Vocabulary for describing relationships: Adjectives, comprehensive worksheets and story (Salt No More)

How to describe relationships

The word ‘relationship’ is defined as the way in which two or more people are connected or related.

In this post, you will learn different types of Adjectives that you can use to describe ‘relationships’.

You can use a dictionary to define the words you do not understand. Do check the pronunciation of the new vocabulary too. You will be amazed by the progress you will make if you do this regularly.

You can now read the third chapter of Salt No More. The first and second chapters of this novel can be found here and here.

How are relationships portrayed in this chapter?

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 THREE

March, 1998

Emmanuel smiled broadly as cheerful whistles accompanied him into Lilongwe International Airport. Everybody was there. His widowed mother, NyaNyirongo, his three brothers and four sisters and all their spouses. His uncle Mkharo. The Mzimba crew. Farmers, water drawers, wood gatherers, money collectors. They stared at people and their belongings. They pointed at store windows and gaped at the prices tagged on the imported goods. They drank bottle after bottle of soft drinks but didn’t go to the toilet. Emmanuel hoped their bladders would hold till his plane became only a dot in the clear Malawian sky.

He felt sorry for his relatives. They looked lost; anyone could tell they were straight from kukaya. Their gaudy plastic shoes, market clothes and vaselined hairstyles all pointed out to their humble origins. Unlike his parents-in-law who looked their part in this modern building. It was also the first time they were escorting someone abroad and seeing so many planes at close range, but they didn’t behave like children, touching things and asking questions all the time.

Emmanuel concluded with mixed feelings that his own relatives would never have such a sophisticated outlook on life. The Mandas had none of that frightened mien of his siblings. They belonged to the city, to the good things in life. The rightful place for the Mhones was the village. There, they could grow maize, harvest a pitiful yield, eat it, wait for another rainy season to resume digging, planting, weeding and harvesting another pitiful yield, year after year.

Pearson and NyaMoyo didn’t deserve to live in remote Chitipa of all places. The trip from Karonga to Chalema had taken them almost five hours. Five hours to cover 94 kilometres. Emmanuel still couldn’t believe no tarmac road linked that district to the rest of Malawi. The fact that it bordered Zambia and Tanzania didn’t matter. The fact that its coffee was one of the best brands in the world didn’t matter either.

When the worthy Mandas strode towards him, Emmanuel felt connected to their ambition. It was in the way they walked and sized up their surroundings, not showing that they were impressed by the colourful furniture or the other distinguished passengers. He smelt exhilarating confidence on Pearson’s dark-blue suit and NyaMoyo’s long silk black skirt and red jacket. Those clothes weren’t bought in a Malawian store, Emmanuel thought. The perfume either, he judged, inhaling the heady fragrance of their success which would soon be his. Their attires reminded him of weddings and embassy receptions at Capital Hotel, expensive and select.

Pearson had retired two years before and he still looked like a Blantyre product. There was more to his composure than just mere clothes. The benefits of education, no doubt about it. Education gave self-assurance. The ability to read and write told you that you couldn’t be crooked. The ability to speak English opened many doors, Emmanuel could testify to that. He was the living example of success through education. Having a college degree blew doors wide open. Having a PhD from Yale left those doors open for life. You could see that Pearson was conversant with ŵazungus’ ways. Here was a man who knew how to hold a pen in an elegant way. Here was a man that could roll his tongue when speaking English without being afraid of biting it off. He surely deserved to be Chalema’s next Member of Parliament.

Towera was part of him and she wouldn’t embarrass Emmanuel in Paris. She’d eat with a fork and a knife when need be. She’d drink Coke from a glass not straight from the bottle like his siblings were doing just now, putting the whole nozzle in their mouths. They’d already tried Fanta, Sprite and Cocopina. They’d in fact started with Cocopina. They were now drinking Coke. Then they’d try Ginger Ale, they’d warned him. Eight packets of Choice Assorted biscuits had been opened. Seven were almost finished. The sweet things were swallowed without being chewed. Emmanuel wondered why his family was in such a hurry. Behaving like savages, he almost concluded. As if the food was going to fly away with the planes. It was true that they rarely saw such luxury goods back home but eating in public entailed basic manners. The Mandas were still sipping their first Coke and nibbling at their first biscuits. Bourbons.

“Daddy, we want some chocolate.” His two children tugged at his jacket, waiting for the improvised money distributor to fish out a 50 kwacha bill so they could eat their sixth bar of Dairy Milk. He didn’t mind, in fact. Their last kwachas had to be used anyway. They were going to the land of plenty, the land of francs. Vitu snatched the John Chilembwe green and white bill and dashed to one of the souvenir stores that also sold magazines and sweets. Brandon, his younger brother ran awkwardly behind him, their miniature black suits and pointed shoes disappearing into the shoppers’ haven.

The group stopped to wait for the children. They looked for a place to sit but noted with displeasure that the few seats in the corridor were already taken. His mother wanted to rest and she had to. She was seventy after all.

“Excuse me,” he told his parents-in-law in English and they nodded in turn. He could feel their eyes following him, scrutinising his educated gait. He could imagine them talking about their favourite son-in-law with unhidden pride. After all, they were close to somebody who’d lived with the ŵazungus in their own land for two years. He was now being given another opportunity to share cutlery with other ŵazungus in restaurants.

Emmanuel took NyaNyirongo aside and spoke to her reassuringly.

“Don’t worry ŵamama. We’ll be going soon then you can relax in the minibus.” He’d rented a thirty-seater to transport everyone to and from the airport.

“Oh, my feet are aching. When will I ever stop suffering? And with you gone to France, who will look after your old woman?” Her eyes were getting misty but Emmanuel was sure his mother wouldn’t break down in this hall, not in front of everyone. His two elder sisters rushed to her side and started talking to her in whispers, casting furtive glances all the while at Towera who’d decided to follow the kids.

“They’re just six and four years old really. Someone has to keep an eye on them,” she’d breathed out before leaving the group, a white jacket hanging on her arm.

It was better to remain quiet once Vitu’s mum started talking. Her reprimands always stung like salt on a fresh wound. If you uttered a single excuse, she’d start all over again until you’d sworn to yourself that you’d never repeat that mistake again. Her words burned like hot coal, her eyes were unforgiving, her temper unpredictable. AnaBanda, the maid, knew better.

Emmanuel left his mother to follow his wife, running after her frantically as if he was competing in a race.

“Vitu’s mum!”

“I’m coming,” Towera replied tersely before Brandon’s energetic hand pulled her into the store. Emmanuel waited a while outside the store but when he realised that she wouldn’t come out soon, he turned and headed back to his mother NyaNyirongo, all the while thinking how lucky he was to have such an attractive wife.

Towera, the third-born daughter of Mr and Mrs Manda. Her beauty was such that she didn’t need dubious accessories like huge necklaces or garish lipstick to make her stand out. Her ample red trousers and white and red polka-dot blouse were proof of her great taste. Towera didn’t need hair extensions as most women did. Her hair was long, and reached her shoulders-an incredible feat for a black woman. In Paris, she could buy herself all the Dark & Lovely perming creams she ever wanted. She could even open a hair saloon. Everything was possible in France.

Emmanuel’s eyes shifted again to NyaNyirongo. He saw his mother wiping her eyes with a flowery handkerchief. Mkharo, her younger brother, was holding her other hand. As he observed the scene, a seeping feeling of loss flooded his heart. He met his mother’s expectant gaze. It beckoned to him and said many things that he could only understand. There was despair in those eyes, and something else. As if she knew beforehand what was going to happen. As if she knew that she was being robbed of a precious possession but couldn’t do anything about it. As if she wanted to show him her dejection so that she’d still have a special place in his emotions. Then he would come back to her. He wouldn’t become a mtchona like his own father, a man who’d died in the mines of kuJoni, buried by anonymous rocks and stones.

He felt her ardent gaze drawing him to the group, compelling him to dispel their fears. He’d always be with them even after his departure. He’d look after each and every one of them; pay for their children’s school fees and send money for notebooks, uniforms and food. After all, he was almost like their father though he was just fifth in line. His PhD conferred him this right. His money gave him authority over his elder brothers and sisters.

It didn’t take long for Emmanuel to reach the distraught group. Before he could catch his breath, he was jostled by Mkharo who thrust him towards NyaNyirongo. When he was finally squeezed between his mother and uncle, the other siblings went round them, making a small circle. Everybody began to speak at once. His ears caught Penjani’s pleas. Her small voice rose above everyone else’s because you could almost hear her crying in her desperate posture. She pulled at her hair and shook her head fiercely at the same time. “Emmanuel. Please don’t forget ŵamama. Don’t forget us here. We’re nobodies without you. Please continue to look after us.”

Penjani was two years older than him and had five children. The sixth was on its way. Her husband, Goodson, had insisted on sitting in front of the minibus when coming to the airport. He was travelling to Lilongwe for the first time, he said. He wanted to take in all the sights so he could describe the capital city to his children. Penjani had sat alone behind the minibus. At least she could sleep or rest her head on one of the travelling bags. Goodson had been drunk when they arrived. Not a big surprise. They’d left him in the vehicle with the driver. He’d sworn and kicked his legs but Emmanuel had told him off.

“Ŵabwana, don’t complicate things. Just stay in the minibus,” he’d stressed.

“Give me one hundred kwacha if you want to see a happy man.” He’d slurred, almost spitting in Emmanuel’s face. “Come on, ŵasibweni, one hundred kwacha. That’s not much.” Penjani had cast a long dismayed look at her husband. The ‘he will see look’ but she’d decided not to intervene. She didn’t want to spend another month in the hospital.

Emmanuel didn’t like succumbing to blackmail but they had little choice now. The moron had to stay behind or he’d wreak havoc. Why had his sister picked such a useless guy? He now understood her anguish.

“Thank you very much, nganya. You’re a good person, I’ve always known that. Some people should follow your example,” Goodson had finally told him, turning his head towards the back of the minibus to make sure that his wife was listening.

At present, the same Penjani was now being comforted by Mkharo but she seemed inconsolable.

“You know, Manu, my younger brother. I owe you everything I have.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Manu, I know that I can always turn to you. I know you’ll always be there for me and for my children,” she continued, letting her tears flow without wiping them away.

“That is true Emmanuel, my son. Our lives depend on you. You are our saviour,” his mother added in her small voice, supported by the heavy nodding from the group.

Mkharo dropped Penjani’s hand and turned to Emmanuel, gripping both his shoulders and looking straight into his eyes.

“Send us those dollars. That is a lot of money here,” he said. “Hundred dollars for each one of us then your worries are over my young nephew. A person that forgets his relatives is doomed Mr Mhone…” Emmanuel didn’t like Mkharo’s preachy tone.

“But,…”

“No buts. I am calling you Mr Mhone; that means I respect you. I saw you running naked several times when you were just a tiny boy. Now I am calling you Mr Mhone; that is real respect nganya. You have to show the same respect to your old mother here and her brother.” He let go of Emmanuel to pound his own chest thrice before resuming in the same pedantic tone.

“Chiuta will shower you with more blessings. All the things that you have, it is thanks to the Almighty one. Remember this not only when you are eating chicken every day, but also when you wipe your mouth to remove the grease from the same chicken.” Mkharo did the same gesture with his dark blue handkerchief. It had white stains on it.

The group nodded again, saying: “Thank you Mkharo, thank you.” His mother punctuated her brother’s speech with vigorous exclamations: “Yes, yes. Intelligent remarks from you my brother! May God give you long life.”

“You see,” Mkharo’s voice rose, gaining amplitude as the group drank his words. “You see nganya. We Malawians are good people. We take care of one another, not like the ŵazungus. When your sister Atusaye has a problem here, not enough salt in her house for example, she doesn’t have to look far.”

“Nooo.”

“Her brother who has got a PhD will come to her rescue.”

“Enya, enya,” the group chorused.

“Nganya, look at me.” He poked Emmanuel in the ribs. “Look at me. I am getting old and soon I will not be able to take care of NyaNyirongo. I need strength for such a job. I need meat and rice too.”

“Mahara, mahara, you are talking sense,” NyaNyirongo intoned.

Emmanuel didn’t know how to react. He just stood there, listening. Penjani wanted a new bed; Pemphani a wireless, her old one was broken. Ŵamama wanted money to buy a new chitenje; new basins for Gomezgani; Glyco to straighten Precious’s hair. He gave each person what he or she wanted then proceeded to the next query. When everybody’s wishes had been satisfied, Emmanuel felt empty. Not because his wallet was 5,000 kwacha short. He felt empty because they’d now stopped talking. For several minutes they’d bombarded him with questions. They’d thanked him profusely when he’d showered them with kwachas. His mother had even ululated and danced. Now they were slapping his back light-heartedly, teasing him about French women and their devious ways.

“Do not bring us a coloured child,” they warned him.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Why would they want to go out with a poor African like me?”

“Ha, ha, ha!” They laughed, making huge noises that made people turn their heads out of curiosity. What was that village laugh? They seemed to ask. Emmanuel cringed and sought Towera with his eyes.

“We all know that men can be tempted nganya. If you ever feel the need to spice up your life, go for an African woman,” Mkharo whispered in his ears. “Nothing can beat African roots. Go for a woman who understands you and your family, someone who knows where you are coming from.” He sent him a mischievous wink and continued, a bit louder this time. “A white woman is a well, a deep salty well that is never fulfilled.” Emmanuel wondered where his uncle had got these notions from.

“Each time you draw water from this well, a part of your flesh is left behind. Her waters will dry your soul. You cannot drink from a salty well, you understand.” He shook Emmanuel’s elbow with his own. “You understand nganya,” Mkharo repeated, ponderously this time. His nephew nodded in turn, managing a small reply.

“I do.”

“Ah, my little nephew. You cannot forget us, you see. Our minds are filled with wisdom. Ancestral words that have been passed on from generation to generation. You understand nganya.”

“I do.”

“That is my good boy. Take this. It will help boost your stamina in absence of Carlsberg Green. Just boil it for two hours. Thank your uncle for thinking about you always.” He sent him another wink, making a sign with his hand as if he was counting money. Emmanuel understood. He put a hundred kwacha bill in Mkharo’s hand. Mkharo shook his head. No. It was two hundred. Emmanuel added another hundred. Soon the deal was closed and Mkharo turned his back on his nephew in order to talk to Penjani who’d started crying again. She wiped her face with the back of her hand more than once, not daring to stop her uncle’s string of advice.

Emmanuel examined the dirty PTC bag as he headed to the sole toilet in the Departure Hall. His uncle must have seen the witchdoctor just before the trip, anticipating his nephew’s needs. He could imagine the scene. “I want something for someone who is going to the land of ŵazungu. I am afraid he will not find what he is looking for there, you know, men’s problems, so I thought I could help him. You know, I think about my family a lot.” Then the exchange of money and the beginning of a pointless wait.

Emmanuel Mhone would have nothing to do with Mbwenumbwenu. The Immigration officers were suspicious enough already. What fool would provoke their dogs with dry leaves that looked like Indian hemp? He dropped the cursed present in a nearby waste bin as soon as Mkharo was out of sight. Several years of hard learning wouldn’t go down the drain with irrational promises.

The fact was that Mbwenumbwenu sold them hope. Hope kept them alive. At least for a while. Hope had even sent him to University: “You wouldn’t be where you are if I hadn’t been to Mbwenumbwenu’s place,” his mother often reminded him.

It was his dead father’s fault. After the death of her husband, NyaNyirongo had become so desperate that she took all the miracle solutions which came her way without deep reflection. Widowhood had transformed her into a Jesus and ng’anga devotee who couldn’t do without either crutch. Whenever she was pushed against a brick wall, NyaNyirongo prayed and fasted. Afterwards, she went to see Mbwenumbwenu whose salivating promises alleviated her burdens. His potions and roots offered quick solutions. He told her. If you have a problem, it will be solved by me. Now.

Emmanuel decided to turn back when he saw the crowd queuing in front of the toilet. The plane would be leaving in a few minutes. He absolutely didn’t have time to wait.

His eyes searched for his mother. Not for so long because NyaNyirongo was standing next to NyaMoyo a few metres away from where he was. Lessening the distance between him and them, Emmanuel couldn’t help admiring the ease with which both women seemed to switch from solemn conversation to hilarious talk. What a pair, he marvelled. Stories never stopped flowing from those ladies’ mouths. They looked like schoolgirls sometimes, gossiping and often leaving Pearson out, as was the case this time. Such scenes would be impossible to find in France, he noted with sadness. There was always room for miracles but the loneliness of his stay in Yale still sat heavy on the stomach like mgaiwa sima.

When he was finally within touching distance, NyaMoyo grabbed his hand playfully and said:

“Ah my husband Manu, you’ll take good care of my daughter, won’t you?”

“Of course, Towera’s in very good hands. Just look at how well-fed she is. I won’t starve her.” Ripples of laughter burst out from both women.

“Ah, Manu. You can talk. No wonder you’re a lawyer,” NyaMoyo said, releasing her grip on her son-in-law’s wrist.

“By the way, when are we going to eat with the United Populists?” Emmanuel asked with a secretive smile.

“Ha, ha, ha, you’re really funny Manu. Those party people are quite useless. Soon I’ll have to beg for salt from my neighbours.”

“You’re joking. We know that you have the money. Just take it out. They feed you well up there. My distinguished father-in-law cannot accept to be treated like a common man.”

“I’m telling you the truth. We were better off when he was a Public Administrator. We used to drink imported milk. Now we’re just like everybody else. Even worse sometimes.”

NyaMoyo’s mourning tone was enough to garner sympathy from Emmanuel’s mother.

“Do not worry sister. God will give you back everything when ŵaManda becomes an M.P. Just put your trust in Him.”

“Yes, only God will deliver us from our poverty.” NyaMoyo said, shaking her head in further pain. Emmanuel fumbled with his collar as he searched for the right words to soothe his mother-in-law. He was rescued sooner than expected.

“Where’s your wife mkweni Emmanuel? Ah, there she is. This isn’t the time to get lost in the airport. I know that we women are stupid, but being left behind would be pathetic, mwe. Hurry up Towera, don’t keep your husband waiting. Iwe, you’re going to lose him to those clever French women as soon as you get down from the plane,” NyaMoyo added, pretending to be angry but anyone could tell that she was more than happy to see Towera, her future mzungu.

“What’re you three conspirators talking about?” Towera asked, putting her arm around her mother’s shoulders when she finally reached her.

“Ah eavesdropper, don’t stay here.” NyaMoyo joked, her laughter diffusing the tension that had gripped the small crowd a few seconds before.

“She’ll be my princess in France.” Emmanuel added, provoking more cascades of laughter from the women.

“Oh why don’t you take me with you and leave this second wife behind, he?”

“Ah, I wish I could. Maybe we should go away for a walk. We need privacy to talk about such things,” Emmanuel took NyaMoyo’s hand and led her away as a dumbfounded Towera sought solace in his eyes. Why did she always act so scared whenever he had to leave her alone with his mother? NyaNyirongo wasn’t a monster for God’s sake. According to common wisdom, a mother could never be wrong, let alone a widow and an old woman. As a dutiful daughter-in-law, Towera had to make the effort to change.

***

Towera could see that NyaNyirongo wasn’t looking at her. Emmanuel had captured her full attention. It was as if she’d never take her eyes off her beloved son. How handsome he is… How educated he is…How, how, how. How could one blame NyaNyirongo? Towera herself couldn’t have enough of her husband’s aura and prestige. She stared at him as he talked to her younger sister, Thembi. How respectable he looked.

“So, we are now left alone finally. I still can’t believe that white people are going to accept you in their country. So you have your visa and everything? Mwe Chiuta, some people are born luckier than others.” Tradition would have required Towera to drop her eyes at that moment, in respect for the woman who’d given birth to her husband, but she didn’t. What was happening to her?

“Do not forget our customs there. Fear my son and his belongings, NyaManda. That is the only way you are going to keep your marriage.”

Repositioning her hand bag which had slipped from her left shoulder, Towera waited for the unsolicited sermon that was about to come, hoping that it would have nothing to do with the way she ran her home.

“My son is no street vendor. I do not want you to shame him, me or the rest of his family, ok? But I know you are a good girl NyaManda. This is why my son married you. He chose you among so many girls,” NyaNyirongo’s voice lowered as the wrinkles on her brow deepened. She laughed nervously and continued in between her timid daughter-in-law’s ‘Yes mothers.’

“My son has also looked after us very well, me, his brothers and even the whole village. You are a good person to let him do this. May God bless you and give you a long life.”

“May he keep you from experiencing the hardship of polygamy,” Towera finished the sentence for her in her mind.

“Don’t worry mother, we’ll take care of you. Who could forget one’s own mother in this world?”

“Mahara! Em-ma-nuel my son didn’t make a mistake for marrying such a wise girl. You should be grateful for his love.”

Towera smiled and showed her wristwatch to her mother-in-law.

“Why are you showing me those things? I do not even know how to use them. Maybe I will learn when you send me one. He, he, de! As if that could be true but you never know.” NyaNyirongo cleared her throat twice and added:

“You have to be efficient now. Get all your things together and quicken your pace. You do not want to miss your plane, do you? Where are the kids?”

Towera tried to recollect her thoughts.

“You look tired. Are you sure you are ok? I will get your things, if you don’t mind.” She was following her, trying to get her bags.

“Don’t bother yourself mother, really. It’s fine.”

“No. Leave that. I will take care of it for you.”

“Don’t worry mother. It’s okay with me. It’s okay. Go and say goodbye to your son.”

Towera breathed a sigh of relief when the older woman finally left. She hoped that one day the image of NyaNyirongo would bring fond feelings in her heart, not the instinctive hate she felt as if she was dealing with a rival, fighting for Emmanuel’s attention. She wanted to feel protected, and not intimidated by the older woman. Where was Emmanuel? Towera felt nauseous but she wouldn’t be able to make a second trip to the toilet. She’d have to wait for the plane. It was time to leave. Time to swap familiar surroundings for the unknown, but she had unrestrained confidence in her husband and the future. Let the future come.