Madala

Hi everyone, it's a beautiful, sunny day here in London, is our cold spell over now, was that the winter? It's hard to tell these days.
I really want to go and see that film, the Last King of Scotland, I love films about Africa, not surprising really.
When I was young, every Friday this old African man used to come to our house, we used to call him Madala (old man). He had known my father for many years and my Mum always made him a steaming mug of tea with lots of sugar and some jam sandwiches. I always used to listen for the sound of his creaking bicycle coming through the gate, he used to ride into town from his home far away in the bush, and our house used to be his last stop before the steep hills leading back over the mountain.
I was always fascinated by Madala, I would sit outside with him and listen to him slurp his tea, he always used to smell of woodsmoke and though he didn't speak much English, he was always very kind to us, and always so grateful for the little things we gave him.
The last time I saw Madala , he was very sad because we were leaving the country, my Mum was getting rid of all the furniture and he said he would like the kitchen table. Lo and behold, he tied the kitchen table onto his bicycle and went riding precariously off, it must have taken him hours to get home. I'll never forget the sight of him, with that huge table balancing on the back.
When my father said goodbye to Madala it was one of the few times that I ever saw tears in his eyes, for Madala was strangely like one of our family. I wonder what happened to him.