The sun perched high above the hills of Blantyre, casting its fierce gaze on the city. It was market day, and the popular Wenela bus stage bustled with its typical cacophony—vendors shouted over each other, minibus touts beckoned passengers with exaggerated zeal, and street children darted through the chaos, seeking opportunity.
In a small compound nearby, Dimba sat under the shade of a mango tree, methodically polishing his leather shoes. The young man, freshly returned from a year-long international training program, had been thrust back into the whirlwind of life in his homeland. His time away had broadened his understanding of the world, but it had also sharpened his awareness of Malawi’s challenges.
That morning, he decided to visit a friend in the city center. Dimba was proud of his tidy appearance—a crisp white shirt, navy slacks, and the polished shoes that gleamed like obsidian. As he got into his car, he glanced at his phone. “Time to be precise,” he muttered. He hated being late.
The streets of Blantyre were a mosaic of contrasts—gleaming office buildings stood adjacent to crumbling shacks, and shiny SUVs shared the roads with battered minibuses. As Dimba navigated the chaos, he approached Wenela stage, a necessary, if unappealing, route.
The stage was a world of its own. A cluster of matatus—those rickety minibuses symbolic of Malawian public transport—choked the road. Vendors sold everything from roasted maize to counterfeit sunglasses, their cries forming a frenetic melody. Dimba carefully maneuvered through the narrow space between buses.
Suddenly, a sharp thud jolted him. A minibus, trying to squeeze past, had grazed his car. Dimba’s heart pounded. He pulled over and jumped out, his face flushed with anger. The driver of the offending minibus had already stopped, seemingly oblivious to the damage caused.
“You there!” Dimba bellowed. “Look at what you’ve done to my car!”
The driver, a burly man with a stained shirt and an air of indifference, barely glanced at Dimba. Instead, he muttered something to his conductor and prepared to drive off.
Dimba’s fury surged. “You will not move an inch until we settle this!” He stood in front of the minibus, arms crossed, defiant.
The scene quickly drew a crowd. Passengers leaned out of the windows, some jeering at Dimba, others egging on the driver.
“Boss, why are you blocking the road? Move your car!” one man shouted.
“You think you’re the only one in a hurry?” another added.
The driver, emboldened by the support, stepped out and confronted Dimba. The argument escalated. Insults flew back and forth, and soon, a banana peel soared through the air, landing squarely on Dimba’s head.
The crowd erupted in laughter. Dimba, humiliated and seething, turned to his car, only to realize his mistake. The doors had been left unlocked, the engine running. Panic seized him as he peered inside. His laptop, his phone, and a wad of cash—gone.
He slumped onto the curb, his hands trembling. “How could I have been so careless?” he whispered. The driver, seeing Dimba’s despair, simply shrugged and drove off, the crowd dispersing as quickly as it had gathered.
Dimba felt the weight of his loss—not just the stolen items, but the precious time that had slipped away. He was meant to be on his way to a meeting, but now he was stranded, defeated.
As the afternoon sun cast long shadows over Wenela stage, an elderly vendor approached Dimba. Her face, weathered but kind, bore the wisdom of years spent navigating life’s hardships. She handed him a bottle of water and sat beside him.
“Son, anger is like fire,” she said softly. “If you’re not careful, it will burn you first.”
Dimba looked at her, his pride resisting her words, but his spirit yearning for solace.
“I’ve learned this lesson before,” he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. “Yet here I am, making the same mistakes.”
The old woman nodded. “Life will teach you the same lesson until you learn it. But you must find the strength to pause, to breathe, to let wisdom guide your actions.”
Her words lingered as Dimba sat in silence. The chaos of Wenela stage continued around him, but he felt a stillness within. He vowed to remember this moment—not the sting of humiliation, but the clarity that came from it.
The next morning, Dimba returned to Wenela stage. This time, he was not in a rush. He parked his car safely and walked through the bustling crowd. He sought out the vendor who had shown him kindness and bought a bag of her roasted groundnuts.
As he left, he noticed the same minibus driver from the previous day, arguing with another man. Dimba paused, a faint smile on his lips. He shook his head and walked on, knowing he had learned a lesson the driver might never understand.
In the heart of Blantyre, amidst the chaos and contradictions, Dimba found a sliver of peace. It was not in the absence of conflict but in the way he chose to face it.