Adjectives for describing life
‘Life’ is usually defined as the period between the birth and death of a living thing such a human being or an animal.
Life is complex. This is why there are so many Adjectives that we can use to describe this process.
The Adjectives are positive, negative and neutral.
In this post, you will discover these new words. Please have a dictionary nearby in order to look for the meaning of the vocabulary that you do not understand. It is also worthwhile to check the pronunciation of these Adjectives.
Below is Chapter 2 of Salt No More. You can find the first chapter of this novel here.
Read the first paragraphs of the extract below and try to define the life of the characters using the vocabulary you have just encountered.
THE STORY
Pearson Chimaliro Manda is a retired Public Administrator and an aspiring Member of Parliament. He lives in Chalema Village where it is fashionable to be helpless.
Pearson is a slave to greed and selfish ambition. His lust for victory transcends all barriers. A born fighter, he belongs to the United Populists’ Party (U.P.P). So far he has won most of his ruthless battles without compromising his pride and pleasures.
Emmanuel Mhone is an upstart lawyer who lands a lucrative job in France. He is married to Pearson’s daughter, Towera. The couple are at the centre stage of a family scandal whose consequences are far-reaching and will leave no one unscathed.
Pearson is a stranger to failure until he is caught up in this frightful storm. How does this proud man deal with such a blow that threatens to rip him apart?
THE THEMES
Immigration, migration, emigration, power, powerlessness, anger, ambition, dependence, independence, interdependence, depression and suffering, greed, love, family ties, betrayal, alienation, sacrifice.
CHAPTER TWO
NyaMoyo quickened her pace, straining to balance the heavy steel bucket on her head. She always filled it to the brim, knowing that she’d lose the top layer of water on her way home. And as expected, the cold fluid lurched at her face at unexpected intervals, tying her down to its whimsical swing from which she could never escape. Out of peaceful resignation or mere apathy, she ignored those sudden lashings, exposing herself to the icy water with docile obedience.
Her face was remarkably free of the usual paraphernalia of old age and unhappiness: deep-seated wrinkles, black spots and the empty hard look that was all so common in Chalema, even among young women. It was true that at fifty-five, NyaMoyo could still invoke feelings of jealousy or blind admiration. Pearson never missed the lingering glances that most men cast at his wife’s small nose, slanting eyes and fair complexion. Words weren’t minced when reacting to such open provocation. “Lovers at your age? I would rather see a monkey protecting its nakedness with underwear,” he’d say, staring her down into shameful submission.
Glancing at her wrist from habit, she let her tired gaze drift back to the narrow path ahead. Of course there was no watch there. There would never be. Pearson had told her to stop mourning for the dead battery. “Let it gather dust, chindere,” he’d said, offering his advice. “Rely on the sun instead. My father did not wear those handcuffs and yet he was a successful man.”
NyaMoyo had trouble stifling her resentment when she thought about her husband’s silver Quartz lying faithfully on his wrist. What time was it now? Four thirty? Five o’clock? Red light lined the horizon, mingling with the dark smoke that rose from the kitchens of well-organised women. The smell of boiled dried fish filled the air. NyaMoyo could imagine daughters and mothers busy catering for husbands and sons. She winced in discomfort as cold water slid down her back.
“Hurry up Tionge! You know how your sekuru gets angry when we’re not there to feed him,” she called out to her granddaughter who was trudging behind her.
You couldn’t guess that this skinny bundle was twelve years old. Her eyes bore a startled look each time her grandmother turned backwards to check her progress. She wasn’t pretty but her taut arms, straight spine and springy legs gave her a slight advantage over some girls. In other places, her quick creative mind would have earned her a privileged place among the gifted. Still, Chalema was Chalema, Tionge’s priorities lay elsewhere. Her shoulders had to be broadened first, come what may. Failing your wifely duties was as good as digging an early grave. A husband could never survive the awful taste of half-cooked sima, it was a well-known fact.
“Iwe, what did I say?” NyaMoyo shouted when she noticed that Tionge was still far behind.
“Yes ŵabuya, I’m trying my best,” the girl answered, her plaintive voice faintly reaching her grandmother’s ears. NyaMoyo stopped without warning and turned to look at her wilful mzukuru.
“Stop complaining and walk faster. That’s a tiny burden compared to what I have to go through every day. I gave you a small pail on purpose, but you don’t want to do your work cheerfully. You’re yet to see worse things in life.”
NyaMoyo’s tirade had a momentary effect on her granddaughter. She brought her rough bare feet forward, doing her best to balance the heavy weight on her head with her hands. “Don’t walk too fast mwe,” Tionge called, fighting against an angry feeling that almost made her shout ‘Go and quarrel with your husband!’ NyaMoyo sighed and shook her head as if she’d heard her mzukuru’s invisible protest. “Keep the pace Tionge. I absolutely need a peaceful evening.”
So the two figures kept on, the younger one dutifully following the elder one. When they arrived home, NyaMoyo held the rim of her pail with one hand and opened the thatched gate, not without difficulty. Tionge followed close behind and went past her grandmother as the latter closed the gate. With measured steps, they proceeded to the waist-size round blue plastic container which stood near the kitchen. It was such a wide vessel that you needed at least fourteen full buckets to quench its daily thirst. Since they spent so much time with it, Tionge had decided to give it a name: Njala. Hunger.
Njala needed water for just too many things: cooking, washing dishes and clothes, bathing, watering the small vegetable garden that produced rape and Chinese cabbage for the Manda family. Oh, the list of Njala’s demands was just endless. Numerous trips had to be made to the borehole in order to satisfy Njala’s insatiable appetite.
Njala had a special feeding ritual that didn’t change on this particular day. NyaMoyo unloaded her charge first. With both hands, she carefully lifted the metal pail from the top of her head and placed it on her raised right knee. From this tricky position, the water was poured into Njala’s jaw with incredible tolerance. Next, NyaMoyo emptied Tionge’s smaller bucket into Njala’s waiting stomach with the same meticulousness. A sigh of relief escaped from Tionge’s mouth as she walked towards the veranda.
“What now?” NyaMoyo muttered.
“Sorry ŵabuya.”
“If only you’d seen me in my youth. I was such a fine kid that people congratulated my parents every day for bringing up a clever girl like me.”
“Really?”
“Mzukuru, no one complained about me.”
“Really? Not even your mother?”
“My mother? I was her pride!”
“Really?”
“Stop it Tionge. Whoever taught you those rude manners? I’m sure it’s not Taona. My daughters know better than that.”
Tionge opened her mouth as if to say something else then closed it. She turned and started heading for the kitchen. She entered the dark room and came out with a big reed mat.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do now Tionge? Getting ready to sit down and play with stones! I tell you mzukuru, I was nothing like you when I was young. I was known to beat the cockerel at waking up. Ha, and I could work. Fetching water, sweeping the yard, cutting firewood, brewing chindongwa, you name it. My good reputation was such that Pearson’s father came to ‘order’ me at the age of fifteen.”
Tionge raised her eyebrows.
“What does that mean?” NyaMoyo asked.
“What?”
“That silly expression on your face.”
“I’m surprised, that’s all.”
“I’m trying to teach you good manners so you can find a husband to take care of you.”
“I’m sorry ŵabuya.”
NyaMoyo sighed wearily. What was wrong with her mzukuru? Tionge was by far the laziest girl in Chalema. She had one year to show her that she could handle village life. After that, it would be pack and go. Oh, that girl never wanted to please her in any way. How could her daughter Taona have dumped her with such a useless child? ‘My nursing job is getting tougher and tougher mother. Please, take at least one child off my hands.’
And that girl wasn’t learning anything. By NyaMoyo’s standards, Tionge had a very long way to go. Very soon, she’d have to get out of her comfort zone. Very soon she’d have to balance her ndowo without steading it with both hands. Even eight-year old girls could do it, but her mzukuru was so afraid of spilling the water that she held on to the pail as if her life depended on it. She was always such a sight. It provoked ripples of laughter among the other girls and women. Tionge didn’t seem to care. In fact, nothing seemed to ruffle this child. How could she get married if she was unable to do this straightforward task? How could she find respect? NyaMoyo dreaded the day when Tionge’s parents would die.
“What’s that noise?” Her granddaughter’s wail shook her out of her morbid thoughts. Oh, the terrible combination of snores, loud music and filthy alcohol smells, NyaMoyo realised. The master was back and he’d taken possession of the house.
“Oh, ŵabuya, d’you think he’s drunk? Aah, he’s got great news for us. Maybe he’s brought some soft drinks and coconut biscuits for us today. I prefer custard biscuits. We’ll eat very nice things today. Ŵabuya,…”
NyaMoyo teetered between laughing and shouting: “You must be dreaming Tionge. We only drink Coca-Cola when there are visitors.” She paused as to think of something better to say and then dealt the final blow. “And you’re no adult. Leave these matters to people who have seen life. Look at you! You don’t even have proper breasts…”
“But this is Mon…”
“No, Tionge. Listen. You’re still a child. Let me handle this. Mwe, and I want you to speak like a human being. We are Tumbukas, not some people from the South.”
NyaMoyo’s tone finally sent Tionge scampering into the kitchen.
“Light the fire for your sekuru’s bath while you’re at it. He should find other excuses for battering us tonight.”
NyaMoyo watched her granddaughter as she removed ashes from the fireplace. She wished she could share in her enthusiasm. Tionge was right after all. This was Monday afternoon and something must have happened to Pearson or to one of their children. Taona? No, it couldn’t be so soon. She’d looked somehow all right last time she visited. Chenda? His wife was a troublemaker with all her madness about going back to school, but she wouldn’t provoke Pearson.
“Do you think it’s about Auntie Towera?” Tionge was out of the kitchen again, both hands on her waist.
“What? What are you still doing here?”
“It’s about Auntie Towera, isn’t it?”
“Chiuta mwe.”
***
NyaMoyo couldn’t decide on a safe course of action. Was the front door locked? She went for it but had second thoughts. If he was on the sofa, she didn’t want to rouse him from his sleep. She’d be like a fat antelope walking into a hungry lion’s den. Maybe he was in their bedroom. She left the veranda and started walking in the direction of their bedroom window. That was a huge risk but it was better than waking him up when he was in the living-room.
She padded past the curtain-less windows to catch a glimpse of his silhouette, only to be greeted by the reflection of the tall mango trees. Straining to make as little noise as possible, she peered through the dirty glass. He wasn’t there. Not even his black briefcase that usually informed her that he was back from his escapades.
“Since when have you started looking through windows like a cheap thief?” a voice called out from behind.
NyaMoyo froze. With her back bent, her elbows on the windowsill and her mouth and nose in direct contact with the warm panes, she looked no better than a criminal indeed. It was dangerous to be seen as one in this country. Real or imaginary burglars were now being burnt to death, victims of angry mobs that were taking justice into their own hands.
It wasn’t hard to imagine how it would be like to roast in those eternal flames. NyaMoyo knew how it felt. In fact, she’d always known how it felt, even before Pearson started beating her. He’d only perpetrated that feeling until he numbed it. For there is nothing like worse than the worst. Once you have reached the top, even when it comes to pain, you can only go down.
She heard her stomach rumble as she rose painstakingly, paying attention not to catch Pearson’s glare. She found a rocky point on the dusty ground and maintained her focus on it.
“Have you sold your tongue?”
“I was just passing by and I thought I’d check if you were inside the house. It’s because I heard the radio.” She didn’t lift her gaze from the ground. The little stones had become little human beings with a story of their own, a story different from hers.
“Stereo, not radio. Look at me.”
NyaMoyo shrugged her shoulders in quiet defiance.
“What are you becoming? Is this how I am going to be treated in my own house? You can start wearing trousers if you think you have become a man.” Pearson’s cold voice stung her as his steps got nearer. “For God’s sake, answer my questions. And questions for you I have. Why did you turn my daughters into hooligans?”
NyaMoyo had noticed the slur. Arguing with him would only make matters worse. She caught the shadow of his bulky body. Her eyes left the comfort of the stone realm and decided to brave their bloodshot companion’s. The spouses’ gaze met, daring, gauging, aching.
“We can go inside and discuss this as reasonable adults when you’re sober,” she said, straining not to betray her nervousness.
“Oh, you’re going too far there NyaMoyo. Do not tempt me. Oh, somebody hold me before I tear this woman apart.” Pearson gesticulated, throwing his arms all around him as if under the spell of some evil spirit. Sweat covered his brow and he didn’t venture to remove it with his handkerchief.
She was treading into a known territory and knew where all this would end. Instinctively, she braced herself for the run that she’d polished over the years which involved removing her chitenje, retying it, never taking her eyes off her husband, checking if there was anything behind her before sprinting for safety.
“Tionge, is your sekuru’s water ready? You know, Tionge’s preparing your bath. I’ll see if that girl has done her chores.”
She turned and dashed into the direction of the mud-walled kitchen. It was separate from the house and had a thatched roof. It did not deserve to have iron sheets since it wasn’t as important as the house where visitors were received.
“Where are you going?” Pearson asked, his fiery eyes getting redder with each word. “You have forgotten what your father taught you so I will remind you how to behave.” He stopped as if to catch his breath then started running after his wife, zigzagging and falling but keeping his course tentatively, just like a wounded predator.
All the motions were known to the participants of this cat and mouse game. It started like this. The mouse ran and the cat chased it until he pounced on his prey. But he couldn’t kill his catch or send it away for he’d have no one to chase anymore. He just mauled and mangled it, caressing it with a few blows here and there while taking care to leave some black souvenirs in hidden places. Afterwards, the cat left its victim, suffused with indescribable warmth for having routed his prey; the latter filled with insurmountable pain which it gloried by crying and showing, along with the black trophies, to future sympathisers.
“Look at what he does to me. What did I do to deserve this? Oh ŵamama, where are you? If I didn’t know how to suffer, I’d be dead by now…”
On this particular day, the rules of the game seemed to have changed though. The mouse ran for its life and the cat didn’t understand. He ran after the mouse frantically, seeing it open the thatched gate, escaping from the compound. He imagined it seeking help from the neighbours, betraying all their sacred secrets, destroying their life.
The cat crouched on the ground, shaking his front paws, and seeing his own body tremble with fear and rage. He wished he could go back a few seconds earlier, a few hours earlier, a few years earlier, when everything had seemed possible, when he didn’t have to question the course of his existence.
It seemed that the day of reckoning was coming nearer, but he’d do his best to push it farther. A few betrayers wouldn’t snuff the life out of him, would they? No, that would be too easy.
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Below are more Adjectives to describe life:
Daily, Dull, Real, Public, Private, Inner, Adult, Teenage, Cultural, Civilised, Busy, Inactive, Rootless, Fast, Sedentary, Frivolous, Tranquil, Awful, Carefree, Pampered, Ghastly, Outdoor, Full, Vigorous, Brief, Amusing, Collective, Dreamy, Monstrous, Heroic, Rural, City, Single, Married, Harmless, Limited, Mysterious, Every-day, Decent, Dogmatic, Rational, Irrational, Fearless,Difficult, Tasking, Hopeless, Monotonous, Conjugal, Varied, Lazy, Well-guarded, Strict, Uncanny, Humorous, Delusional, Conventional, Polemical, Humiliating, Adventurous, Lucky, Cheerful, Pleasurable, Pleasing, Enchanting, incomprehensible, Unfathomable, etc.
Salt No More, an English English Novel (Level B1-B2) (Click on the picture to go to our Amazon store)
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