to Zaambia and felt love at first site for the most beautiful woman. Without delay he went to her father and asked what he had to do to win her hand. The father wanted a display of strength and devotion. He demanded Chitandila build three maize collars for him. Without delay he cut down the trees, cut them and built three maize collars to prove to her father that he was worthy. He left Zambia with a wife and moved her to the very same complex in Chisenga he lives in now. He loved her most intensely.
Chitandilla is wearing a green fleece that used to be of a neon variation. It had a blue collar and cuffs paired with grey dress slacks. There is something earthy and natural about him and old age does not seem to have dimmed his spirit. He still laughs and talks. He loves sweets and his favorite food is curdled milk. Though he may move slow, assisted with a simple, smooth wooden cane, he knows what he wants. If fact, in the middle of our conversation he grew quiet. After a few attempts he managed to stand. The he slowly shuffled right out the door of the house. Nature called.
I fell in love with Chitandilla that day. He broke my heart and made me want to help him, care for him, appreciate him. He broke my heart yet filled it with a happiness that’s hard to explain. I wanted to give him things and care for him and yet I knew he would never be happier than he was here. Here he was surrounded by a family that loves him, by a church that is grateful to him; a comforting faith in god contents him, familiar surrounds and of course, curdled milk.
The year is 2012 and Chitandilla has turned 101. We can only hope to have accomplished half as much as him and retained such a high degree of spirit in our own lifetimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment