A Benz, A Friendship, and A Goodbye

Mornings were always a blur—me, running late, pacing through my little guest wing in Area 47, Sector 3, probably the best and most diverse suburb in Malawi. I grabbed my keys and jumped into my old Toyota Carina, a car that had once belonged to my father.

The road to work was just another routine drive, but my mind was stuck on a conversation from the night before. Gome, my friend, had finally bought his dream car—a Mercedes-Benz C180 W202. He had been talking about it for months, swearing by its boxy perfection, and now, it was his. I envied him.

As I drove, Radio 2 FM played Bayumthi—a fire track by Bensam, Gwamba, Phyzix, Krazie G, and the late Martse (may his soul rest in peace). My mind drifted. One day, I’ll own a Merc too.

At work, the usual grind began—selling newspapers, greeting colleagues, crunching numbers. If you’ve ever worked in sales, you know the struggle. A day without drama felt like a miracle, and that day, I was lucky. By 4:30 PM, I was the first one out the door.

Then I got home—and there it was.

A Mercedes-Benz C180 W202, sitting in my driveway.

This wasn’t Gome’s. This one belonged to my Uncle Sam (may his soul rest in peace). My heart pounded. I walked into the house, greeted him, and after some casual chit-chat, I blurted out,

“Uncle, if you ever think of selling this car…”

He chuckled.

“Why not? I’d rather my nephew buy it than anyone else.”

Wait—what? Just like that? No drama? No negotiations?

That night, I barely slept. The next morning, I called him. “Uncle, I have a deposit. Can I come get the car?”

He agreed. I called Gome—I needed my fellow Benz guy by my side for this moment.

When I finally got the car, the excitement was next level. I had officially joined the German Engineering Club. But as every Benz owner soon learns—joy and heartbreak are twins.

The rough idle was my first heartbreak. Something was definitely off. I found a mechanic who diagnosed the issue and confidently said,

“Boss, 120,000 kwacha.”

Excuse me?

Panic crept in. Did I just buy a liability?

Then, a miracle.

Another mechanic took a look, fixed it in minutes, and charged me 5,000 kwacha. Just like that, I was back to my happy place—sunroof open, foot on the pedal, cruising.

People started calling me “Oga Red Benz.” I had made it.

But I needed someone reliable.

One day at the gym, a friend told me, “Go to Chilinde. There’s a guy called Boy. He’s the best.”

“Boy?” I asked, confused.

“Yes. And he’s a man.”

Intrigued, I drove to Chilinde. That’s when I met Boy—my mechanic, my brother.

Boy wasn’t just a fixer. He was the Mercedes whisperer.

Over nine years, he became my go-to guy. He fixed every Merc I ever owned, hooked me up with the best spare parts, and even out-scammed me a few times. Of course, I returned the favor.

We laughed, fought, made deals, and kept each other on our toes. Owning a Merc in Malawi is a journey, and Boy made sure mine was smooth—most of the time.

Then came September.

I broke my leg. On crutches, I still went to see Boy at his workshop. He made fun of my situation, even played with my crutches like they were a joke. We laughed.

Neither of us knew that one day, those same crutches would be for him.

Last month, Boy fell ill. I figured, as always, he’d bounce back. But something felt…different.

I was in Spain, and we texted. I promised to bring him something from my trip.

When I got back, I went to see him. He could barely walk.

I handed him my crutches—the same ones he had once joked about.

Weeks passed. Then, one Sunday, I called. His voice was stronger. I exhaled. He was getting better.

Then I drove to his workshop, expecting to see him. But his boys told me,

“Boss is sick. He hasn’t been here in a week.”

That sinking feeling returned.

I drove straight to his house. He couldn’t hear me. His ears were gone. I had to text him so he could respond.

The heartbreak was unbearable.

Then, the worst message came.

“Boy is in the hospital. Critical condition.”

The next morning, I woke up, determined to visit him. I texted his brother,

“How is he?”

“He’s better,” he replied.

I felt relief. Maybe, just maybe, we had dodged the worst.

Then, an hour later, another message.

“Boy is no more.”

I froze.

The man who made my Mercedes-Benz dream a reality—gone.

Now, every time I start my M111 engine, I hear him. Every Merc I drive carries his fingerprints. Every visit to Chilinde feels hollow without him there.

I will never see Boy again. But he lives on in every car he ever fixed, in every part he ever found for me, in every joke we ever shared.

This is for you, Bernister Sakulingwa.

My mechanic. My brother.