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bodies until he reached the front. Fumulani was singing one of his most beloved songs, “Sister,” about his estranged wife.
    “Lady,” he sang, “don’t insult me today just because I’m poor. You don’t know what my future holds…”
    As if hypnotized by this wonderful music, my father began to dance. But he wasn’t doing just any dance—he was a man possessed, a man who knows in his heart that he is the greatest dancer on earth. His arms and legs became as graceful as a gazelle’s, and his giant body sprang in the airlike a flying grasshopper. Oh, what moves! But when he opened his eyes, he realized the music had stopped. Everyone on the floor now stood in silence. Robert Fumulani, the blessed father of our national music, stared down, looking angry.
    He pointed to my father and called out, “Someone remove this drunkard from the floor. He’s ruining my show!”
    The crowd shouted and hissed, “He is here! Take him away!”
    My father was crushed. How could this be? He was just having a good time, and now he was being called down like a child by our dear hero. Feeling betrayed, he straightened himself and pointed to the stage.
    “Mister Fumulani,” he yelled, “I have an invitation to be in this room. And like every Malawian here celebrating their proud independence, I am doing the same. I’m not the only person here who is drunk, you know. Besides, isn’t it your job to sing and entertain?”
    A line of policemen and Young Pioneers now circled the dance floor, waiting to pounce.
    “Mister Fumulani, I only wish to dance in peace,” my father said, then turned to face the police. “But since you’ve asked these men to remove me, I say let them come!”
    The policemen swooped in and swallowed my father in a swarm of fists and elbows. The crowd rushed in behind. From the look of things, it appeared my father had been properly handled.
    But suddenly, one by one, the policemen began flying off the pile as if wrestling a cyclone. They twisted in the air like sacks of flour and limped off in pain. When the last policeman was pitched to the wall, the room erupted in cheers.
    There stood the Pope in the center of the crowd, shaking his mighty fists.
    “Who is next?” he shouted. “I’LL FIGHT YOU ALL!”
    A pack of Young Pioneers then tried their luck, only to be pitched off the same way. For half an hour, the cops and government thugs tried everything to shackle my father’s hands, and each time, they failed. Too exhausted to continue fighting, my father finally agreed to be arrested andspend the night in jail (“Only because I respect the rule of law,” he told them). However, he had one condition: that first he be allowed to enjoy his Independence Day barbecue. So after devouring a plate of delicious kanyenya, the Pope washed his hands and walked out with the police.
    And that is the story of how my father fought twelve men and won.
    Soon the story spread across the district and my father became famous. People congratulated him in the bars and markets of the lakeshore, and business improved as a result. This fame also attracted many of the thieves and robbers who lurked in the markets. “You’re so strong,” they said, slapping him on the back. “Let us use your strength to make us all rich!”
    But my father was no criminal. He just wanted to work hard for his money and drink his Carlsberg. However, if anyone wished to fight, that could be arranged.
     
    A LTHOUGH HIS FRIENDS HAD no idea, for quite some time the Pope had been keeping his eye on a particular girl. She appeared at the market at the same time each morning, only to disappear in the crowds. An hour would pass, and she’d reappear, carrying a bundle of vegetables or bag of flour, then make her way home to the neighborhood down the hill. These brief moments became the most important part of my father’s day, and he made sure he was always at his stall where he could watch her. Even though he’d never heard her voice, something