Free The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind by William Kamkwamba

a corner. And without being told, he assumed his job as watchman over the goats and chickens, protecting them from the rare hyena or packs of mobile dogs that wandered wild and ate off the land. He also chased the goats through the compound, causing them to bleat and cry and kick up the dirt. When he did this, my mother would lean out of the kitchen and pitch one of her shoes at his head.
    “Get that dog out of here!” she’d shout.
    It was all a game to Khamba. He constantly tortured the chickens and guinea fowl, too, and even seemed amused when the mother hens flared their wings at him, hissing and giving chase.
    But above all, what Khamba enjoyed most was hunting.
    By this time, going hunting in the fields and dambo s began to replace many of the games I used to play at home. I’d started by tagging along with my older cousins like Geoffrey and Charity, who also lived nearby.
    Mostly we hunted birds. We hid in the tall grass by the dambo s, which is so high during the dry season it can swallow a man whole. We’d wait until the afternoons when the birds came there to drink, then positioned a few sticks baited with ulimbo, a sticky sap that worked as a sort of glue. Once the birds stepped on the stick, they’d get caught and flap around, making all kinds of wild noises. Before they could break free, we’d jump out of the grass with our pangas, shouting:
    “ Tonga! I’ve got it!”
    “Tamanga! Get it fast, so you don’t scare off the others!”
    “I’ll cut its throat!”
    “No —I want to pull off its head!”
    We’d fight over who did the killing—usually taking turns cutting off the bird’s head, or holding it between our fingers and— thop —pulling it like a tomato. We’d clean the insides, remove the feathers, and store them inside sugar bags we slung around our necks. Once home, we’d make a fire and roast the birds on the red embers. Fortunately, our parents never made Geoffrey and I share our hunting meals, and some nights during summer, we’d come home with eight birds and have quite a feast.
    My family never had much money, and trapping birds was often our only way of getting meat, which we considered a luxury. The Chichewa language even has a word, nkhuli, which means “a great hunger for meat.”
    It wasn’t easy to satisfy this hunger, and sometimes these missions proved to be treacherous. For one thing, the best ulimbo sap for trapping birds came from the nkhaze tree, which grew very thick with branches covered with thorns. One had to squeeze inside the nkhaze with his panga and cut the trunk, being careful not to get the sap in his eyes. If he did, he went blind.
    One afternoon, Charity, Geoffrey, and I were out looking for ulimbo when we spotted the perfect nkhaze tree.
    “I’ll go!” said Charity. He was a kind of loud guy, who always wanted to be the leader. So we let him.
    Charity climbed into the nkhaze tree with his knife, being careful of the sharp thorns all around. He reached up and sliced the trunk, then held a plastic sugar bag against the dripping wound. But just as he was doing this, a great gust of wind shook the entire tree, slinging the ulimbo into his eyes. Charity burst out of the bush, screaming, “I’m blind, I’m blind! Help me! It hurts!”
    “What should we do?” I asked Geoffrey.
    A man named Maxwell, who once worked for Uncle John, had taught us about the nkhaze tree and what to do if the sap ever got into our eyes.
    Geoffrey turned to me. “You remember what Maxwell told us.”
    “Yah,” I said. “What?”
    “The only remedy is the milk from a mother.”
    “Oh, where are we going to find that?”
    “Your house.”
    It was true, my mother had just recently given birth to my sister Mayless. Perhaps she could help. We guided Charity by the shirt and led him to my house. Once there, Geoffrey made our case to my mother, who happily agreed. She instructed Charity to kneel down and open his eyes. She took one breast from her shirt and leaned in close to