Wait, we have a nation to build, rebuild.

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Let’s rebuild for this next generation.

Be afraid when the kwacha accelerates at a pace matching Usain Bolt’s. On the other hand, Nyasas are busy jesting over one prophet’s drollery.

A people have to be scared when the leaderships seems to have completely lost contact with reality on the ground, or to use the late Muckraker’s phrase; when  our governors seems to have ‘juggled priorities’.

Having limped out of a fortnight with an equal share of comedy, I write to give one more reason why as a nation we should be on our knees, perhaps we have already been knocked to the ground, economically.

It is very sad that at a time when international bodies are tiring trying to make our country a better place, it’s evident the inhabitants aren’t interested in any in-house cleansing activities, if radio phone inn programs and social media updates are to be the scaling measure.

The rate at which service delivery is pacing, leaves one wondering whether we are on autopilot or there’s indeed someone in control of this plane called Malawi.

One realises that we are lost when the entire Ministry of Health signs letters directing nursing graduates they can now go to their respective working posts, only to wake up a week later to say the government, of which the MoH is a branch of, does not have money to pay them.

What kind of stuff is being puffed by the people up there? Perhaps the legalisation of industrial hemp has come too early.

And the irony of recalling qualified nurses who could help reduce our 17:1000 patient to nurse ratio, while huge sums of money are spent on shoppers masquerading as state delegation on their spree to New York.

Our drama is unending especially when one learns that out of the 15 million plus Malawians, no one seems to be sure of how many people were on  the entourage that had escorted our leader.

Everyone has their own number, 15, 20, 111, or 115, it just depends on whose mouth is speaking, and which plate that mouth got its breakfast from, this is sickening too.

Our drama is far from ending, especially when one realises that we comfortably elected a bunch of fault finding mechanics to act as members of the opposition. A team that has specialised with pointing fingers at the governing party; “This is wrong”, “That is bad”, “The budget is bloated”. Solutions?  Vote for us come 2019, sigh! This free for all comic book will never be closed.

Someday, I wrote of a 26 year old young man who is rotting at Maula for stealing K200, 000 from his shop owner boss in Lumbadzi. The just judge slapped this filthy thief with a 14 year jail term, yes! Thieves have to be severely punished, that others learn that taking someone’s money without consent is a depravity.

But wait, it’s not always a perversion. What matters is the venue, who owns what you have stolen and what’s your name.

As the lad is decaying at Maula, lighter sentences, or let’s just say freedom is being served to those rightly positioned. Our trust is busted when justice is raped, violently and mercilessly ravished by those entrusted with the wig.

All around us we are in thick darkness. As citizens, we have nowhere to run.

But as noted by Swiss-French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau in ‘The Social Contract’; as soon as any man says of the affairs of the state, “what does it matter to me?” the state may be given up for lost.

Whether blue, green, orange, yellow or whatever colour one dons, it’s time to prioritise Malawi.

I might not have been there during the 80’s. But am informed of how common people used to enjoy the luxury of double deck buses, which today are reserved for the high class. Sad!

We are all in a moving train called Malawi, but no one minds that our caravan is moving backwards. It’s time we accepted that we have one Malawi, we have one leader, at least for now.

Even if no one will be “proudly Malawian”, they won’t cease from being a Nyasa. For if this 51 year old ship sinks, we all drown together.

50 plus years after breaking away from those we agreed were our oppressors, it’s time we rebuilt this house.

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For a Nachisale, the timeless fruit tree

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In frustration I contemplate shutting my laptop. Switching off lights.  Forget that my blog needs an entry for this day. Not before I crave to respond to a few Whatsapp texts.

Then something pops up. Besides Lucius Banda’s ‘Mayi Zembani’ playing in the background, I remember one incident I still cherish to this day.

On the day I was sent to buy some tomatoes at the market near our home. 10 kilometres away, we still said it was near, there was no other anyway.pon my return, the bicycle I used, the only precious item that our family owned developed a fault.

“I always say that this boy rides the bike carelessly as if he’s on some automotive” shouted my father.

A quite boy I was then, I couldn’t comprehend how the bicycle I had used to and from the market would choose to betray me and crumble just after arriving.

“But father, it’s true that am the one who just used the bike. But I didn’t notice any fault” it was an appeal in my own defence.

In vain I strived to buy my father’s belief that I did not cause the said damage to the family’s most valued possession.

All along mum had been quiet. She’s not the type that intervenes when dad talks to boys.  This time she surprised all of us.

“If you asked Sam and he said that he doesn’t know of the fault, believe him. If he had noticed it he would admit.” she spoke her truth, jumping to my defence.

A few minutes later, my young brother Shadreck comes enters the home as we are still talking of the bicycle damage.

Without even asking of what is being talked about he makes what would turn out to be a confession.

“When I took the bicycle yesterday, the bell was not working very well. After many attempts to repair it, I realised that I touched the line connecting to the breaks so they couldn’t work properly.” He said.

Mouth agape my father looked at mum.

One of the stories that I will live to remember about my mother, a Nachisale.

On this day I write this piece in English. A language she can’t read. But why I am I writing?

Because when I was in primary school she would say to me and my 3 school going siblings; “You must work hard at school so that you should get good jobs and speak good English”

Now I can speak English, not good English though. Of the job, I might get one after school.

Today, 15th October 2015 I write this for a Nachisale. The tree which gives fruits even in the driest of seasons.

A woman who told me that inside me there’s greatness. A lady who never went past standard 5, but encouraged me to get a college education.

To a Nachisale and a million other angels out there I say; No matter the struggle that we face, the class battle that we face, someday you shall reap the fruits of your labour.

For a starter, you have this piece written in English as you always dreamt; having a son who could write in the Queen’s language.

Happy Mother’s day to you all!

Starving. Serving. Saving.

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Even in his weirdest dreams, never did it come that such misery would accompany the white raiment. In his early days the ‘angels’ uniform symbolised glory, not only the praises he would gain from the society, his pockets would also benefit.

That was then, before reality had sunk into him.  The last time he questioned his Clinic supervisor why he had gone four months without pay, the usual answer followed: “There is no funding at the District Commissioner’s office, you should wait for the new budget.”

He is a civil slave anyway, a maid of the common people. As he awaits the new budget the hospital still has two nurses to cater for a population of 30,000. He is a faithful slave, he will still wait for the new budget while conducting an average of 40 to 50 deliveries per week. After all it’s his profession, a wet dream he had always nursed.

‘Heavy’ women will come to him seeking advice on nutrition and he expertly instructs them on how to prepare meat products; the same meat he hasn’t had for 3 months because the people’s government is not honouring its part of the deal.

The last time I pitied him in a calm and tired voice he responded, “Ndiye dziko lathuli limenelo.”  His voice, drained of all energy, did not just address me. It questioned society. In mockery. In sadness. He expressed how the colourful thoughts he harboured had been forced into oblivion by those supposed to support them; the government.

As our conversation was drawing to the end, the midday news bulletin signature signalled, at last it was time to hear progress of the country’s ongoing cash plunder scandal which almost everyone was tired of the state’s snail-paced prosecution of suspects.

“The Lilongwe magistrates court has ordered the state to return money and assets belonging to one of the Cashgate suspects who has been discharged from charges of money laundering and unlawful possession of foreign currency…He was arrested last year after being found with K3 million in the boot of a car at Capitol Hill and $25,400 at his house. The court has decided to acquit the suspect following the State’s unwillingness to prosecute him.”

Sigh! Millions gone, without trace; the way dew evaporates.

Meanwhile posh cars congest our tattered and bruised roads; mansions mushroom in weeks and the deluxe of overseas holidays is being enjoyed by those strategically positioned. As for pals who dreamt of walking majestically in hospital corridors while putting on a white coat, our mentors who aspired to hold chalk in their hands and rub the dust off our ignorant minds, they are truly living their dreams or nightmares. For, what is a dream without a reward?