As I drove to work, I opened the windows of my car to let in some fresh air but it was hot and dusty outside as well.

I closed the windows and switched on the air conditioning in the car. That helped a little. I switched on the radio — R. Kelly’s I believe I can fly was playing. “If I can see it,” the song went on, “I can do it.”

I remembered the song from my girlhood in Mangacha village, 20 years ago. Mr Mandeya played it for us every time he visited Lake Nyanja.

Now I recalled the series of events that had led to our meeting. Before I realised it, tears were streaming down my face.

“He was a good man, very good. A rare breed among men,” I sobbed.

I searched for his contacts on my phone.

“Yes, that’s him, Desmond Mandeya,” I said to myself.

I dialled and the voice of a sickly man answered the call. He didn’t recognise me. Even mentioning Abiti Malala, the name he knew me by in my childhood, didn’t help.

I didn’t blame him though, for it had been very long since we had last met. At least he told me that he was now living in Ndalanda township. So I planned to visit him.

I, Helen Malala, was born in Mangacha village. I was the third-born, the only girl in a family of six. Due to my captivating beauty, from as young as five years of age, men visited our home trying to secure me as their future wife.

It was normal for girls in our area to be booked by would-be-husbands at a tender age. The parents’ consent was enough.

Our parents used to tell us that school was for boys, not girls.

“What matters is for you to take care of your husband,” they said.

However, for two years I had the chance to go attend classes with my younger brothers as I was assigned to take them to and from school.

Lake Nyanja in our village was a tourist attraction. Young boys and men would go fishing and sell the fish, mostly to tourists. Being exposed to money at a young age, the boys started abusing drugs until the government intervened and the boys were sent back to school.

The girls of the village, and some women, also found their own source of income at the lake. They resorted to prostitution as the young girls waited to be married off to their already planned husbands.

That was normal for Mangacha village. No one paid attention to the situation of the girls, as had been done with the boys and the drugs issue.

It was the end of October. The sun was at its zenith announcing the apex of summer. It was business as usual at the lake, except that the weather led more people to the water to cool off.

Although I had been to the beach many times before, this day was different. The older girls went about their usual business, and urged me to try my luck at finding customers. Still afraid of my first sexual experience, I said I would give it a shot as a sign of maturity.

A Land Cruiser drove past my friends and I, and came to a stop a few metres ahead. From our experience, such cars usually had workers from NGOs holding workshops near the lake. We rushed towards the car to market ourselves.

But this car was different, as only the driver was inside. Worse still, he driver didn’t seem as interested in us as the others usually did.

“He is alone. We’ll leave him for you,” my friends said as they walked away from the car.

“It’s just $0.5,” I said to the man.

He didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about, and he smiled at me and came out of the car. Considering my age, he concluded that I was just one of the children begging from tourists.

He took out a dollar note and gave it to me. I was happy that I had been given double what I had asked for.

“So, where? In the car?” I inquired, taking it for granted that he understood the transaction.

“In the car?” the man asked.

Noticing his confusion, an older girl passing by shouted, “Don’t you know that it’s $0.5 per round?”

She thought he was bargaining for a lower price.

“What? So you are a ... at your age? Oh my goodness.”

Still nursing his disbelief, he asked me my name.

“I’m Abiti Malala, from Mangacha.”

“So, do you go to school?” he probed.

“I quit in Standard Two.”

After explaining to him the ways of the village, he told me to gather my fellow girls and meet him there the next day. He promised to give us all money.

The next day, some 30 girls came to collect the money he had promised us. He arrived, came out of his car, and addressed us.

“You know girls, you are all beautiful. You are all intelligent. You have the same brain capacity as boys,” he said passionately.

Going back to his car, he brought out a radio and played the song I believe I can fly. But we didn’t even understand the language.

“You see, girls,” he continued, “you must go to school. A girl who has gone to school can stand on her own, can have a good job and a family at an appropriate time. I see potential in each one of you.”

Citing examples of prominent educated women, he explained what we could be if we believed in ourselves. He enrolled us in a nearby school, promising us gifts if we stayed on and passed our exams. He kept his promise, and we were motivated.

However, Mr Mandeya’s initiative met criticism and opposition from the village. Parents faced pressure from the men who had already given gifts to secure their daughters for marriage. The chief ordered that Mr Mandeya should never be seen in the village again or risk being beaten.

Afraid for his life, Mr Mandeya stopped coming. But the girls continued going to school.

A few years later, organisations promoting education for girls came to Mangacha. Eventually, a number of girls from the village graduated from university and found jobs.

*************************

The next day I drove to Mr Mandeya’s residence to thank him for his mentorship. He was now old and sickly. A week later, he passed on.

On the day of his burial, the chief spoke: “Let us emulate this man who took a risk to believe in our girls. He believed that culture should liberate, not discriminate against girls.”

After him, I rose to speak.

“The soul of Mr Mandeya will rest in peace if we, like him, believe that girls can have a good education, a job and a family.”

We then buried our mentor.

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