Hefty Bounty

Hefty Bounty
By Mike Kaupembe

Malikebu Mawindo, as many fondly called him 'MaMa', had never run so much in his life. Not even for a cross country competition he participated back in the days when he was at Mayenje Primary School.
His lungs burned as if flames had settled in his chest. His legs felt like rubber, threatening to buckle beneath him with every step. The narrow alleys of Lilongwe’s Old Town twisted and turned, offering no relief, only more shadowed corners and uncertain turns. Garbage bins, broken crates, and potholes turned his desperate escape into an obstacle course. Still, he ran.
Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. He dared a quick glance over his shoulder, shadows flickered in the moonlight, and voices hissed from behind like serpents in pursuit.
Why are they after me? He wondered for the hundredth time that night as he increased the speed of his sprint for life.
Only an hour ago, he had been at Lizulu market. A simple evening grocery errand for supper at home. Tomatoes, onions, carrot, and a two litre bottle of Mulawe cooking oil—just as Mwayi his wife had asked. The market was packed as usual, and the sounds of vendors bargaining filled the air. Then, without warning, a man dashed at him from behind a tomato bench, a gleam of a sharp Chingwandali catching the sun.
Malikebu had ducked instinctively, the blade slashing through the air above his shoulder. His black plastic shopping bags fell to the ground. All the vegetables scattered. Screams rose. And he ran.
Since then, it had become a nightmare. More assailants joined the chase, some in sharp black suits, and others in ragged street wear. One woman, in a white coat with striking red lipstick, had stood silently watching as he sprinted past, her eyes cold and calculating.
What in God's name is going on?
Earlier that day, Biziwiki, his friend, had called, his voice frantic. “MaMa, there’s a bounty on your head! Someone posted it online! People are saying you’re worth millions—dead or alive!”
“A bounty?” he had choked. “For what? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“I don’t know. But you need to go home now. Lock the doors.”
But there was no going home now. The streets had turned against him. Malikebu had lived in Lilongwe Falls all his life. He knew every corner and path of Devil Street, Malangalanga, Bwalo la Njobvu, and where not. However, the familiar shortcuts between buildings, the routes that bypassed main roads had unanimously on this particular day become hostile.
As he crouched behind a rusted water tap adjacent to Shoprite building, trying to catch his breath, he overheard them again. At least three of them, moving closer.
"Pofera must not escape again."
Pofera.
The name chilled his blood. Everyone in Lilongwe knew of Pofera. A ghost in the criminal underworld. A name whispered in fear. Chamba smuggler. Arms dealer. Murderer. His face had never been clearly shown, his movements always cloaked in mystery. Only his crimes left clear trails of violence and chaos.
And then it clicked.
They think I’m him.
Malikebu almost laughed, but it came out as a dry, bitter cough. The absurdity. He was a Secondary school teacher. A husband. A simple man who had never even been arrested. He couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag, let alone run a criminal empire.
But if the bounty hunters believed otherwise…
He pulled out his phone, hands trembling, and dialed the police.
“Lilongwe area 3 Police, how can we...?”
“Help me! Please!” Malikebu whispered urgently. “My name is Malikebu Mawindo. People are trying to kill me. They think I’m Pofera. I swear I’m innocent!”
There was a pause.
“Wait, did you say Malikebu Mawindo? You’re the one with the bounty on your head?”
“Yes! But I’m not that man. They’ve got the wrong guy! You have to help me”
The line went dead.
He stared at his phone in horror. No network.
Footsteps echoed on the pavement nearby. His heart froze.
“Check behind the stalls,” one voice ordered.
“They say he’s fast,” another replied. “But he won’t outrun a bullet.”
Malikebu’s blood ran cold. The woman in the white coat was leading the group now. Her eyes scanned the area like a hawk.
''I need to move.''
He crawled silently between two dumpsters, his body low, and every nerve screaming. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a siren wailed, then faded. He ducked into a gap between two buildings, emerging into the courtyard of an abandoned warehouse near road traffic offices.
He tried his phone again. Still no signal.
Think. Think!
His uncle, Che Yoyola, worked at a news station. Maybe the media could help. If he could tell his side of the story, get his name out there, prove he was no Pofera, it might save his life. He pondered.
Suddenly, de ducked into a disused minibus, pried open the slide door, and slipped inside. Quiet. Hidden.
From the torn seat cushions, he yanked out a piece of cloth and wiped his face. He looked at his reflection in the cracked rearview mirror. Dishevelled, wide-eyed, and dirty. He barely recognised himself.
He looked like a fugitive. He wished he had called his wife but reckoned that she had recently lost her cellphone.
In a split second, movement. Outside the bus, a figure crept toward the driver’s side. Malikebu held his breath.
Please keep walking…
But the figure stopped. Knocked once on the window. Slowly, the person leaned forward, revealing a young face, barely out of his teens.
“Are you... Malikebu?” the boy asked.
Malikebu blinked. “How do you know my name?”
'I saw the bounty online,” he whispered. “But you’re not Pofera. I knew it the moment I saw the photo. You're not him.”
“You believe me?”
The boy nodded. “My brothe is in the CID. He showed me a file once. Pofera is taller and has a scar on his neck. You’re just unlucky.”
Hope flickered.
“Can you help me get to safety?” Malikebu asked desperately.
The boy bit his lip. “Follow me. I know a place.”
They moved under the cover of night, crossing into Area 3 where the houses grew quiet and dark. Eventually, they reached a modest house tucked behind a Baptist church. The boy knocked three times, then twice more. A woman in a robe opened the door and quickly ushered them inside.
“My aunt,” he explained. “She’s a nurse. You’ll be safe here.”
Inside, the aunt gave him tea and a blanket. He sat on a worn sofa, shaking.
“Tomorrow, we’ll talk to my brother,” the boy promised. “He’ll help you clear your name.”
Meanwhile, across town, in the smoky backroom of a dimly lit bar, the real Pofera sipped whisky as he counted thick stacks of cash. His men laughed in the background, their guns resting on the table. The television in the corner played a news bulletin.
“…Still no word from authorities on the identity of the man hunted across Lilongwe tonight. Social media posts suggest a bounty in excess of ten million kwacha…”
Pofera smirked.
“They’re chasing shadows,” he muttered. “Let them.”
One of his lieutenants chuckled. “They say someone who looks like you is on the run. A schoolteacher.”
Pofera laughed aloud. “Good. Let the vultures feed on each other. The more chaos, the better for business.”
He raised his glass in a silent toast to the man he had never met, Malikebu Mawindo, whose life now dangled in the balance, all because fate had painted him with the wrong brush.
Morning broke slowly. The sun crept over the city, revealing broken shop windows. Farmished street boys coming out of their cocoons embracing dawn, a new struggle. Malikebu sat in the aunt’s house, weary but resolute.
The boy returned, this time with his brother, a plainclothes officer named Inspector Kamwendo. The man studied Malikebu carefully before speaking.
“You’re lucky, Mr. Mawindo,” he said. “If the bounty hunters had found you, you’d be gone. I believe your story. We’ve been chasing Pofera for years, and you’re clearly not him.”
“But how do I get my life back?” Malikebu asked.
“We’ll hold a press briefing. We’ll clear your name officially. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll use this as a bait to flush the real Pofera out.”
Malikebu wasn’t sure if that brought comfort or more danger, but for now, he felt alive.
And for now, that was enough, though he kept wondering whether his wife would buy the whole story of where he had slept.