Blackout Night

   I writhed, and I huffed, and I puffed, that dark night,

                   in fury, flat-out,

                   because of the blackout.

   as I nursed my unspeakable rage,

                   I heard a song,

                   the song of no wrong;

                   laughter song,

                   the song of glee;

                   the song of guffawing cockroaches,

                   insects of the night,

                 getting set and primed, to show naughty might.

                                 the blackout my poison,

                                 the blackout their meat.

                                                                                                                                                                                               

flowering in the showers

[this was published in the malawi news of 13 august 2011]

flowers, flowers, flowers;

marigold flowers, jasmine flowers,

rose flowers, bougainvillea flowers,

carnation flowers, petunias flowers;

dark flowers, bright flowers,

flowers of dignity, flowers of vulgarity,

flowers in opponent, flowers in proponent.

red, white, blue, yellow, black, green flowers:

fragranced flowers, fungus flowers,

poisonous flowers, scented flowers,

strong flowers, wrong flowers;

flowers scanty, flowers plenty.

all these flowers flower in the showers

the showers shower their blessing on all the flowers

the showers do not segregate

the showers must never segregate

all the flowers must flower in the showers.

strangled dictum

   you panted for air as panic pained

   as the young life in you drained

   a ghastly gagged youthful life

   strangled dictum…

   and relatives chocked with grief

   as friends shocked with disbelief

   seeing your destiny you would not reach

   strangled dictum…

   a budding jasmine brutally butchered

   a blameless young life beastly botched

   a blossoming rose harshly hacked

   strangled dictum….

The Scrambled Dance

   interlocking spurring, you torrent the stage

   on your way downward as you wage.

     you at times astray to the shore at a speed

   not wanted, as in gardens, the weed.

   you lift on your way many things,

     and suddenly bringing your stings.

             you reach the middle course,

   where you slow a bit; your pacing shows.

   you flow in sweetness now being matured.

        you flow and twiddle, cool natured.

    you move, massively, on and on,

         and sometimes you harshly drown,

   and people spared, are left to mourn:

               and downward still you drag and flow

   although you do not like it so;

   but upwards never will you go.

        old stage you now reach,  which people call the plain stage.

           meanders you have, having left the gorge.

                                 your path naturally breaks

                   and you have ox-bow lakes.

                                         like a giant python towards the sea

                you crawl, agedly, as seemingly you do not notice

                            that the sea you are to enter is your killer

                                                  but for it to stand you are the pillar.

Child Labor in Malawi

There is currently paucity of information regarding child labor in Malawi, especially the limits between what child labor is and what it is not and also the actual harm domestic employment exposes to children. This paper aims at identifying the main factors that promote children to move from the mainstream of society to indulge in child labor. Knowledge about these issues will better inform policy formulators, including religious organizations, traditional systems, parents and guardians, people who are indulged in child labor, and other concerned sectors in order not only mitigate the problem but also prevent those children not yet involved in the malpractice from doing so. This paper will further suggest the issue of demonstrations by traditional leaders and the masses to put pressure on Legislators and the government to pass legislations pertaining to child labor, for example the National Registration Bill; force government to enforce compulsory primary education, among other things.

Child labor, a blatant human right violation, continues to be a problem in Malawi despite many and increased efforts to stop it since the adoption of a Constitution that advocates for human rights and the rule of law at the advent of multi party democracy in the early 1990s. A number of non-governmental organizations have sprouted, which advocate for children's rights, which together with relevant governmental ministries and departments, have had a concerted effort to stop children’s exploitation and abuse, one of which is child labor. According to IRIN report of 2008, the Malawi Government has carried out a number of surveys on child labor in an effort to find out the reality on the ground and try to arrest the problem. Malawi is also a signatory to numerous Conventions against child labor, including the 1989 UN Convention on the Rights of a Child, the 1973 International Labor Organization Convention 138, which set a minimum working age of 18, and the 1999 International Labor Organization Convention 182, that outlawed child labor.. There has also been forced removal of children from places of child labor, especially in estates. The Malawi Government also introduced the free primary education in an effort to keep children in school.

The term child labor itself is elusive to define, and this has not helped matters. This is so because most societies expect children and young people to do some form of work, particularly in developing countries. According to a 2008 report of the International HIV and AIDS Alliance, this has made it difficult to differentiate between child labor, which harms children, and child work, which does not harm children.  Nonetheless many quarters that have defined child labor, have all boiled down to as any work which by its nature or employment conditions is detrimental to a child's physical, mental, moral, social or emotional development. For instance, Article 3 of the 182 Convention of the International Labor Organization (ILO) emphasizes any work, which is 'likely' to harm a child's health, safety or morals.  On its part the Constitution of Malawi regards a child as the one under the age of sixteen (The Constitution of the Republic of Malawi, May 2002); while the Employment Act of 2000 gives fourteen years as the minimum age of employment.

However, as much as there is this difference on what child labor is all about, reports agree that the most exposed and reported child labor activities are those taking place in tea and tobacco estates. These activities are also taken as the worst forms of child labor, on top of prostitution, child trafficking, slavery, and debt bondage according to the HIV\AIDS Alliance Report, 2008.  Other places that this problem is found, but often ignored, are markets, bus deports, and train stations where children are involved in ganyu activities. But according to reports as well, the most ignored one is domestic employment, which according to ILO, is the biggest category of child labor, especially for girls.

Studies further show that apart from disasters, the issue of child labor result mostly from poverty; where the parents or parental figures are not meeting children's needs and wants, and expectations. Some of the children involved in this malpractice are complete orphans, while others have at least a living parent, the category of children that is driven into the malpractice as a survival means. Others are not orphans but have the consent of their parents or guardians, or their parents are in the same activities, especially in the estate sector. It was also revealed further that there is also another group, that of parents who do not have economic means to sustain their families. They, therefore, have little choice of authority to prevent their children from indulging in child labor. However, there is another group that is of deviants. These have living parents who can sustain their wants and needs having reasonable resources at home.  But this group desire more than what their parents or guardians can afford. They, therefore, go into this malpractice to satisfy their desires. This then drives children into child labor either as individuals or as family agents. And it out of the sympathy that people have on poverty related child employment that societies have taken a lenient stand on child labor.

Further, study has also shown that all this is worsened by the fact that although there are numerous attempts by the government and the private sector to curb the phenomenon, there are a lot of serious shortfalls in these endeavourers.  For example there is the issue of poor record keeping and lack of birth certificates to enable child protection officers to verify the ages of people suspected of being employed as child laborers. There is also lack of political will on the part of Legislators. It is a known fact that the National Registration Bill, the law to help in the issuing of birth certificates, was presented to Parliament in 2006 for ratification, but has yet to be passed according to IRIN Report, 2008.

The failure to enforce the law of the compulsory attendance of the primary school level by children on part of the government is also blocking the stoppage of the problem. And at moment there is no individual who has been brought to book for employing children has undermined the seriousness of the campaign to stop child labor. There is also a belief that advocating such ideas is seen as anti family or allows children have their own way.

So from these observations it is seen that the problem of child labor is very much prevalent in Malawi and that poverty is the greatest force that is driving children into child labor. This paper, therefore, is proposing a comprehensive cross sectional study to determine the various facets of child labor in Malawi, especially the sectors, such as domestic employment, that have been ignored as not worse enough to constitute to this on going phenomenon. But more importantly this paper believes in bringing to an end to this phenomenon by targeting religious organizations and traditional leadership. It has been shown in Malawi that religious leaders and organizations hold the highest esteem in societies. And that if they can be asked to spread the massage against child labor it will be more effective. In other words, it has been shown from studies that a number of good reports have been written about child labor and a lot of suggestions have been put forward but all these have tended to ignore the usefulness of religious and traditional leaders. Effective are traditional leaders in mobilizing masses and can be used to pressurize the Legislators in passing certain bills. If the same means are employed to pressurize the concerned parties to enact the bills that will help arrest the problem it will be effective.

In the end some of the topical issues one has to look at about child labor in Malawi are;

How child labor should be defined in Malawi

What drive these children into the industry

How do they perceive themselves

Do they think there is an alternative livelihood

What prevents them from exploring that other alternative of livelihood

What is their source of meals, health care, advice, etc

Do they know of friends who were in the industry but are no longer there

Where are those colleagues and what made them leave the industry

What is the relationship between children in child labor and the police and the community at large

How do these communities perceive children in child labor

What role do these communities play to help the children in child labor

What role are the government and other state institutions doing on the matter apart from the efforts already there

The number of other persons and other institutions trying to eradicate the problem

What has been the level and intensity of their campaigns in stopping the problem

What advice do they give to children who are not yet involved in the child labor

What skills do these children in child labor have

What skills could be developed

a story is told

[Published: Malawi News 17 March 2012]

Along the Chikawa Road there is a junction called Chishagalalo. From here there is a pathetic bumpy and dusty road that stretches westwards. It is this battered thoroughfare that takes people into a village called Menase.

Traveling this heavily potholed road one passes a ground in a rundown state. It is a portion covered with furrows and erratic dried out grass. Going further, the rutted road twists several times, passing an abandoned dysfunctional borehole and a deserted entertainment hall, a heavily-cracked faded building moldy in the sun, before reaching a faint looking and falling into disuse house that emits a haunted atmosphere. This house is the home of Kulingalinga.

Looking at Kulingalinga one sees a distressed person. His gaze is disturbing as his eyes, hollowed and untrusting, sporadically gaze beyond, looking at seemingly unsettling things that are understood by him alone. He has a frail and bony statue that is capped by a hairless head that possesses a deformed mouth. And it is from this mouth that a story is told…

Menase was the envy of surrounding villages and others beyond its borders, the story goes. Villages like Nencholi, Kempala, Beluti, M’mengo and Menyowe, all envied the serenity that prevailed in Menase. They admired its sound democracy and vibrant economy, and also a yearly abundant food production that made it a food basket for the whole region. Jobs were there, the education system was tremendous, and the health sector was outstanding. People from other villages used to migrate to Menase to look for jobs and other opportunities. Menase was a shelter for many people.

Then entered the reign of chief Mabvuto; in his first eight years Menase saw things getting even better. The economy increased, agricultural produce doubled, and the unemployment rate reduced drastically. People hailed his reign as wise, dynamic and pragmatic, a fantastic regime never seen before.

But later power corrupted chief Mabvuto. The praises he received got to his head and knocked reason and sense out of him. He started to believe he was the best and that he alone was chosen to think for Menase as if the villagers’ brains were stuffed with rotten rubbish. He started to play God in Menase. He believed he had to rule forever.

“We can’t copy everything from the West,” that was chief Mabvuto on the day he bulldozed his scheme and had the rules changed to suit his ego. He was addressing the Lawmaking Chamber, packed with blind loyalists.  

“There’s need to have an indigenous system that would accommodate the village’s cultural and historical aspects…” he was interrupted momentarily by hand clapping, “We need a system home-grown that will come with indigenous solutions to our problems,” he had continued when the hand claps had ebbed.

“We agree rules must be the same, but that doesn’t mean we should all have the same form of democracy. Each village must have a system unique to its set up,” chief Mabvuto had ranted on and on about his strange idea of an indigenised system of government, amidst numerous interruptions of hand claps and intones of ‘Hear! Hear! Hear!’ And that day rules were changed to accommodate this, for the lawmakers had come to know that if they were to feed they had to rubber stamp the chief’s wishes.

But this was his machination not to be quizzed about his policies. All he wanted was to take a decision and expect all to abide by it unquestioningly. He had introduced a system with the sole aim of achieving a ‘winner-takes-all’ situation as positions and contracts now went to his friends and loyalists.

And opposition figures such as Joh Mawudzu, Aneva, Apichesi, Alayisani and Akuseli started to get arrested and rot in prison, or mysteriously died, or fled into exile. And even his friends that raised or were perceived to raise reservations to his policies were not spared.

Kulingalinga, the teller of this story, the best friend of chief Mabvuto then could attest to this. He got arrested and tortured in some notorious prison for congratulating a poet from the village who won an international poetry competition; with a poem the authorities felt was critical of them. By the time Kulingalinga came out of prison 20 years later, he was a walking corpse, and found his businesses and property in ruins, on top of a dead wife and son.

Then Menase plummeted. The economy became crippled, as funds went down the drain through blinding corruption. Infrastructure and social amenities such as health and education became crippled too. People lost jobs, as companies were closing shop en masse.  The village hall and the ground were abandoned; there was no sponsorship for teams and dramas and music performances were banned. The road from Chishagalalo junction also stopped being graded, and food once in abundance, became a scarce commodity. Scarce too was fuel. Menase was turned into a living hell…

Chief Mabvuto still reigns today in Menase, the land of many difficulties now. And Kulingalinga still lives in Menase, and goes on to tell this heart-rending story.

“I’ve nothing to fear. This autocratic regime has made me go through real hell. Even if it decides to kill me, I’ve nothing to lose, and dying for me will be gain,” he says, from his deformed mouth that tells this sad story.  

the gift to the witchdoctor

Long at last I saw an old woman coming from the opposite direction. Since I entered the village I had walked for a considerable distance without seeing a soul. That was strange; the village would be bustling with activity at that hour. The woman was looking down, but I could make out that she wore a grave face. I was about to call her when she abruptly looked up. Our eyes met. Trojan, mother of god! Her hair stood on end, and with eyes popped out, she took to her heels, shouting phrases I did not understand.

I was more befuddled now and I tensely yawned for some explanation. I determinedly ran after her. But it only worsened matters. She started to splint with such velocity that even Usain Bolt would envy. That jolted me. ‘This old woman is dead serious.’ I thought. I excruciatingly increased speed and caught up with her. Nevertheless, before I uttered damn a word, she fainted.

‘What the hell is happening?’ I madly thought again as my confusion plummeted further.

I perused the vicinity for help but still there was no soul in sight. I confusedly left the woman and scuttled towards my parents’ house, the excitement I had earlier on now in total shreds.

You see, I left my house in Manase for my village in mid-morning a very ecstatic man, the joy that started four days before. My wife, Anitra, had told me she was pregnant after an agonizing wait of five years.

To confess it, in this five-year period, we had thoroughly and desperately tried every means plausible to get a baby. Talk of holding prayer vigils, visiting renowned prayer houses and famous hospitals, and despondently even visiting witchdoctors, or trying fisi. We did all that but to no avail. And all that happened amidst sizzling ridicule, especially for my wife. She was taunted and tormented to the bone marrow, as if the problem could not be with me. Heartlessly terms like deadwood and dwale rained down on her. Even at church, where we were to find solace, some unsaved mouths unfeelingly called her Sarah or Naomi.

Our anguish seemed perpetual until we stumbled upon witchdoctor Yonseboo; and whether it was coincidence or not, Anitra fell pregnant within days of starting to administer the witchdoctor’s concoction.

And as I fêted this news, that morning I received a parcel that contained an air ticket and a letter, among other things. The communiqué announced that I had been awarded a scholarship I applied some months ago. ‘You will leave today by a six o’clock evening flight…’ among others, it stated.

So I left for my village to bid farewell to my parents, full of excitement, only to stumble in this bizarre atmosphere.

Now as I neared my parents’ house I heard wailing. Curious, I peered through some shrubs and saw people and a police land-cruiser at the compound. My heart raced as questions madly chased each other in my head, ‘Has someone died? Who can that be? Why didn’t they inform me about the illness? Or was it through a fatal accident? …’ Hey, I was wrestling with madness.

But if I was afraid of being mad, the next moment insanity completely knocked me down. I heard in the dirge that I was the one dead. My heart somersaulted and I collapsed to the ground. ‘What? Me dead? How?’ Fuming questions cruised inside me. Then it drowned on me on the weirdness I witnessed since I entered the village. I was dead and people were at my funeral; the funeral of their pride that went through university; the village’s role model. Their adored son they earmarked as their next MP.

“But I’m not dead,” I crossly told myself. I got up and stomped to the compound.

What followed was an unprecedented pandemonium. People ran helter-skelter in all directions. I moved quickly into my parents’ house and trapped my mother, some relations and two policemen. My mother instantly fainted. On the middle was a corpse I believed caused the whole chaos, covered with a blanket.

“I’m not dead!” Mystified I yelled at visibly paralyzed relatives, who looked as if they had just seen a zombie getting in. My scream yielded nothing.

“I’m saying I’m not dead!” I dementedly screeched again, thinking hard. I quickly removed my left shoe to expose a unique toe-less foot.

“Check if this whosoever is like this!”  I entreated. Nobody moved.

“Please, you people!” I cried. Some convictions showed on the people’s faces, but again no soul moved.

“Please,” I entreated again. One of the policemen removed the blanket to reveal a charred corpse I instantly recognized as that of witchdoctor Yonseboo. He was wearing a jacket I gave him two days before as my token of appreciation. And, obvious to me, when the foot was checked, the toes stared back at everybody. I gazed at my relatives with a ‘how-dare-you-think-I’m-dead-without-properly-checking-just-because-someone-is-putting-on-my-jacket’ glare.

“This made us to come here,” the other policeman interrupted my thoughts, as he showed me an almost burnt out passport.

I instantaneously, but painfully, remembered keeping that passport in the jacket since collecting it. I did not properly go through the jacket’s pockets when I gave it to the witchdoctor. I saw my world cruelly nose-diving. I only had just over four hours remaining to catch the flight. I fainted.  

the ritual

[Published in the Weekend Nation]

Denja sat slumped on a tattered creaky chair. A once lively but now rusty and ready to fall into disuse rundown radio, panted beside him. He shifted his gaze from the puffing radio to a cracked-faded building to his right, musty in the sun. It housed termites ravaged and rotten dusty shelves, remains of what used to be the most vibrant shop in Nachilenda Township. It was now a haunted sorry sight, a repelling place of cockroaches and rats odors.

“I can’t continue like this,” he swore agonizingly as thoughts about his past hurled on his mind. He, the only child in their family, inherited a vibrant shop when his parents died in a road accident. However, the moment he got the riches he was not himself. Denja became wasteful.

“Barman, two more crates please. And you mang’ina-seller, bring that whole basin,” that would be him lavishly spending for a horde of people and prostitutes in his daily visits to beer-halls. You see Denja ate, drunk and slept around irresponsibly.

However, dearth closed in on him, stripping him of everything. Within few years, all his riches collapsed to wretchedness. He was now poor, striving to eke out even a subsistence living. Moreover, people mocked him for being too thoughtless. And the scorn was the thing that pained him most.

He licked his parched lips, gone dry because of hunger. He yawned pathetically, his eyes feeling dizzily and started to mist up. He stretched his once meaty arms to expose protruding ribs his ragged shirt refused to hide any longer.

“I can’t continue like this,” he swore again, “I’ll be back on my feet, whatever it takes.” His resolute centered on visiting some famed witchdoctor although his best friend he had confided in had raised reservations.

“These witchdoctors are all fake,” the friend had warned, “They always tell you rituals they’re sure you’re bound to fail. The rituals are highways to serious problems.”

However, for Denja, the penniless mockery he now was, there was no turning back. Two days later, he sat fretting in the hut of the witchdoctor, so determined to remove the paucity and mock on him. The hut was sultry, reeking with odors of roots and leaves.

Even the owner was not palatable for the eye. Denja observed. He was shabby and emitted a revolting stench, a rancid odor of stale sweat. Mounds of dirt grimed on the creases of his tattered clothes. A dirt necklace seemed to strangulate his elongated neck, seemingly protesting the heavy mass of his baldy big head, which possessed big jug-handle shaped ears. Even his eyes, enslaved in protruding sockets pronounced by black bushy eyebrows hooded like some fierce bird of prey, were elusive and humorless; eyes that emitted a haunting gaze.

“Well, let me warn you,” the witchdoctor brought Denja back to the present in a throaty and crispy hollowed voice. “If you miss even just one thing my spirits here say you’ll go mad.” He harshly looked at Denja for confirmation. Denja only managed a nod. The witchdoctor proceeded with everything.

Denja dejectedly setting out for another hunt was almost out of time. The five-day-period accorded to him for the ritual was almost over. Only a few hours remained. He reached and felt the sharp knife and plastic bottle hidden under his threadbare jacket, his inseparable companions the past four days; the days he had failed to find a naked singing madman for the ritual in all the places he had thoroughly combed. When the witchdoctor had told him to collect the required items from a naked singing madman, he had chuckled in victory, seeing his glorious past restored and the mockery, history.

“I thought he’d tell me something so difficult, as my friend told me,” relieved, he had thought then. However, he miserably started to believe the friend, for the closest he had come all the past four days were singing lunatics, but not naked.

**************************************

Thomu, an auditor for some big company, called for another beer he swore for the hundredth time was his last. Nevertheless, he yawned for more that day. He was even so drunk to even notice he was the only customer remaining. He grudgingly left for the taxi rank at 23:45 when he was told it was time to close. However, the eerie emptiness at the rank sobered him up. Troubling thoughts of cold-blooded robbers terrorizing places at night vividly came into his mind. He knew the bandits were somewhere waiting to pounce on their victims. He did not want to be the one. “But how do I get home unscathed?” he thought desperately. Nevertheless, a smile hovered on his lips as he looked for a dirty plastic bag and some dust, as a plan crossed his mind.   

*****************************************

 

Denja, strolling home from another failed hunt, leaking wounds of defeat, could not believe his lucky when he saw the naked singing madman, a baggage on his head, coming in front of him. He pounced on him and within minutes, he had collected the needed items and cautiously left.

The following morning Nachilenda Township woke up to two shocking news; a mutilated body of a man, they came to know as Thomu, was found naked and murdered, and Denja had gone mad, walking naked and singing. 

the plan

[Published in the Malawi News of 30 July 2011]

It was an evening of dark skies. The sun that glared all day, now hidden under thunderclouds, was fast setting. Sindi the new chief was reclined quietly into his Ndalema chair. He was alone with his thoughts, mulling over his installation in three days time, particularly anxiously thinking about the subject of domestic violence he intended to include in his inaugural speech.  He knew talking openly about it was a taboo, punishable by banishment. That was why he planned to talk about it after accepting the throne; per tradition he would then be untouchable.

Sindi had hated domestic violence since he was eleven years when he had witnessed his sister nearly getting murdered by her husband. He had vowed to fight the social evil at the slightest opportunity he would have. It was no wonder then when he was chosen to succeed his ailing uncle to the throne that he accepted it gratefully. He could not have asked for more. With the chieftaincy he knew it was a matter of days the verbal, physical, and emotional suffering of women, enshrined in a sickening culture of silence, was history.

“After condemning it in my speech, I’ll go further to mandate that the girl-child should go to school.” Sindi pondered on that evening for he knew women were suffering mostly for lacking empowerment. And he knew the surest way of empowering them was through education.

“Cases like that of Logisi, this fifteen-year-old girl who was fished out of school and forced to marry a forty-year-old man, won’t be part of my village, never again.” He vowed.

He even planned to outright tell his people to come out of their cocoons, to stop acting as if domestic violence did not exist or was not a horrible act, compassionately pointing to the gruesome murdering or maiming of women like Mdyomba and Chigiledala by the men who were to protect and love them. But he knew he had to carefully do it, step by step.

“Yes, I should first accept the…”

The hollowed cry, a scream of terror, slashed Sindi’s thoughts like a razor-sharp machete. He got up with a start, an eerie feeling prickling down his backbone. He found himself hurrying towards the distressed wail. A small crowd was watching the brawl. A muscular man called Asilo was battering his wife, Mai Amikhe, with a big stick as if she was a snake, shouting at her degrading adjectives. Sindi shuddered and spat in fury, a chill cursing through him. His passion projected. He furiously rushed and pushed the thug.

“What the hell is this?” Asilo tersely asked, his eyes rudely raking Sindi head to foot as though he suspected he had concealed a bomb somewhere on his person.

“I must ask you that,” Sindi retorted.

“That’s ridiculous,” Asilo intoned feeling uneasy. “You’ve just pushed me…?”

“Why are you thumping your wife like garbage?” Sindi cut him short.

Asilo sniggered sarcastically. “Because you’ll be chief you think you can poke your dirty nose in family issues that don’t concern you?”

Sindi’s countenance darkened. He felt his fists clenching with anger. But before he could censure the brute that what he was doing was no family matter but sheer brutality, the grisly battered Mai Amikhe, oozing blood from gapping holes on swollen lips, shouted at him that ‘it was none of his business.’

Sindi was startled. Prickles of shock danced mockingly along every nerve. He never expected that statement, at least from her. He left in frustration, and nearly shouted scorn at the crowd, which was murmuring and pointing fingers of accusation at him, the reaction that did not surprise him though, considering how deep rooted the social evil was.

Nevertheless, he was stunned that evening when the Appointment and Advisory Council came and demanded his apology to the village at the ground for what he did.

“Even you who were to provide advice health for the village, you’re telling me to apologize for condemning senseless pain in my village? You can’t be serious.” Sindi heatedly declared. He watched emotions working across their faces, respect contending with disgust. Disgust won by a knock out.

“Nonsense,” Vibula, officious in the group, grouched defiantly. “You’ll apologize tomorrow morning, or else forget about the throne.” It was a command. Sindi gaped, feeling a dull headache.

The following morning people were called to the ground to witness Sindi apologize for ‘embarrassing the village over a petty domestic issue’. Within minutes it was fully packed and buzzing. But a strong rumour was making round that Sindi had vowed on his soul he would never apologize. To whom that was made, the people could not tell. It was a spot full of nervousness. An hour later it fell dead silent when Sindi had walked to the podium and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry for what I did yesterday,” he said and watched the hushed group, especially a number of women. Sindi could tell their disappointment from their faces. When these women had secretly come deep in the night to declare women’s happiness and support for him, he had vowed that he would never apologize.

He understood there frustration but he badly needed the chieftaincy to fight the social evil. As he came down from the podium men erupted with joy, but Sindi knew it was for a short ter

the assassin

[Published in the Malawi News of 20 August 2011]

05:47 am

They were guardedly locked shut and seated in the soundproof office. Though the past weeks similar gatherings had at times been sporadic and less intense, during the past three days they were daily and concentrated. And that day’s meeting had taken even longer. They all felt exhausted and silence ruled over them for seconds.

“Eh, well comrades,” Lino, the figurehead, who was the chief of staff, broke the silence in a throaty voice, rising from his seat. In case of the presidency falling vacant he would take over. Almost forty top presidential security personnel, nursing fatty ambitions, fixed their eyes on him.

“So far so good,” Lino continued, pointing at a fixed marked map, “Now, briefly, we’re saying, from around nine this morning the president stops at three places; this ground, where he’ll address a gathering; this motel here where he’ll hold dinner, before reaching this private chapel.

“Levi, you’ll be at this under-construction building,” he addressed the assassin now; the assassin coerced in by Lino’s kidnapping of his young brother. “You shoot the president as he gets out of the car and flee through passages marked X. Be swift before the perimeter, manned by some of us here, is sealed. Amikhe will be waiting in a stolen car around here, where you’ll drive off, abandon it, and walk away. If anything the whole operation takes 30 minutes. Is it clear?” he asked with finality.

“Yessir!” they chorused.

06:17 am

The group, except Levi and Lino, was cagily meeting again in the house of the deputy chief of staff, a shrewd and power hungry officer named Asilo, third in the presidency linage. In fact the meeting, as previous others, was there to plan how to eliminate Levi, Lino and the president. As fate might have it when the assassination plot was hatched Lino made one mistake which Asilo capitalized on. He never came out clear on how the others would benefit after becoming president, which created uncertainty. On the other hand, Asilo craftily produced a clear-cut beneficial pact and offered it to the juniors, which they received gladly. But it was a plan never shown to Levi. Asilo felt Levi was needless for they had planned to kill the president and Lino at the chapel where the president wanted privacy and only Lino would escort him inside. An officer called Vibula, who would be inside beforehand through the backdoor manned by security officials in the group, would shoot the President and Lino and flee. An officer called Patikalimbwe would be waiting in a stolen car close by. They would drive on a bushy road to another stolen car driven by Mary Sila and escape.

07:05 am

Levi, dressed in security uniform, was secretly driven to his position where he set his M24 sniper rifle and tensely waited. In his life he had never felt so nervous and scared. But for the sake of his brother, Levi waited, waited patiently for the motorcades’ sirens.

10:49 am

Then from a distance he heard them, heard the faint rushing footsteps. At first he ignored them. But as they drew closer shouts about him assassinating the president sliced his ears; the military sagacity instantly made him knew he was setup. He quickly abandoned the sniper rifle, drew out his Q52-92 semi-automatic pistol and started to run like mad, his heart fiercely racing.

11:11am

Levi broke his run, hiked to the motel premises, and quickly perused the vicinity. Nobody seemed interested in him. He marched on. Levi felt bitter with whosoever was behind the betrayal. Something told him not all might be involved but to him all were condemned. In such cases there would always be sacrifices. Levi sauntered on.

12:13pm

The president was stunned when Levi emerged pointing a pistol at him, signaling him to keep quiet. He felt wobbly and nervous but managed to challengingly look at Levi, who an hour earlier had managed to maneuver his way through and prayed fervently that the president should visit the VVIP toilet he professionally hid in. Then Levi confidently told the president everything, but excluded that he was there escaping a setup, but emphasized the possibility that he had of assassinating the president, but that his love for him had stopped him doing that. He then lowered the gun, handed it to the president who shakily took it. Levi walked challengingly away. The president first reaction was to shoot him but he felt drained and weak. Seconds later he was cautiously and rapidly making phone calls.

12:21pm

Everything happened too quickly for Lino and some others to understand; one moment everything was normal, the next one, blaring of ambulance sirens. Military men and doctors arrived and within minutes the president, feigning death, was carried away leaving pandemonium behind. And news that the president was strangled by Levi started to make rounds.

12:32pm

The president was confirmed dead upon arrival at the hospital. The sad news spread like bush fire. It was a nation in disorder and grief.

12:50hours

Matthews was released safely by expectant flamed Lino; seconds later Levi made a call and within minutes Lino, Asilo and the others were arrested.

The Epilogue…

Levi watched Matthews boisterously ride a bike. He felt contented that the love for his young brother had not only saved his brother’s life but also earned him the chief of staff position.

the anarchy

[Published in the Malawi News of 2 July 2011, and the Weekend Nation of 7 January 2012]

It started one hot afternoon. There were about 200 youthful protestors when a thousand of the much feared guards moved in and started to beat them up. The protestors were out numbered and started to escape, scattering in all directions in the process. The notorious guards hotly pursued them, and ended up in clobbering and arresting any youth that they came across. The youths were enraged. Almost every villager was enraged; and the fear of the tyrannical authorities they had harboured for years melted away. Their simmering anger boiled over. They joined the youth in fighting the guards. What followed was an unprecedented outbreak of rioting. Hundreds of disgruntled villagers took to the streets denouncing the dictatorial rule of Asilo, their chief, and fought his infamous guards.

The authorities’ action however, was quick and heavy handed. They called for reinforcements who joined their counterparts. Together they rampaged through the village. They beat up the demonstrators with heavy clubs, and arrested many. Anarchy descended on the village as mobs of people battled the guards and clouted the authorities’ supporters. And around evening, it was particularly violent. The guards overreacted. They started to use machetes. Hollowed cries and shouts, and blood, became order of the day. Many people lied injured. There were also many cases of death.

However, this was Mgwabulu village very different from the one of 20 years ago. Enjoying agricultural produce year in and year out, and savouring peaceful successions to the throne, things, by and large, lacking in the other surrounding villages, Mgwabulu was a haven of peace.

Things started to change just two years in the line of Asilo’s rule. Surrounding himself with bootlickers, and greedy and corrupt advisers, he stopped listening to advice and sound reason. Those who opposed and criticized him and his policies, or were perceived to do so, paid heavily. He would heap a diet of abuse on them or the ruthless guards would beat ‘sense’ in their heads.

Irene, a local journalist, was beaten up at a political rally of the authorities for being critical of the government. Even local leaders were not spared in the mess. Village head Alina was paraded half naked by the guards for attending an opposition political meeting. And many such cases were reported. People of Mgwabulu village walked in complete terror.   

And as years progressed, rampant corruption and nepotism spread. It became a regime full of praise singers. Those aspiring to reach the top had to take the uncompromising approach of singing praises for Asilo’s ‘achievements’. Battle lines were drawn. If one was deemed as to be on the opposition camp, he was not to fraternize with the other side. Mysterious deaths of opposition members became common; prominent opposition members such as Atate, Vibula and Bulakikobulo all mysterious died. Food production began to dwindle as farms were confiscated from rivals of the officials and at times given to incompetent staunch supporters. This saw agriculture based industries crossing down and consequently grappling poverty spread among ordinary villagers, as the gains of the previous years deteriorated.

However, at one time Mgwabulu village sought a crimeless and competent person to be its representative at the Paramount Chief’s headquarters, when the former passed away. Mbwandira, a businessman, and Patikalimbwe, Asilo’s son, emerged the hot contestants for the position. The majority supported Mbwandira.

“We can’t take someone who the previous year embezzled our money meant for development, but went scot-free.”  The majority could be heard vowing.

But Patikalimbwe had the support of the authorities though. In the following days he was paraded at his father’s almost daily political meetings, where in a series of confidence boasting exercises, his praises were repeatedly and publicly sang. On the other extreme Mbwandira faced nightmares. They ranged from being lampooned and vilified by the authorities, being barred from holding meetings for undisclosed reasons, to the meetings being disrupted by the notorious guards when he had the sheer lucky of holding any. But that did not deter people. His support soared. The authorities moved swiftly to impoliticly ban him from contesting for having an unsubstantiated criminal record.

People wriggled and writhed in opposing. Nothing happened. In despair they also called for Patikalimbwe’s removal from the contest on the grounds of misusing development funds. That was also laughed off.

On the day of voting the authorities stifled the calls for Patikalimbwe’s removal by packing the village hall with aggressive flunkies and barred suspected dissents. The winner needed a 60 percent majority of the occupants to sail through. Inside the hall heavies shouted, “Mgwabulu village for Patikalimbwe, Mgwabulu village for Patikalimbwe!” No participant dared dissent. With anti-Patikalimbwe campaigners kicked out, Patikalimbwe won with a ‘thumping’ 100 percent majority. Furiously the villagers, especially the youth, consented to strike. The authorities paid no attention. The villagers refused to give in. The youth staged the protest.

So that protest that afternoon provided the spark that unleashed an explosion of chaos after 18 years of simmering political tensions. And although the guards slashed the demonstrators with machetes and bludgeoned them with heavy clubs, the people were not dissuaded. For them enough was enough. Asilo was to resign or be dethroned. They torched the houses of the authorities and their henchmen, as they chanted, “Down with Asilo!” Asilo could not stand the unrelenting mounting pressure. He fled the village.

THE U-TURN

[Published in the Malawi News of 28 May 2011]

Mrs. Mauro, popularly known as Sister Hannah in religious circles, paced the room as she prayed fervently, anguish eating her heart.

She sweated profusely and could not establish whether it was because of the sizzling sun that Saturday afternoon along that lake-shore locality or if it was because of her pacing. However, one thing certain was that she had to prove that the God she believed, cared and worked wonders.

Sister Hannah’s faith had stood unshaken even when her husband slipped, and toasted her back and forth. Mauro had tumbled when his daughter had died in a road accident. People failed to understand how the same Mauro who had encouraged others in times of difficulty could change to the devil he was because of mishap.

“Brother, all things work together for the good of those who love the Lord,” that was Mauro encouraging Mr. Lampiyawo whose wife was shot by armed robbers.

“Sister, God wants His children to praise Him in all things,” again that was Mauro religiously telling Mrs. Masikati during her husband’s funeral. Moreover, Mauro had vigorously encouraged numerous others in that manner. However, when the pain came to him, he bafflingly faltered. 

Mauro began by skipping church services and forced his wife to do the same, who resorted to start praying secretly. He declared that he could not stand anyone in his house worshiping the God who never cared by letting his only child die.  

Sister Hannah had tried to talk him out of it but failed. Things worsened. Mauro started to drink, and sleep outside his home. The same Mauro who would wallow with prayer now rolled with beer. He even started to beat her up, accusing her of bewitching his daughter. Nevertheless, Sister Hannah stood firm, feeling compelled to win her husband back to God.

However, this day she paced, her world had crumbled with finality. That afternoon Mauro had unexpectedly come home drunk and found her praying in the bedroom. To say Mauro was enraged would be an understatement; he was everything beyond that. He had furiously beat her up and told her to surrender the spare key to their bedroom. He later drugged her to the lake, in full view of everybody who minded to look, where he shouted. “If this God of yours really cares, I want this key when I come back. If not, I don’t want to find you in my house!” With that, Mauro threw the key into the water and stomped off.

Out of sympathy, many famed swimmers in the area had plunged into the water and searched for the key but to no avail.

Now the sun was fast setting finding Sister Hannah still pacing and praying with nothing happening. She finally gave up, gathered her effects, and went to her friend, Sister Masikati, at least to say goodbye.

When she arrived she found her friend preparing supper, a Chambo fish in hand. As she prepared her ordeal, Sister Hannah’s heart skipped a beat when a key fell to the ground from one of the Chambo. She shakily picked it up and could not believe her eyes to see it was the same key thrown into the lake. She could not miss that key, not with that red string she had attached to it. She jumped and shrieked to friend’s surprise, tears of joy running down her dimply cheeks. She rushed to her matrimony home, leaving her friend perplexed, to wait for her husband.

Mauro was stunned to find her in the house when he returned at midnight.

“So, you’re still here?” he spat angrily, getting ready for confrontation, fully convinced she could not have the key.

“Yes, because I’ve the key,” she said with determination.

“What? You think I’m in for some jokes?” he rudely asked.

“Here, you can verify it,” she said handing him the key and explained how she found it.

Mauro’s drunkenness melted as he received the key with trembling hands, disbelieving everything. He pinched himself to see if he was not dreaming; no, he was fully awake. He tried the key several times and it fitted precisely. He collapsed and started to cry, fear engulfing him. He called for his pastor the same night and made things right with God

THE EMAIL

[Published in the Weekend Nation of 1 May 2010]

CheNayi, a budding businessman, was a very happy man. He sat on a sofa listening to Friday mid-day jazz from one of the local radio stations, a picture frame enshrining his wedding photo of ten years ago, in his fleshy hands. He gleefully looked at the photo for the umpteenth time and stared again at his killing smile at twenty-one, the smile that had won him the hearts of many, including Anitra, his sweetheart.

However, that smile at twenty-one was not the reason he was that blissful, neither was it the equally charming smile of his wife at nineteen. The pleasant memories of the years he had stayed in marriage the picture brought were the reason. Why could he not when so many marriages had, and were crumbling. Are not the newspapers and the airwaves awash with divorce stories? Yes, things were that rotten, but his marriage had stood the test of time; it had remained firm through the thick and thin of things.

When he married, so many people never gave his marriage the slightest chance of survival, especially with his family being of two people from different backgrounds. People predicted doom. CheNayi came from a poor environment, while she was from a well to do family. He was a Yao and she was a Tumbuka. He was just out going and so talkative, while she was reserved and liked quite atmospheres. People christened their union ‘a crash of civilizations’.

Nonetheless, that was not the case with his mates: Andisen and CheThava. When the two married, people had predicted paradise. Nevertheless, theirs were marriages that either were dead or were damned with a hell of problems.

Andisen’s marriage was dead and buried within weeks of its inception, even though it had so much pomp and fanfare. As for CheThava’s marriage, though dubbed, as ‘they would live happily thereafter’ was the same one that had worn out the ankhoswe with quarrel and fights to the extent of the marriage counselors dumping it?

Therefore, with his marriage still standing solid not for a year or two but a whooping ten years, CheNayi had every reason to celebrate, and celebrate big for that matter.

He looked now at other pictures on the wall, enshrouding mainly his family of two children, the children his wife had taken, half an hour ago, to his sister for custody.

You see, during their tenth anniversary, they had planned to have no company. They had also arranged to commemorate it at the same place in Mangochi they had their honeymoon.

“I left you to pack, not that picture frame to detain you,” his wife interrupted him.

“Oh, you’re back?” he asked, looking at her fondly, “Despite walking in the hot sun you still look beautiful and sexy,” he said and watched her brush a little bit.  

“Please let’s pack. I don’t like you traveling at night,” she shyly said.

They had agreed that CheNayi would leave that day to sort one or two things, as she finished the day off at her workplace, and she would join him the following day. 

CheNayi arrived at the destination after two hours. The place was scotching hot. After checking in, he decided to communicate to his wife. He decided to use the internet, wanting to surprise her. During their honeymoon, the place had no such facilities. He wrote the message and unknowingly, misplaced a letter on her e-mail address, and sent it.

The e-mail found its way and landed in the mailbox of some well to do woman who at the time had just arrived home from the cemetery where they went to bury her husband. She decided to read her e-mails hoping to find condolences from relatives and friends, especially from abroad. After reading the first one, she cried aloud and collapsed dead. People rushed into the house and found her dead cold on the floor. Their eyes strayed to the computer screen, and saw the opened e-mail, which read:

My lovely wife, I arrived safely and I know you’ll be surprised to receive this; they have computers now. I found everything already arranged and I cannot wait for your arrival tomorrow. I even found some old friends here, and they look forward to seeing you. But it’s awfully hot down here.