The bitterness within me
Is magnified because you deny that your needs I can satisfy
Yet deep down my heart
I know for a fact
That you are the only one
Who can make me a man
By
Hastings Tadala Tembo
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
HARDSON,JUST ANOTHER POET?
By
Dave Mankhokwe Namusanya
SINCE that hour and day I talked to him, my personal perception, of not only life and poetry, but also him as a person has been greatly altered. It has changed completely. Greatly reconstructed.
His name is Hardson Chamasowa Davie, he claims, nothing more nor less. He celebrates his birthdays every 21st day of the second month of the year since 1987 AD when he was delivered into this world at some village in Balaka, T/A Kalembo’s area, known as Zalengera.
Possibly, he is a man who has seen a lot in life having started his primary school at Binoni primary in Balaka where he did standards 1 up to 6 before proceeding to Naisi primary in Blantyre where he did the remaining two classes. From there, he was selected to Mtendere Secondary school in Dedza where after a successful completion of the secondary education he was matriculated into the Bachelor of Arts program at the Chancellor College of the University of Malawi.
But, he is not only a student. He also is, little known, an actor, and, very known, a poet who delights in vernacular poetry. One can argue, he is following the footsteps of the University registrar, Benedicto Wokomaatani Malunga; but he himself says no. ‘I look at Nyamalikiti Nthiwatiwa (Chisomo Mdalla) as my role model, I admire his poetry,’ he reveals.
His poetry is multi-faced. It tears and pricks on various topics and comes in varying styles and ways. Sometimes, it is outright humorous while in other cases it is controversial and worse still, downright obscene until it is censored as it happened with the poem that can be said to have brought him into the limelight, Telala.
The expression on his face changes when asked about the poem that was once banned from being broadcast for its content before it was edited. He seems to smile but once he starts speaking on the poem, the smile dissolves:
‘I hate the poem myself,’ he says regretting, ‘it isn’t universal. Parents cannot listen to it together with their children, it sounds obscene.’
Then, almost as a contradiction, he announces:
‘But I’ve incorporated it in my album entitled Ku Smongolia. People have pressurized me to do so for they seem to be deep in love with the ironic poem; and then, what could I do to please my fans? I write for them.’
And, the fans will not only be entertained by Telala and Ku Smongolia for his poetry album, currently the first to be done by a Chanco student, has a whole eighteen full poems. All those eighteen are meant for entertainment and education. It is an album for each and every individual, he narrates.
‘And my aim for making it is to reach to those who cannot access the poems through the radios (especially Joy fm),’ he concludes on the poetry album.
Listening to his narration, one might be tempted to think all is rosy for him as a vernacular poet and a person but he asserts that it is not when confronted with the question. All the vernacular poets have got one outlet to release their poetry; that coupled with the lack of the majority’s interests in vernacular poetry are major problems and also, if you think it a problem, his being without a lover both on campus and at home for the mere reason that the girl he loved, wished and desired to have betrayed him.
How? one wonders but he does not respond. Instead, he develops a smile: a broad, deep and genuine smile. It is not just a smile of an actor or a poet but a writer also and a parrarel student whose hardest times are when he is at school as there is nobody to financially support him in one way or the other, a fact that many are not aware of. The smile that is mostly on his face beguiles all his financial woes.
Dave Mankhokwe Namusanya
SINCE that hour and day I talked to him, my personal perception, of not only life and poetry, but also him as a person has been greatly altered. It has changed completely. Greatly reconstructed.
His name is Hardson Chamasowa Davie, he claims, nothing more nor less. He celebrates his birthdays every 21st day of the second month of the year since 1987 AD when he was delivered into this world at some village in Balaka, T/A Kalembo’s area, known as Zalengera.
Possibly, he is a man who has seen a lot in life having started his primary school at Binoni primary in Balaka where he did standards 1 up to 6 before proceeding to Naisi primary in Blantyre where he did the remaining two classes. From there, he was selected to Mtendere Secondary school in Dedza where after a successful completion of the secondary education he was matriculated into the Bachelor of Arts program at the Chancellor College of the University of Malawi.
But, he is not only a student. He also is, little known, an actor, and, very known, a poet who delights in vernacular poetry. One can argue, he is following the footsteps of the University registrar, Benedicto Wokomaatani Malunga; but he himself says no. ‘I look at Nyamalikiti Nthiwatiwa (Chisomo Mdalla) as my role model, I admire his poetry,’ he reveals.
His poetry is multi-faced. It tears and pricks on various topics and comes in varying styles and ways. Sometimes, it is outright humorous while in other cases it is controversial and worse still, downright obscene until it is censored as it happened with the poem that can be said to have brought him into the limelight, Telala.
The expression on his face changes when asked about the poem that was once banned from being broadcast for its content before it was edited. He seems to smile but once he starts speaking on the poem, the smile dissolves:
‘I hate the poem myself,’ he says regretting, ‘it isn’t universal. Parents cannot listen to it together with their children, it sounds obscene.’
Then, almost as a contradiction, he announces:
‘But I’ve incorporated it in my album entitled Ku Smongolia. People have pressurized me to do so for they seem to be deep in love with the ironic poem; and then, what could I do to please my fans? I write for them.’
And, the fans will not only be entertained by Telala and Ku Smongolia for his poetry album, currently the first to be done by a Chanco student, has a whole eighteen full poems. All those eighteen are meant for entertainment and education. It is an album for each and every individual, he narrates.
‘And my aim for making it is to reach to those who cannot access the poems through the radios (especially Joy fm),’ he concludes on the poetry album.
Listening to his narration, one might be tempted to think all is rosy for him as a vernacular poet and a person but he asserts that it is not when confronted with the question. All the vernacular poets have got one outlet to release their poetry; that coupled with the lack of the majority’s interests in vernacular poetry are major problems and also, if you think it a problem, his being without a lover both on campus and at home for the mere reason that the girl he loved, wished and desired to have betrayed him.
How? one wonders but he does not respond. Instead, he develops a smile: a broad, deep and genuine smile. It is not just a smile of an actor or a poet but a writer also and a parrarel student whose hardest times are when he is at school as there is nobody to financially support him in one way or the other, a fact that many are not aware of. The smile that is mostly on his face beguiles all his financial woes.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
SATURDAY'S PROGRAMME
0830-0835: Welcoming remarks
0835-0850: Introductions
0850-0900: Reading of the Short story to be discussed
0900-1000: Short story discussion
1000-1100: Discussion(Culture and the Women's burden: Are Female writers being
oppressed?)
1100-1300: Lunch break
1300-1445: Recitals and Readings
1445-1500: Closing Remarks
0835-0850: Introductions
0850-0900: Reading of the Short story to be discussed
0900-1000: Short story discussion
1000-1100: Discussion(Culture and the Women's burden: Are Female writers being
oppressed?)
1100-1300: Lunch break
1300-1445: Recitals and Readings
1445-1500: Closing Remarks
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
THE WRITERS' WORKSHOP AT THE BOOK FAIR
BY
Dave Mankhokwe Namusanya
LIKE a melting pot, all were pooled together, writes Hastings Tadala Tembo in the poem that the Writers’ Workshop composed with students of Police Secondary School the time the two groups met at Police Secondary School. He poetically and briefly reveals how writers congregated that Saturday morning – both young and old writers. He paints a picture not only of the gathering at Mulunguzi Secondary School but also the one at the Polytechnic in the Audio Visual Room.
That was a Saturday; the 31st day of the month of October and the year was 2009. There was a Pamphala series or to make our English teachers happy, it was a Writers’ Workshop. A Writers’ Workshop like the one that frequents Room B at Chancellor College when school is in session. This was during the book fair organized by the Book Publishers Association of Malawi that ran from the 28th day of the month of October to the first day of the month of November.
The Writers’ Workshop had been invited to attend on this Saturday…
IN THE AUDIO VISUAL ROOM
The Workshop was slated for 1000 hours and it was meant to be chaired by Chachacha Munthali and the Writers’ Workshop chair (who happens to be the author of this article). The Workshop crew (and some second year students from Chancellor College doing Media for development) arrived at some minutes after ten and almost filled the room.
Alfred, instead of Chachacha, was the one in front. Later, he announced that Chachacha was on his way coming. ‘He is just finishing up some things,’ he said. And without wasting any time, the session began with a prayer, calling on the supernatural powers that be.
Then after that, it was some few recitals. Hastings Tadala Tembo, Hardson Chamasowa and Alfred Msadala recited a piece each just to set the ball rolling before a debate was proposed. A debate on whether the allegation that writing has died was really true. Various thoughts and various people found themselves being poured in the debate.
Indeed, like a melting pot they really were all pooled together for brainstorming as some argued that it was all a lie, a fable, a myth, a fable to claim that writing is really dead while others propagated that the claim is really true, of course – they went on – but not as it is propagated by some corners. And, somewhere in the meeting Tadala made a claim that made Alfred pluck a title of one of his entries of the Sunday times literary talk column (see the Sunday times of 8 November 2009). He alleged that writing thrives where voices are stifled (during oppression), an example was Pablo Neruda. Yes. Tadala reads Neruda.
At almost exactly twelve, the session was also dissolved with a prayer. Chiku Ndaferankhande, Temwani Mgunda, Constantine Simwaka, Charles Mpaka et al. flooded out of the room having had speculated what really has brought about the death of writing or the claim, whichever thought you possess.
AT THE TRADE FAIR GROUNDS
In the afternoon, which is from two o’clock, the crew was at the trade fair grounds where there was the actual book fair. It was a Malawi PEN afternoon or so, it was warned. The afternoon kicked off with some a recital and a reading before a prize giving ceremony to winners of a Secondary school writing competition that was organized by the Malawi chapter of the international PEN.
A boy from Luchenza Community Day Secondary School emerged the winner with some romantic piece. Strangely, the winners were from the southern region only. As to why that, we were never told. Perhaps Alfred will explain one of these days. And another surprise, there was no any other journalist from the publishing houses or anybody masquerading as them, it just was a gathering of writers, publishers, artists and some Media for Development students from Chancellor College – nothing more, no media probably.
Then, after the awards Mr. Msadala introduced the Writers’ Workshop crew which had come in unannounced before revealing that in that midst was a vernacular poet, Hardson Chamasowa, who was more than prepared to recite a poem, a dirty piece, Msadala called it, for being overused – a poem that has become synonymous with Chamasowa: Zochitika ku Simongoliya.
He started, not like a tremor, and progressed. It did not attract laughters at first but in no time it did what it was essentially meant to do – fascinating people. Small drops of tears could be seen escaping from the arrest of some ladies’ eyes due to laughter (or fascination?). And after that the Malawi PEN afternoon was declared over, books could now be seen and purchased at the fair, publishers could meet writers and etcetera.
Then, somewhere in the group Professor Emeritus Steve Bernard Miles Chimombo was seen. I, later followed by Tadala traversed over to where he was and that…is another episode to be written one of these coming days – not now. The minutes (that were unrecorded) of that meeting have to be digested first before being churned to the public. Currently, they are being digested for the very last time: all the Ndondocha naming, WASI magazine absence and stuff !!!!!
Dave Mankhokwe Namusanya
LIKE a melting pot, all were pooled together, writes Hastings Tadala Tembo in the poem that the Writers’ Workshop composed with students of Police Secondary School the time the two groups met at Police Secondary School. He poetically and briefly reveals how writers congregated that Saturday morning – both young and old writers. He paints a picture not only of the gathering at Mulunguzi Secondary School but also the one at the Polytechnic in the Audio Visual Room.
That was a Saturday; the 31st day of the month of October and the year was 2009. There was a Pamphala series or to make our English teachers happy, it was a Writers’ Workshop. A Writers’ Workshop like the one that frequents Room B at Chancellor College when school is in session. This was during the book fair organized by the Book Publishers Association of Malawi that ran from the 28th day of the month of October to the first day of the month of November.
The Writers’ Workshop had been invited to attend on this Saturday…
IN THE AUDIO VISUAL ROOM
The Workshop was slated for 1000 hours and it was meant to be chaired by Chachacha Munthali and the Writers’ Workshop chair (who happens to be the author of this article). The Workshop crew (and some second year students from Chancellor College doing Media for development) arrived at some minutes after ten and almost filled the room.
Alfred, instead of Chachacha, was the one in front. Later, he announced that Chachacha was on his way coming. ‘He is just finishing up some things,’ he said. And without wasting any time, the session began with a prayer, calling on the supernatural powers that be.
Then after that, it was some few recitals. Hastings Tadala Tembo, Hardson Chamasowa and Alfred Msadala recited a piece each just to set the ball rolling before a debate was proposed. A debate on whether the allegation that writing has died was really true. Various thoughts and various people found themselves being poured in the debate.
Indeed, like a melting pot they really were all pooled together for brainstorming as some argued that it was all a lie, a fable, a myth, a fable to claim that writing is really dead while others propagated that the claim is really true, of course – they went on – but not as it is propagated by some corners. And, somewhere in the meeting Tadala made a claim that made Alfred pluck a title of one of his entries of the Sunday times literary talk column (see the Sunday times of 8 November 2009). He alleged that writing thrives where voices are stifled (during oppression), an example was Pablo Neruda. Yes. Tadala reads Neruda.
At almost exactly twelve, the session was also dissolved with a prayer. Chiku Ndaferankhande, Temwani Mgunda, Constantine Simwaka, Charles Mpaka et al. flooded out of the room having had speculated what really has brought about the death of writing or the claim, whichever thought you possess.
AT THE TRADE FAIR GROUNDS
In the afternoon, which is from two o’clock, the crew was at the trade fair grounds where there was the actual book fair. It was a Malawi PEN afternoon or so, it was warned. The afternoon kicked off with some a recital and a reading before a prize giving ceremony to winners of a Secondary school writing competition that was organized by the Malawi chapter of the international PEN.
A boy from Luchenza Community Day Secondary School emerged the winner with some romantic piece. Strangely, the winners were from the southern region only. As to why that, we were never told. Perhaps Alfred will explain one of these days. And another surprise, there was no any other journalist from the publishing houses or anybody masquerading as them, it just was a gathering of writers, publishers, artists and some Media for Development students from Chancellor College – nothing more, no media probably.
Then, after the awards Mr. Msadala introduced the Writers’ Workshop crew which had come in unannounced before revealing that in that midst was a vernacular poet, Hardson Chamasowa, who was more than prepared to recite a poem, a dirty piece, Msadala called it, for being overused – a poem that has become synonymous with Chamasowa: Zochitika ku Simongoliya.
He started, not like a tremor, and progressed. It did not attract laughters at first but in no time it did what it was essentially meant to do – fascinating people. Small drops of tears could be seen escaping from the arrest of some ladies’ eyes due to laughter (or fascination?). And after that the Malawi PEN afternoon was declared over, books could now be seen and purchased at the fair, publishers could meet writers and etcetera.
Then, somewhere in the group Professor Emeritus Steve Bernard Miles Chimombo was seen. I, later followed by Tadala traversed over to where he was and that…is another episode to be written one of these coming days – not now. The minutes (that were unrecorded) of that meeting have to be digested first before being churned to the public. Currently, they are being digested for the very last time: all the Ndondocha naming, WASI magazine absence and stuff !!!!!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Short Story for Saturday,21st November 2009 at a MZUNI-Chanco literary get-together
CHIPAMBANJETE
The whispers went round the village – the old chipambanjete is too weak to perform his function on the new girl initiates this year – age has taken its toll on him.
According to some, the old chipambanjete himself had confessed his lamp had run low of the oil of custom. In such a case, custom demanded that a new chipambanjete be identified in time to perform his duty on the little girl initiates camping at the river.
Those acquainted with the heart of custom whispered Sakwata, a handsome young man of about twenty, will be the next chipambanjete. This talk was from the debris of rumour itself, scanty rumour supplied by the invisible yet often effective rumour mill itself. No one said it with absolute familiarity because no one, save the village high priest, can speak on such an issue with qualified finality because it is the preserve of the village high priest to appoint a chipambanjete and consequently make relevant pronouncements on the same. Of course, all chipambanjetes spring from the same family clan of the Chipambanjete.
Sakwata, the man many believed would make the next ideal chipambanjete, was well built, with a yellowish skin like that of Bwana Yanakis, the Greek wholesale owner at the trading centre. Many girls including those women already committed, wished they had married him – he would give a good breed. They whispered amongst themselves, however, that such a thing could never occur – all male children from the Chipambanjete clan never marry. They are born and bred for that noble duty entrusted on them by the custom of the land from time immemorial and the job hinges on offering the new girl initiates the practical side of the many things taught them at the river by women traditional instructors, anankungwi. If by some sheer bad luck a chipambanjete plants his life in any of the girl initiates, the child is reared in the Chipambanjete compound though the chipambanjete himself will never marry that mother. In fact that’s how the chipambanjete seed multiplies itself.
Those women who were brought into adulthood by the old chipambanjete confessed they had given in because custom dictated it on them, otherwise the old chipambanjete’s gorilla gait always left them hating themselves and what with his awkward grips and smell during the purge. Some hated his awkward symmetry. And so they couldn’t suffer their children being introduced into adulthood by that same old chipambanjete.
Chipambanjete is a spirit, at least that’s what custom tells everyone to believe. You see him, talk with him and drink with him during the day but tradition never allows you to associate him with the duty he performs on the girl initiates at night during the initiation ceremony for girls. It could well be that the woman you married was brought up by a chipambanjete, but custom forces it on you to believe that she was never touched by a real human being but a mere spirit of growth, the spirit that preserves the fertility of the custom.
The rumour that the old chipambanjete had lost his steam came at a time the girl initiates were looking forward to the ritual. In fact, they had been at the river for three weeks now. That non-stop rumbling of the small drum meant that it wouldn’t be long before the final ritual, the most important part in the stages into adulthood, was conducted. That ritual tested and endorsed them into the category of adults. In the next two weeks therefore, an arrangement would be made so that chipambanjete would spend his time with each one of them and depending on the outcome, give his verdict to the nankungwi, the chief instructor at the river. However, none was sure over who exactly would play chipambanjete on the girl initiates that year since many whispered the old chipambanjete had now lost his canines and that he would no longer ‘tear’. Many felt with him – he had played the animal for over two decades now. It was understandable that he would now completely lose his strength and therefore his saltiness. After all, the chipambanjete was a human being despite the customary office. They also felt with the new girl initiates – they too needed a strong chipambanjete, otherwise how would they recall the experience?
Chipambanjete, it literally means ‘one who tastes for saltiness’, is an old time tradition. It is as old as the village itself. It never comes on a person by luck – it is a privilege of the Chipambanjete lineage, a special clan appointed by the forefathers after lengthy consultations with the spirits. When an old chipambanjete loses his energy, a new one is identified by the village high priest. The village high priest never brings the news directly to a chipambanjete identified, but always goes through a well set out channel – the chief and his elders.
Although the people seemed to have smoked out the person next of the ascension to the office of chipambanjete, everybody tried to keep the rumour to themselves and the wind – it’s inviting the wraths of the spirit making an announcement before pronouncements from the high priest who always receives such revelations from the oracle of the hills.
That chilly evening, Sakwata who many believed would preside over the office of chipambanjete, sensed some bad air around him in the compound. All the family members had disappeared all at once and only he and his brother, the old chipambanjete, walked about there. Sakwata, he knew that his old brother was playing the village chipambanjete, decided to ask him why all the family members had chosen to be away at all at once.
“The village chief and his elders will be in the home anytime for an important ritual,” the old chipambanjete said.
When he entered the sitting room of the family house, he discovered that five chiwale chairs had already been set round a chiwale table on which was a kerosene lamp carrying a dancing flame. Sakwata knew that the arrangement must have been going on for some time.
Then the village chief and his elders arrived.
“We have come to formalise the handover of the obligations,” the chief said, opening the meeting. “This is in line with the obligations of the custom on your duty as children of the Chipambanjete clan.”
The two elders who had accompanied the chief, looking the chief with an admiring stare, nodded in agreement all this while.
“Let me first of all thank the outgoing chipambanjete for playing the hyena role so well. No one, literally, no one ever came to us to complain of being left unsatisfied by you old hyena.” He looked at the hyena with that eye of genuine thankfulness.
The two elders clapped hands.
“I now ask you old hyena to handover the ceremonial wreath to the new hyena.”
Old chipambanjete stood, bowed before the chief and then sat himself again. He then dragged his sisal sack to himself, sank his hand into it. Sakwata never knew what that sisal sack always contained. The chipambanjete always kept it under lock and key in his bedroom.
The old chipambanjete’s hand came out clutching a wreath made from what seemed like a lion’s mane. He looked at the chief as if asking what step he had to take next at which one of the two elders came in: “Give it him.” The elder was pointing at Sakwata.
The old chipambanjete stretched his hand, giving the new man the wreath. Sakwata hesitated.
“Take it,” the chief said after reading the hesitation.
The new chipambanjete stretched his right hand, reluctantly though.
“No, both hands,” the other of the two elders said.
The new chipambanjete obeyed. He now used both hands to receive the wreath. His hands were trembling.
The chief and the two elders now went into a frenzy of incantations. They asked the spirits to give the new chipambanjete the energy needed to manage in this difficult job of directing the new girl initiates into the path of adulthood. They prayed for him to live longer so as to perform the traditional job without which the spirits could unleash on them all the plagues under the sun.
All this while, the new chipambanjete felt some power resting heavy on him. He held the wreath more tightly, fearing it would fall off. He thought he had seen the chief transforming into something before wearing his human form again.
Then the incantations died down. The chief then produced a small coin, closed his eyes and threw it carelessly. He then took the kerosene lamp to check something. It had landed heads!
They all clapped hands – he was a strong chipambanjete. Even his brother the old chipambanjete looked at him, mouth open. He remembered that on the night he was being accepted into the office of chipambanjete, the coin had landed tail, symbolising he wasn’t as strong or that he was chosen for lack of first nail.
The chief placed back the lamp on the table and looked the young scared man in the eye. “When you feel like weak, never hesitate to ask the elders to give you roots and leaves that add strength,” he offered the young man the practical words of advice.
“And what do I do with the wreath, chief?”
“You take it back to my bedroom,” his brother jumped in. “It is no longer mine. It is yours from today onwards.”
“That’s where all the job will be done,” the chief added. “Women elders will be bringing you the candidates for the job. They’ll bring them through that back door. Please, don’t disappoint us,” the chief said before losing himself into a guffaw.
“So that outer door is for this purpose?” Sakwata thought.
A few hours after the chief had left, the other members of the family returned. For the first time during meals, the old chipambanjete ate together with the rest of the family members on the verandah. When the new chipambanjete came to ask for his share at the verandah, they referred him to his room. This is what they used to do to his brother, now-retired chipambanjete.
That night he would sleep alone in his new room, the room that used to be his elder brother’s. His elder brother had asked him for word before he would have his first sleep in that new room.
“You’re now the chipambanjete,” his brother came straight. “They will start bringing them in tomorrow,” he told him. “Always leave the back door open during the night. You will find the job satisfying. Every male in the village will admire you.”
The new chipambanjete never responded.
In his new room, helped by the dim light emanating from his kerosene lamp, the new chipambanjete observed with curiosity its interior makeup. There were two beds in there. He wondered why his brother was keeping two beds when their elder sister was sleeping on a reed mat on a cold floor. The other bed must be for this dirty job, he thought.
On a stool a hand away from his bed were two half filled bottles. On closer look, he noticed that small roots floated in them. He opened one bottle and placed its mouth against his nostrils. He recognised the smell – gondolosi, a traditional root said to increase energy in the bedroom.
He felt ashamed that this would now be his job – sleeping with small girls, indoctrinated towards the path of destruction in the name of preserving custom. He wondered why no one, not even the village school teacher, was opening their mouths to question even where it was obvious tradition was losing grip of sanity. His other concern was that this was a closely guarded custom, and would not make sense to any outside.
That chilly night, he rose with the first cock crow, going somewhere. He passed by the chief’s house and dropped the sisal sack even on the chief’s verandah. After that he followed darkness, taking the direction of the city. He had refused to be party to the mad tradition.
Meanwhile the whole village went mad with the new chipambanjete’s action. For the first time, the high priest himself was seen walking about naked, wailing for the tradition in broad daylight. Many said the new chipambanjete would either die within three days or go off his senses.
Today Sakwata works as a watchman on an Asian verandah. His boss calls him boyi nyamata though he knows Sakwata is almost fifty. He doesn’t remember when last he visited the village, the time they chased and disowned him for undressing the custom. But he heard that the chipambanjete who had replaced him died shortly after assuming the seat and even the one after him and so on. He also heard that the village keeps losing her girls and the explanation is: the spirits are angry.
The whispers went round the village – the old chipambanjete is too weak to perform his function on the new girl initiates this year – age has taken its toll on him.
According to some, the old chipambanjete himself had confessed his lamp had run low of the oil of custom. In such a case, custom demanded that a new chipambanjete be identified in time to perform his duty on the little girl initiates camping at the river.
Those acquainted with the heart of custom whispered Sakwata, a handsome young man of about twenty, will be the next chipambanjete. This talk was from the debris of rumour itself, scanty rumour supplied by the invisible yet often effective rumour mill itself. No one said it with absolute familiarity because no one, save the village high priest, can speak on such an issue with qualified finality because it is the preserve of the village high priest to appoint a chipambanjete and consequently make relevant pronouncements on the same. Of course, all chipambanjetes spring from the same family clan of the Chipambanjete.
Sakwata, the man many believed would make the next ideal chipambanjete, was well built, with a yellowish skin like that of Bwana Yanakis, the Greek wholesale owner at the trading centre. Many girls including those women already committed, wished they had married him – he would give a good breed. They whispered amongst themselves, however, that such a thing could never occur – all male children from the Chipambanjete clan never marry. They are born and bred for that noble duty entrusted on them by the custom of the land from time immemorial and the job hinges on offering the new girl initiates the practical side of the many things taught them at the river by women traditional instructors, anankungwi. If by some sheer bad luck a chipambanjete plants his life in any of the girl initiates, the child is reared in the Chipambanjete compound though the chipambanjete himself will never marry that mother. In fact that’s how the chipambanjete seed multiplies itself.
Those women who were brought into adulthood by the old chipambanjete confessed they had given in because custom dictated it on them, otherwise the old chipambanjete’s gorilla gait always left them hating themselves and what with his awkward grips and smell during the purge. Some hated his awkward symmetry. And so they couldn’t suffer their children being introduced into adulthood by that same old chipambanjete.
Chipambanjete is a spirit, at least that’s what custom tells everyone to believe. You see him, talk with him and drink with him during the day but tradition never allows you to associate him with the duty he performs on the girl initiates at night during the initiation ceremony for girls. It could well be that the woman you married was brought up by a chipambanjete, but custom forces it on you to believe that she was never touched by a real human being but a mere spirit of growth, the spirit that preserves the fertility of the custom.
The rumour that the old chipambanjete had lost his steam came at a time the girl initiates were looking forward to the ritual. In fact, they had been at the river for three weeks now. That non-stop rumbling of the small drum meant that it wouldn’t be long before the final ritual, the most important part in the stages into adulthood, was conducted. That ritual tested and endorsed them into the category of adults. In the next two weeks therefore, an arrangement would be made so that chipambanjete would spend his time with each one of them and depending on the outcome, give his verdict to the nankungwi, the chief instructor at the river. However, none was sure over who exactly would play chipambanjete on the girl initiates that year since many whispered the old chipambanjete had now lost his canines and that he would no longer ‘tear’. Many felt with him – he had played the animal for over two decades now. It was understandable that he would now completely lose his strength and therefore his saltiness. After all, the chipambanjete was a human being despite the customary office. They also felt with the new girl initiates – they too needed a strong chipambanjete, otherwise how would they recall the experience?
Chipambanjete, it literally means ‘one who tastes for saltiness’, is an old time tradition. It is as old as the village itself. It never comes on a person by luck – it is a privilege of the Chipambanjete lineage, a special clan appointed by the forefathers after lengthy consultations with the spirits. When an old chipambanjete loses his energy, a new one is identified by the village high priest. The village high priest never brings the news directly to a chipambanjete identified, but always goes through a well set out channel – the chief and his elders.
Although the people seemed to have smoked out the person next of the ascension to the office of chipambanjete, everybody tried to keep the rumour to themselves and the wind – it’s inviting the wraths of the spirit making an announcement before pronouncements from the high priest who always receives such revelations from the oracle of the hills.
That chilly evening, Sakwata who many believed would preside over the office of chipambanjete, sensed some bad air around him in the compound. All the family members had disappeared all at once and only he and his brother, the old chipambanjete, walked about there. Sakwata, he knew that his old brother was playing the village chipambanjete, decided to ask him why all the family members had chosen to be away at all at once.
“The village chief and his elders will be in the home anytime for an important ritual,” the old chipambanjete said.
When he entered the sitting room of the family house, he discovered that five chiwale chairs had already been set round a chiwale table on which was a kerosene lamp carrying a dancing flame. Sakwata knew that the arrangement must have been going on for some time.
Then the village chief and his elders arrived.
“We have come to formalise the handover of the obligations,” the chief said, opening the meeting. “This is in line with the obligations of the custom on your duty as children of the Chipambanjete clan.”
The two elders who had accompanied the chief, looking the chief with an admiring stare, nodded in agreement all this while.
“Let me first of all thank the outgoing chipambanjete for playing the hyena role so well. No one, literally, no one ever came to us to complain of being left unsatisfied by you old hyena.” He looked at the hyena with that eye of genuine thankfulness.
The two elders clapped hands.
“I now ask you old hyena to handover the ceremonial wreath to the new hyena.”
Old chipambanjete stood, bowed before the chief and then sat himself again. He then dragged his sisal sack to himself, sank his hand into it. Sakwata never knew what that sisal sack always contained. The chipambanjete always kept it under lock and key in his bedroom.
The old chipambanjete’s hand came out clutching a wreath made from what seemed like a lion’s mane. He looked at the chief as if asking what step he had to take next at which one of the two elders came in: “Give it him.” The elder was pointing at Sakwata.
The old chipambanjete stretched his hand, giving the new man the wreath. Sakwata hesitated.
“Take it,” the chief said after reading the hesitation.
The new chipambanjete stretched his right hand, reluctantly though.
“No, both hands,” the other of the two elders said.
The new chipambanjete obeyed. He now used both hands to receive the wreath. His hands were trembling.
The chief and the two elders now went into a frenzy of incantations. They asked the spirits to give the new chipambanjete the energy needed to manage in this difficult job of directing the new girl initiates into the path of adulthood. They prayed for him to live longer so as to perform the traditional job without which the spirits could unleash on them all the plagues under the sun.
All this while, the new chipambanjete felt some power resting heavy on him. He held the wreath more tightly, fearing it would fall off. He thought he had seen the chief transforming into something before wearing his human form again.
Then the incantations died down. The chief then produced a small coin, closed his eyes and threw it carelessly. He then took the kerosene lamp to check something. It had landed heads!
They all clapped hands – he was a strong chipambanjete. Even his brother the old chipambanjete looked at him, mouth open. He remembered that on the night he was being accepted into the office of chipambanjete, the coin had landed tail, symbolising he wasn’t as strong or that he was chosen for lack of first nail.
The chief placed back the lamp on the table and looked the young scared man in the eye. “When you feel like weak, never hesitate to ask the elders to give you roots and leaves that add strength,” he offered the young man the practical words of advice.
“And what do I do with the wreath, chief?”
“You take it back to my bedroom,” his brother jumped in. “It is no longer mine. It is yours from today onwards.”
“That’s where all the job will be done,” the chief added. “Women elders will be bringing you the candidates for the job. They’ll bring them through that back door. Please, don’t disappoint us,” the chief said before losing himself into a guffaw.
“So that outer door is for this purpose?” Sakwata thought.
A few hours after the chief had left, the other members of the family returned. For the first time during meals, the old chipambanjete ate together with the rest of the family members on the verandah. When the new chipambanjete came to ask for his share at the verandah, they referred him to his room. This is what they used to do to his brother, now-retired chipambanjete.
That night he would sleep alone in his new room, the room that used to be his elder brother’s. His elder brother had asked him for word before he would have his first sleep in that new room.
“You’re now the chipambanjete,” his brother came straight. “They will start bringing them in tomorrow,” he told him. “Always leave the back door open during the night. You will find the job satisfying. Every male in the village will admire you.”
The new chipambanjete never responded.
In his new room, helped by the dim light emanating from his kerosene lamp, the new chipambanjete observed with curiosity its interior makeup. There were two beds in there. He wondered why his brother was keeping two beds when their elder sister was sleeping on a reed mat on a cold floor. The other bed must be for this dirty job, he thought.
On a stool a hand away from his bed were two half filled bottles. On closer look, he noticed that small roots floated in them. He opened one bottle and placed its mouth against his nostrils. He recognised the smell – gondolosi, a traditional root said to increase energy in the bedroom.
He felt ashamed that this would now be his job – sleeping with small girls, indoctrinated towards the path of destruction in the name of preserving custom. He wondered why no one, not even the village school teacher, was opening their mouths to question even where it was obvious tradition was losing grip of sanity. His other concern was that this was a closely guarded custom, and would not make sense to any outside.
That chilly night, he rose with the first cock crow, going somewhere. He passed by the chief’s house and dropped the sisal sack even on the chief’s verandah. After that he followed darkness, taking the direction of the city. He had refused to be party to the mad tradition.
Meanwhile the whole village went mad with the new chipambanjete’s action. For the first time, the high priest himself was seen walking about naked, wailing for the tradition in broad daylight. Many said the new chipambanjete would either die within three days or go off his senses.
Today Sakwata works as a watchman on an Asian verandah. His boss calls him boyi nyamata though he knows Sakwata is almost fifty. He doesn’t remember when last he visited the village, the time they chased and disowned him for undressing the custom. But he heard that the chipambanjete who had replaced him died shortly after assuming the seat and even the one after him and so on. He also heard that the village keeps losing her girls and the explanation is: the spirits are angry.
Monday, November 2, 2009
CONFUSED
By
Innocent Chigeza Chipofya
Sweet how lives are at night
That all beggars own horses
Bitter how it becomes during the day
That our true-selves are revealed
I wish all nights were endless
That I could ride my horse anywhere
And to day return no more
Till forever my eyes I close
But, it’s just a dream
My life at night
And my hope during the day.
But, should I keep on hoping
Or long for my nightless dream?
Innocent Chigeza Chipofya
Sweet how lives are at night
That all beggars own horses
Bitter how it becomes during the day
That our true-selves are revealed
I wish all nights were endless
That I could ride my horse anywhere
And to day return no more
Till forever my eyes I close
But, it’s just a dream
My life at night
And my hope during the day.
But, should I keep on hoping
Or long for my nightless dream?
BECAUSE THE SCENE WON'T BE ACTED,THEN HISTORY MUST BE REPEATED
BY
Dave Mankhokwe Namusanya
DISTANCE is good. Distance is bad. Distance separates. Distance murders, distance kills – ruthlessly for that matter. And James Ngugi, or Ngugi wa Thiong’o as he may want us to claim, knowing the bad nature of distance authored a short story ‘The Return’ in which he laments the death of a romantic affair between Kamau (a boy) and Muthoni (a girl) because of distance.
And the whites, being intelligent like Eneke the bird – who has learnt to fly without perching since men have learnt to shoot without missing – in Chinua Achebe’s ‘Things Fall Apart’, devised ways to kill distance. They formulated ways to save the romantic lives of many. Internets, tele and cell phones are just some of the ways of manipulating distance on top of good transport like cars.
And to prove that no matter how cruel distance can be but it can still more be conquered, Mzuzu University Writers’ Forum is embarking on a journey. A long journey out of Mzuzu University, out of Mzuzu city, out of the Northern region – a long journey trekking towards the South, not the South in Ama Atta Aidoo’s ‘Certain Winds From The South’ that appears in the Short Story anthology, ‘Looking for a Rain God’. This is another kind of south, a South explored by Felix Mnthali in his short story ‘Fragments’ that appears in the collection, ‘The Unsung Song’, that was edited by Zondiwe Bruce Mbano, Max J. Iphani and Reuben Makayiko Chirambo.
The savants from Luwinga trek to the South, no! The East, for something. Something important. Something strong. Something beautiful. Something irresistible. Something that is a feast, a literary feast. A feast that will have nothing on its course but literature and writing only – creative writing to be a bit boastful.
They will be in the South – in Zomba – at Chancellor College to be specific, in Room B to be painfully specific on Saturday, the 21st day of the second to last month of the ‘twelve-monthed’ year, November of this year, 2009 Anno Dommini – AD.
If the Catholic University of Malawi Writers had not declared that it was not possible for the Chanco Writers’ Workshop to visit them, then it could have been said that the Mzuni (as Mzuzu University is tenderly called) scribes will be coming two weeks after the Workshop has been in Nguludi but since the CUNIMA Writers’ Grouping has said that it is not possible for them to be visited then no such claim will be uttered…
The then President (or rather Chairperson) of the CUNIMA Writers’ Grouping, Alfred Jabulani, broke the news last Thursday that it was not possible for the literary imbibers of Chirunga to visit them. Reason? The grouping has a new executive and as it is per (their) tradition, a new executive comes together with a new Patron and that makes it impossible for them to be visited since the executive will just be new and as of Thursday last week (the last Thursday of the Month of October 2009), they never had any Patron. Therefore, the much expected scene that was to be acted, the scene that was to start from Zomba to Nguludi will not be acted; perhaps ‘next time’ as they said. Really, there always is next time no matter how long it can take for it to exist.
But for now, the Chancellor College Writers’ enthusiasts must prepare for their colleagues from Mzuni so that what happened last year must be redone. The same last year when Mzuni Writers’ Forum visited Chancellor College Writers’ Workshop on a Saturday, 25th October 2008, the day some Lhomwe grouping was being launched at Chonde in Mulanje district – yes, it was also the same day that some writers, only being separated by distance, were talking writing.
History must really be repeated in Room B with the first session being in the morning and then another session being in the evening after a break in the afternoon. And this year, the feast has to extend to some other quarters – secondary schools based in Zomba and literature gurus based in not only Zomba but the whole Malawi.
Dave Mankhokwe Namusanya
DISTANCE is good. Distance is bad. Distance separates. Distance murders, distance kills – ruthlessly for that matter. And James Ngugi, or Ngugi wa Thiong’o as he may want us to claim, knowing the bad nature of distance authored a short story ‘The Return’ in which he laments the death of a romantic affair between Kamau (a boy) and Muthoni (a girl) because of distance.
And the whites, being intelligent like Eneke the bird – who has learnt to fly without perching since men have learnt to shoot without missing – in Chinua Achebe’s ‘Things Fall Apart’, devised ways to kill distance. They formulated ways to save the romantic lives of many. Internets, tele and cell phones are just some of the ways of manipulating distance on top of good transport like cars.
And to prove that no matter how cruel distance can be but it can still more be conquered, Mzuzu University Writers’ Forum is embarking on a journey. A long journey out of Mzuzu University, out of Mzuzu city, out of the Northern region – a long journey trekking towards the South, not the South in Ama Atta Aidoo’s ‘Certain Winds From The South’ that appears in the Short Story anthology, ‘Looking for a Rain God’. This is another kind of south, a South explored by Felix Mnthali in his short story ‘Fragments’ that appears in the collection, ‘The Unsung Song’, that was edited by Zondiwe Bruce Mbano, Max J. Iphani and Reuben Makayiko Chirambo.
The savants from Luwinga trek to the South, no! The East, for something. Something important. Something strong. Something beautiful. Something irresistible. Something that is a feast, a literary feast. A feast that will have nothing on its course but literature and writing only – creative writing to be a bit boastful.
They will be in the South – in Zomba – at Chancellor College to be specific, in Room B to be painfully specific on Saturday, the 21st day of the second to last month of the ‘twelve-monthed’ year, November of this year, 2009 Anno Dommini – AD.
If the Catholic University of Malawi Writers had not declared that it was not possible for the Chanco Writers’ Workshop to visit them, then it could have been said that the Mzuni (as Mzuzu University is tenderly called) scribes will be coming two weeks after the Workshop has been in Nguludi but since the CUNIMA Writers’ Grouping has said that it is not possible for them to be visited then no such claim will be uttered…
The then President (or rather Chairperson) of the CUNIMA Writers’ Grouping, Alfred Jabulani, broke the news last Thursday that it was not possible for the literary imbibers of Chirunga to visit them. Reason? The grouping has a new executive and as it is per (their) tradition, a new executive comes together with a new Patron and that makes it impossible for them to be visited since the executive will just be new and as of Thursday last week (the last Thursday of the Month of October 2009), they never had any Patron. Therefore, the much expected scene that was to be acted, the scene that was to start from Zomba to Nguludi will not be acted; perhaps ‘next time’ as they said. Really, there always is next time no matter how long it can take for it to exist.
But for now, the Chancellor College Writers’ enthusiasts must prepare for their colleagues from Mzuni so that what happened last year must be redone. The same last year when Mzuni Writers’ Forum visited Chancellor College Writers’ Workshop on a Saturday, 25th October 2008, the day some Lhomwe grouping was being launched at Chonde in Mulanje district – yes, it was also the same day that some writers, only being separated by distance, were talking writing.
History must really be repeated in Room B with the first session being in the morning and then another session being in the evening after a break in the afternoon. And this year, the feast has to extend to some other quarters – secondary schools based in Zomba and literature gurus based in not only Zomba but the whole Malawi.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
POEM
TO MY FRIEND
This is for you, my trusted friend
The only thing I fail to do
Is fail to write
When writing is in your blood
You can’t let some of these things die
That’s why I write to you my friend
To help you cling on to life
BY HASTINGS TADALA TEMBO
This is for you, my trusted friend
The only thing I fail to do
Is fail to write
When writing is in your blood
You can’t let some of these things die
That’s why I write to you my friend
To help you cling on to life
BY HASTINGS TADALA TEMBO
NEXT!THE CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF MALAWI (CUNIMA) - NGULUDI
By
Mankhokwe Namusanya
MULUNGUZI River traverses and cascades both silently and gradually along the slopes of the plateau that is Zomba Mountain – possibly the tallest point in the whole of the Eastern region of Malawi. The river meanders down and snakes its way through the trees that are decorated with dense and mass foliage during the spring. The same trees that are but a memento of the natural beauty the plateau used to boast of.
And in journeying, the river passes through places: some rocky, some thorny, some strange, some usual. One of such places is a college, they call it Chancellor. A college, to quote one Zondiwe Bruce Mbano, that deals with the liberal arts. And it is at this Chancellor College where, as Shakespeare would say, we will lay our scene.
This is a scene that starts at 7:00 am on a Saturday, the seventh day of the penultimate month of the year (November) 2009 AD. Thirty characters or so, comprising of staff and students of the College, feature in this scene set between Universities, places, district and even regions. They are a small crew of enthusiastic writers representing the Chancellor College Writers’ Workshop, a literary arts organization that has been there since way back in 1970.
And the crew sets off on a mission targeting some place, a place called The Catholic university of Malawi, abbreviated or rather ‘ellipsised and/or acronymed’ as CUNIMA. The only Catholic University in Malawi and the only University in Nguludi, Chiradzulu – the home district of John Chilembwe, the martyr. The crew leaves all their academic workload behind to concentrate on one thing, one thing only – writing, or to make it swankier, literature.
In this group are budding writers, writers that were not but are and surely, will be. In this group of budding writers are also categories. There are those that can be said to be virgin writers, that is, writers that are but the outside world (CUNIMA inclusive) has never had the chance of feasting and partying on their works. They are the writers whose works have not yet been tampered with by the media, if tampering with. Lackson Pius, Rhodrick Michongwe, Ruth Kawonga, Sheena Kapachika, Pellanie Mogha, Lonjezo Sithole et al. are the ones existing in this category; CUNIMA will be watching and hearing them for the maiden time but not the last.
Then, there are those that the world has seen, heard or read recently: the Workshops’ young ones. The new breed that the workshop has managed to produce in the past two years or so. The writers that, all factors held constant, are aiming at one thing only which is reconstructing the fable that writing is dead, gone and buried. Hastings Tadala Tembo whose poetry has appeared in the Weekend Nation (Emotional Equinox), Sunday Times (The Second Congregation) and Wasi Magazine (At Dziwe la Nkhalamba); Innocent Chigeza Chipofya whose poem (Speechless) and Short Story (October rains) appeared in the Sunday Times and Malawi News respectively; Happiness Zidana whose poetry (Despised Voices) and Short story (Chigonapamuhanya the wanderer) appeared in the Malawi news; and some others fall in this category.
And there will be another group, those that the world already knows or has ever encountered many times and in so many ways. Hardson Chamasowa of the Zochitika ku Smongolia fame, the man currently enjoying airplay on Joy FM’s Patsinde programme, the current Chanco’s best vernacular poet, arguably; and others fall in this category. These are the grown children, the adolescents – the ones undergoing the ‘puberty’ in writing, taking the path to maturity if and only if somebody, with a passion to murder writing, shall not trample on them.
And the crew shall leave at 7 am marking the beginning of the scene and go to Catholic University to talk nothing but writing with fellow literature savants of the University. The shall not arrive at the University campus with shouts of ‘CU here we attack!’ or anything close to that but they shall arrive reciting a poem, silently and gently, a poem of a poet, a poet who ventured into politics, a poet who also is a product of the workshop, a poet whose poem is in the second anthology of poetry from the Workshop (The Haunting Wind), a poet who responds to the name Ken
Lipenga PhD; his lines of the poem ‘Peace and Goodwill among men’ shall be muttered:
“Every valley shall be exalted
Every mountain shall be made low
The crooked shall be made straight
And the straight likewise crooked…”
And that shall mark the beginning of the action after the start of the scene from Chancellor College. Action that shall run until 15:00 hours.
Mankhokwe Namusanya
MULUNGUZI River traverses and cascades both silently and gradually along the slopes of the plateau that is Zomba Mountain – possibly the tallest point in the whole of the Eastern region of Malawi. The river meanders down and snakes its way through the trees that are decorated with dense and mass foliage during the spring. The same trees that are but a memento of the natural beauty the plateau used to boast of.
And in journeying, the river passes through places: some rocky, some thorny, some strange, some usual. One of such places is a college, they call it Chancellor. A college, to quote one Zondiwe Bruce Mbano, that deals with the liberal arts. And it is at this Chancellor College where, as Shakespeare would say, we will lay our scene.
This is a scene that starts at 7:00 am on a Saturday, the seventh day of the penultimate month of the year (November) 2009 AD. Thirty characters or so, comprising of staff and students of the College, feature in this scene set between Universities, places, district and even regions. They are a small crew of enthusiastic writers representing the Chancellor College Writers’ Workshop, a literary arts organization that has been there since way back in 1970.
And the crew sets off on a mission targeting some place, a place called The Catholic university of Malawi, abbreviated or rather ‘ellipsised and/or acronymed’ as CUNIMA. The only Catholic University in Malawi and the only University in Nguludi, Chiradzulu – the home district of John Chilembwe, the martyr. The crew leaves all their academic workload behind to concentrate on one thing, one thing only – writing, or to make it swankier, literature.
In this group are budding writers, writers that were not but are and surely, will be. In this group of budding writers are also categories. There are those that can be said to be virgin writers, that is, writers that are but the outside world (CUNIMA inclusive) has never had the chance of feasting and partying on their works. They are the writers whose works have not yet been tampered with by the media, if tampering with. Lackson Pius, Rhodrick Michongwe, Ruth Kawonga, Sheena Kapachika, Pellanie Mogha, Lonjezo Sithole et al. are the ones existing in this category; CUNIMA will be watching and hearing them for the maiden time but not the last.
Then, there are those that the world has seen, heard or read recently: the Workshops’ young ones. The new breed that the workshop has managed to produce in the past two years or so. The writers that, all factors held constant, are aiming at one thing only which is reconstructing the fable that writing is dead, gone and buried. Hastings Tadala Tembo whose poetry has appeared in the Weekend Nation (Emotional Equinox), Sunday Times (The Second Congregation) and Wasi Magazine (At Dziwe la Nkhalamba); Innocent Chigeza Chipofya whose poem (Speechless) and Short Story (October rains) appeared in the Sunday Times and Malawi News respectively; Happiness Zidana whose poetry (Despised Voices) and Short story (Chigonapamuhanya the wanderer) appeared in the Malawi news; and some others fall in this category.
And there will be another group, those that the world already knows or has ever encountered many times and in so many ways. Hardson Chamasowa of the Zochitika ku Smongolia fame, the man currently enjoying airplay on Joy FM’s Patsinde programme, the current Chanco’s best vernacular poet, arguably; and others fall in this category. These are the grown children, the adolescents – the ones undergoing the ‘puberty’ in writing, taking the path to maturity if and only if somebody, with a passion to murder writing, shall not trample on them.
And the crew shall leave at 7 am marking the beginning of the scene and go to Catholic University to talk nothing but writing with fellow literature savants of the University. The shall not arrive at the University campus with shouts of ‘CU here we attack!’ or anything close to that but they shall arrive reciting a poem, silently and gently, a poem of a poet, a poet who ventured into politics, a poet who also is a product of the workshop, a poet whose poem is in the second anthology of poetry from the Workshop (The Haunting Wind), a poet who responds to the name Ken
Lipenga PhD; his lines of the poem ‘Peace and Goodwill among men’ shall be muttered:
“Every valley shall be exalted
Every mountain shall be made low
The crooked shall be made straight
And the straight likewise crooked…”
And that shall mark the beginning of the action after the start of the scene from Chancellor College. Action that shall run until 15:00 hours.
Short story for thursday,22nd Oct. 2009
DEMOCRAZY.
The thirteen boys were ready. Red-masked faces, overalls and gumboots, dazzling pangas in red-gloved hands. On your marks! It's about time and soon the order would be given. The operation? The usual. Disrupt a campaign rally. This sick man without a party was becoming a nuisance. How dare he challenge the all wise head, deliverer of the poor from autocratic bondage?
Madalitso, 16 and the youngest in the group, remained confused. He had never killed before and he was to begin it in such a heart-rending manner - hack somebody to death like a banana tree. But who had asked him to kill? He was only supposed to disrupt the rally. Many however, had died in similar operations and he knew it. After all, he remembered, you shed blood, you get more pecks.
‘Get set!’ a command was whispered. Everybody fumbled with themselves. The grip on the pangas tightened. Mada breathed hard. You’ll have to kill, somebody seemed to be telling him. Kill for your own survival. You don’t have a mother to look after you. Your father’s bones were buried last month after two long years of diarrhea, coughing and fever, and your granny is just a shadow of her old self.
‘Remember, whip them away, hack the stubborn!’ Wrong weapon in hand! Everybody fumbled for their sjamboks.
Hack the stubborn for a K200 note. What do you think you are eating tonight? You know how strained your father’s relationship with other people even his own relatives was. Who can accept to keep a child of a pompous father like yours? After all do you have a home, a village? Your father never took you to your people and called this town your home. Yes make it your home. The streets are your home. Mada hated this ‘person’ whispering in his head. He puffed hard at the cannabis cigar. He wished for something stronger that would quickly get into his blood. Cocaine or mandrax may be.
Meanwhile, drums roared in the still afternoon at Jamba rally grounds. Women sung and danced in the blazing October heat for their not-yet-arrived would-be president. The men, tired and hungry faces, discussed their dissatisfaction with the government. A decade ago they said enough with the autocratic rule. Ten years down the line, it was clear, oppression had replaced oppression. You have one shirt, you lose it to those with a suitcaseful; those with a single cob of maize were left with the cob without any grain on it.
Two VXs approached. Men moved closer. Women sang and danced wildly, wiggling their plumpy bottoms to the discomfort of their thin-like-grasshopper babies on their backs. Some of the babies burst into sudden wails - they wondered what suddenly went wrong with mama.
The VIPs went up the platform. Five decently dressed men and a lady. The would-be first lady, smiling and waving at the dancing troupe. Red lips, red finger nails and toes, red tight-fitting short skirt, a white thin tight-fitting blouse. Cute !
A kilometer away the gang braced up for departure.
‘Move!’ The two pickups sped off skidding and raising a cloud of dust around the crowd. What the hell could it be? Before anybody answered themselves, hell had already broken loose. Whips cracked, women wailed, children choked in the dust, cowards pissed in their pants not knowing what to do. Mada obeyed the order: whipped two away, the third was stubborn. Three times the whip cracked, she did not move. What a woman! Hack the stubborn! No scream. Only a stream of blood. He could not stand this. The blood frightened him. The cracking whips tore at his flesh. The wailing disheartened his soul and the dust chocked him. The platform was ablaze. Pangas and sjamboks still whistled in the air. He dropped his, unmasked himself and walked away slowly to nowhere. He had killed. Yes, you have done it, the voice came back. Go, get your pay.
Later that evening, at the house of the minister of youth, bank notes flashed, the young murderers smiled. Mada was not there. Nobody cared. He was at police station. From the battle field he had lingered about aimlessly in town and finally walked into the police station.
Two police women dozed on the counter. Earlier, they got reports. Thugs had attacked a rally. But they had no transport. Besides, they had not received any directive to act.
‘Can I help? one police woman asked.
‘Arrest me. I killed a woman at the rally. See this? Blood, human blood see.’
There was no blood on his clothes. The officers laughed. He was a mental case, they thought.
‘Get out and go home!’
Mada hastened out to go home, to nowhere, and told everybody he met - what was to be his story for life- he had killed a woman and police refused to arrest him. Whenever he saw any posh car he would shout “Mr Minister they haven’t arrested me up to now.” Mada roamed the streets until a few days ago when he was finally “arrested” to be detained at the mental asylum.
The thirteen boys were ready. Red-masked faces, overalls and gumboots, dazzling pangas in red-gloved hands. On your marks! It's about time and soon the order would be given. The operation? The usual. Disrupt a campaign rally. This sick man without a party was becoming a nuisance. How dare he challenge the all wise head, deliverer of the poor from autocratic bondage?
Madalitso, 16 and the youngest in the group, remained confused. He had never killed before and he was to begin it in such a heart-rending manner - hack somebody to death like a banana tree. But who had asked him to kill? He was only supposed to disrupt the rally. Many however, had died in similar operations and he knew it. After all, he remembered, you shed blood, you get more pecks.
‘Get set!’ a command was whispered. Everybody fumbled with themselves. The grip on the pangas tightened. Mada breathed hard. You’ll have to kill, somebody seemed to be telling him. Kill for your own survival. You don’t have a mother to look after you. Your father’s bones were buried last month after two long years of diarrhea, coughing and fever, and your granny is just a shadow of her old self.
‘Remember, whip them away, hack the stubborn!’ Wrong weapon in hand! Everybody fumbled for their sjamboks.
Hack the stubborn for a K200 note. What do you think you are eating tonight? You know how strained your father’s relationship with other people even his own relatives was. Who can accept to keep a child of a pompous father like yours? After all do you have a home, a village? Your father never took you to your people and called this town your home. Yes make it your home. The streets are your home. Mada hated this ‘person’ whispering in his head. He puffed hard at the cannabis cigar. He wished for something stronger that would quickly get into his blood. Cocaine or mandrax may be.
Meanwhile, drums roared in the still afternoon at Jamba rally grounds. Women sung and danced in the blazing October heat for their not-yet-arrived would-be president. The men, tired and hungry faces, discussed their dissatisfaction with the government. A decade ago they said enough with the autocratic rule. Ten years down the line, it was clear, oppression had replaced oppression. You have one shirt, you lose it to those with a suitcaseful; those with a single cob of maize were left with the cob without any grain on it.
Two VXs approached. Men moved closer. Women sang and danced wildly, wiggling their plumpy bottoms to the discomfort of their thin-like-grasshopper babies on their backs. Some of the babies burst into sudden wails - they wondered what suddenly went wrong with mama.
The VIPs went up the platform. Five decently dressed men and a lady. The would-be first lady, smiling and waving at the dancing troupe. Red lips, red finger nails and toes, red tight-fitting short skirt, a white thin tight-fitting blouse. Cute !
A kilometer away the gang braced up for departure.
‘Move!’ The two pickups sped off skidding and raising a cloud of dust around the crowd. What the hell could it be? Before anybody answered themselves, hell had already broken loose. Whips cracked, women wailed, children choked in the dust, cowards pissed in their pants not knowing what to do. Mada obeyed the order: whipped two away, the third was stubborn. Three times the whip cracked, she did not move. What a woman! Hack the stubborn! No scream. Only a stream of blood. He could not stand this. The blood frightened him. The cracking whips tore at his flesh. The wailing disheartened his soul and the dust chocked him. The platform was ablaze. Pangas and sjamboks still whistled in the air. He dropped his, unmasked himself and walked away slowly to nowhere. He had killed. Yes, you have done it, the voice came back. Go, get your pay.
Later that evening, at the house of the minister of youth, bank notes flashed, the young murderers smiled. Mada was not there. Nobody cared. He was at police station. From the battle field he had lingered about aimlessly in town and finally walked into the police station.
Two police women dozed on the counter. Earlier, they got reports. Thugs had attacked a rally. But they had no transport. Besides, they had not received any directive to act.
‘Can I help? one police woman asked.
‘Arrest me. I killed a woman at the rally. See this? Blood, human blood see.’
There was no blood on his clothes. The officers laughed. He was a mental case, they thought.
‘Get out and go home!’
Mada hastened out to go home, to nowhere, and told everybody he met - what was to be his story for life- he had killed a woman and police refused to arrest him. Whenever he saw any posh car he would shout “Mr Minister they haven’t arrested me up to now.” Mada roamed the streets until a few days ago when he was finally “arrested” to be detained at the mental asylum.
Monday, October 5, 2009
POEM FOR THURSDAY,8TH OCTOBER 2009 AD IN ROOM B
Is this what you have decided?
Is this what you have decided?
Wasting my time like so many drums of water
I was so caring and treated you with affection
How I thought we shall be together later
Is that the idea to which you are committed?
Fading hopes that like Hosea and Gomer we shall be
For I deeply perceived you as dedicated
Only to prove me wrong with your crookedness
So, this is what you have decided?
Siphoning up all my resources as a pleasure tube
If only I knew you are such minded
Could I cry then over this seemingly spilt milk to be?
I didn’t know this is what you have decided
Turning me into the victim of false hopes
How I failed to believe you are such stubborn
But look you unlucky one, it’s not all over Emiwe
Surely like Pharisees crying over the once neglected stone you will do
Then, it will be known that not all that glitters is gold.
Is this what you have decided?
Wasting my time like so many drums of water
I was so caring and treated you with affection
How I thought we shall be together later
Is that the idea to which you are committed?
Fading hopes that like Hosea and Gomer we shall be
For I deeply perceived you as dedicated
Only to prove me wrong with your crookedness
So, this is what you have decided?
Siphoning up all my resources as a pleasure tube
If only I knew you are such minded
Could I cry then over this seemingly spilt milk to be?
I didn’t know this is what you have decided
Turning me into the victim of false hopes
How I failed to believe you are such stubborn
But look you unlucky one, it’s not all over Emiwe
Surely like Pharisees crying over the once neglected stone you will do
Then, it will be known that not all that glitters is gold.
WRITERS' WORKSHOP TOUR TO BLANTYRE NEWSPAPERS LIMITED (BNL)
By
Mankhokwe Namusanya
“PLEASE be certain on the time, come at two exactly because weekends are usually tricky,” the voice of Arnold boomed into Innocent Chipofya’s ears after he had informed him that we had changed from the scheduled 13:30 to 14:00 hours after we had discovered that we were not to leave Zingwangwa Secondary School the time we had expected and then settle for our lunch at the Polytechnic.
Fine, we agreed, we were going to make it at two and there would be no change of mind. And, as we were disembarking for the lunch at the Polytechnic we agreed that we were to meet again at the same place, in the same Coaster at 13:45 so that we leave for the BNL. We all agreed.
Leaving for BNL
At 13:45, only two people had arrived. It was decided that we add some more five minutes to wait for those who never had any respect for time, after all we could not only go two people to BNL. Ten minutes was added such that we left at 13:55 with many faces than not showing up. We had agreed that we were to leave at 13:45 and yet ten minutes later some souls were not yet at the place. Only one thing was clear: the others possibly had vowed that they were not to go and therefore we just had to leave. So, we left with a good number left behind.
Arriving at BNL
We took a longer route but that never made us late. At two we were at BNL. We had arrived at last only waiting to be welcomed by Arnold. The chair dialled Arnold's number and told him that the crew had arrived but before he could respond, the phone switched itself off – the battery was low. A few souls started suggesting that we take the road to the Daily Times offices but they were told that we had to wait.
After a few touches on the phone, Arnold was rung again and told the same message but again before anything could be obtained from him, the phone was off. Then, Arnold called back and delivered the message that he was not around, we had to wait. And before he was to say something more, the phone was off again – the battery! The phone was simply switched off.
And Arnold communicated with somebody whom we were never introduced to and he is the one who took us to the Daily Times offices where we were told to wait for him as he was reportedly out but would be back shortly. And whilst waiting for him, it was when we were greeted by some lady who had been busy watching the burial of Inkosi Gomani IV. Later, Arnold introduced her as the journalist who had worked in the media industry in all the three regimes. She is Agness Mizere, said Arnold forcing some few of us who were far away to stand on our toes and steal a glance at her.
Arnold’s arrival
After fifteen minutes or so, Arnold arrived. ‘Well, where should we start from?’ that was the first question that escaped from his lips after a greeting. Some few minutes of debate ensued, this was between Arnold and the Chair, on who was to say where he was to start from. Well, it seemed like Agness (I guess in journalism, there is no need of calling each other Mr. This or Mrs. So) was the one who offered the starting point for Arnold said:
‘This is the Sunday Times section. The lady working over there is Agness Mizere...” and then he went on narrating how they work in the section. Then he took us to the small library where there is also the Daily Times section and also where designing of the papers is done. That was the beginning of the tour.
The tour
We marched to the library half silent. In the corridors, we met various and different people. One of them, Francisco Mkumba whispered to me, was Pilirani Kachinziri who has his sports column in the Malawi News. He was clad in a Golf Shirt printed: the Daily Times; that was in total contrast to Arnold for his was printed: The Sunday Times. But then, all the shirts were of the same colour (or colours).
Briefly, we were told how production of the news is done: how the news moves from their respective desks, to the designers and then to the publishing ‘factory’ (is it really factory?). Then, somebody asked a question. And, it was that question that prompted other more questions: questions and questions on the politics of newspapers publishing, some questions that have just been terrorising the mind on newspapers were finally asked.
But, possibly, it was Richard Chongo who asked the most burning question as regards to Fiction writing in the papers:
‘Most of the times,’ his question possibly went like that, ‘we see that people writing in the Papers are the same ones, don’t you have a provision for budding writers?’
And Arnold provided the same answer he provided last semester when he, together with James Mphande, visited their former ‘home’, the Writers’ Workshop, that Thursday night. He said that they used to have a provision when they were just introducing the Arts page in the Sunday times. He even revealed that the Arts page was originally meant for budding writers. Then, he said, he could receive a story and work on it so that it becomes ‘palatable’ and then send it back to the author and then ask him if he/she wanted the story to be thus but then...
‘There were two cases that made me stop that. After I had done that to some story and had sent it back to the author so that he looks at his story, it never got back to me; the next thing I remember is that I just saw it in another paper.
‘And it was not only that but after I had worked on another story that was really badly written, that is in bad English, but had a good plot and had sent it back to the author to show him how I had improved it, I received the same “thank you” for the job I did for two weeks: the story appeared in another paper. That was the end of it all.’
Then, after a very long session of questions and responses we marched over to the ‘factory’ (which I have really forgotten its name, that is if we were told) that now produces the newspapers so that they be in readable content from the Designer’s desk.
In the ‘factory’
Amazed? Possibly yes. We were amazed with what greeted our naked eyes and ears. Amazed at how the papers we scramble for in the library are produced for us to read, how someone works hard to have them appear as they are, how some machines work to cut the papers so that they be in the form in which they are, amazed at the processes we cannot really explain but a very young boy who is not afraid of being laughed at when he sees something not really fascinating but perhaps unexpected.
In the main library
We stayed for some minutes in the ‘factory’ before being moved to the main library which was said to have been an office of the Sunday Times (and Daily Times?) just some months before our arrival. It is a library that keeps all the photos, not the digital ones. A library that awarded us the opportunity to look at Kamuzu Banda during his early days when he used to give his hair a ‘seda’ (an old style indeed, wonder if someone still does that to his hair!); that was when he had the hair. Looking at him together with Haille Sellasie at the Emperors’ view on the Zomba plateau. Looking at him being sworn in as the Prime Minister of this country.
And somewhere in the library we came across an illustration that went together with a Short Story, I think I remembered the story: it was by one Ralph Kinn Tenthani entitled The Lawyer. And it has to be the hands of Haswel Kunyenje that worked on that illustration. How beautiful!
Winding up the tour
The main library was the last place to be visited and then we were leaving for our home, Chirunga, with Arnold escorting us when Sheena Kapachika started asking the common questions, the ‘leisure’ ones:
Who writes the Zebedee’s column?
‘Zebedee’s column is written by Zebedee,’ responded Arnold gently.
A murmur. Then another, and another, and another went around. Possibly, it was a sign of disapproval. No wonder Sheena argued further: ‘I heard that it is . . . (name withheld) who authors that.’ Most people shook their heads in, perhaps, agreement.
‘I also used to hear that before I came here,’ Arnold said, ‘but when I came here I discovered that it all was a lie. I discovered that Zebedee is the one who writes Zebedee’s column.’
Lonjezo Sithole could not agree with him: ‘during his fifteenth anniversary, Zebedee himself (yes, he also said Zebedee) said that the name is a pen-name...’
And I picked it up to claim how Zebedee himself (I also said Zebedee) said how he had come to harvest the name Zebedee. But, Arnold was not just going to bulge in; maybe, even he himself does not know Zebedee or he knows him as he said later: ‘even if I am to tell you, you won’t know him. He works here but you can’t know him.’
And now, who writes the drycleaner?
That was Lusayo Kanyika who whispered the question before I projected it for Arnold's ears and the entire group’s. But, it was not Arnold who picked up the question. It was Hardson Chamasowa, the man from Smongolia: ‘I heard that it is George or is it John er er er John I think. He used to have a column in the Sunday Times but he no longer does have it. I have just forgotten the name but it is John...’
‘Isn’t it... (Name withheld)?’ I asked and that seemed to have curtailed the debate before Hardson was reminded that the Sunday Times had never had anybody responding to the name John or George writing a column since its inception five years ago.
And that question went unanswered as it had gone, only speculations remained as to who is the Drycleaner, the man in the laundry who never gets tired of washing linen – dirty linen.
What does it take to work in the Print Media?
It was Ruth Kawonga who asked the question. Arnold was responding to the question when grumbles were heard, somebody was complaining that we had to be mindful of time. He claimed the Coaster had already arrived and was waiting for us. But then, nobody was to leave with a question for we never knew when we were to be in Blantyre again and BNL to be specific. So, the questions went on:
What does it take for an article to be a feature?
That was Tendai Munemo, the Workshop’s secretary. And Arnold explained the differences that exist between a feature, opinion and even analysis. Never bother to know how the so-called tired ones looked; after all, they had already been told that for those who wished to leave could do so and wait in the Coaster.
Leaving BNL
Then after all the questions had been exhausted, we left. But before leaving I told Arnold: ‘you greet Sellina (meaning Sellina Nkowani) on behalf of the workshop.’
And Arnold Chachacha Munthali, who had been our guide (or host!), had said: ‘I will.’
And then I had left together with Lusayo for the Coaster to start the journey back to Chancellor College through the Polytechnic with each one of us carrying a Newspaper (some pages of Malawi News) in our hands.
In the Coaster
We left BNL as the time registered 15:50 when we were scheduled to leave at 15:00. That was what made the hottest issue in the Coaster. No need to go into detail; we left BNL and embarked on the journey to Zomba through the Polytechnic and what happened in the Coaster is another story surely for another day. It can make a good novel indisputably, the best selling!
Mankhokwe Namusanya
“PLEASE be certain on the time, come at two exactly because weekends are usually tricky,” the voice of Arnold boomed into Innocent Chipofya’s ears after he had informed him that we had changed from the scheduled 13:30 to 14:00 hours after we had discovered that we were not to leave Zingwangwa Secondary School the time we had expected and then settle for our lunch at the Polytechnic.
Fine, we agreed, we were going to make it at two and there would be no change of mind. And, as we were disembarking for the lunch at the Polytechnic we agreed that we were to meet again at the same place, in the same Coaster at 13:45 so that we leave for the BNL. We all agreed.
Leaving for BNL
At 13:45, only two people had arrived. It was decided that we add some more five minutes to wait for those who never had any respect for time, after all we could not only go two people to BNL. Ten minutes was added such that we left at 13:55 with many faces than not showing up. We had agreed that we were to leave at 13:45 and yet ten minutes later some souls were not yet at the place. Only one thing was clear: the others possibly had vowed that they were not to go and therefore we just had to leave. So, we left with a good number left behind.
Arriving at BNL
We took a longer route but that never made us late. At two we were at BNL. We had arrived at last only waiting to be welcomed by Arnold. The chair dialled Arnold's number and told him that the crew had arrived but before he could respond, the phone switched itself off – the battery was low. A few souls started suggesting that we take the road to the Daily Times offices but they were told that we had to wait.
After a few touches on the phone, Arnold was rung again and told the same message but again before anything could be obtained from him, the phone was off. Then, Arnold called back and delivered the message that he was not around, we had to wait. And before he was to say something more, the phone was off again – the battery! The phone was simply switched off.
And Arnold communicated with somebody whom we were never introduced to and he is the one who took us to the Daily Times offices where we were told to wait for him as he was reportedly out but would be back shortly. And whilst waiting for him, it was when we were greeted by some lady who had been busy watching the burial of Inkosi Gomani IV. Later, Arnold introduced her as the journalist who had worked in the media industry in all the three regimes. She is Agness Mizere, said Arnold forcing some few of us who were far away to stand on our toes and steal a glance at her.
Arnold’s arrival
After fifteen minutes or so, Arnold arrived. ‘Well, where should we start from?’ that was the first question that escaped from his lips after a greeting. Some few minutes of debate ensued, this was between Arnold and the Chair, on who was to say where he was to start from. Well, it seemed like Agness (I guess in journalism, there is no need of calling each other Mr. This or Mrs. So) was the one who offered the starting point for Arnold said:
‘This is the Sunday Times section. The lady working over there is Agness Mizere...” and then he went on narrating how they work in the section. Then he took us to the small library where there is also the Daily Times section and also where designing of the papers is done. That was the beginning of the tour.
The tour
We marched to the library half silent. In the corridors, we met various and different people. One of them, Francisco Mkumba whispered to me, was Pilirani Kachinziri who has his sports column in the Malawi News. He was clad in a Golf Shirt printed: the Daily Times; that was in total contrast to Arnold for his was printed: The Sunday Times. But then, all the shirts were of the same colour (or colours).
Briefly, we were told how production of the news is done: how the news moves from their respective desks, to the designers and then to the publishing ‘factory’ (is it really factory?). Then, somebody asked a question. And, it was that question that prompted other more questions: questions and questions on the politics of newspapers publishing, some questions that have just been terrorising the mind on newspapers were finally asked.
But, possibly, it was Richard Chongo who asked the most burning question as regards to Fiction writing in the papers:
‘Most of the times,’ his question possibly went like that, ‘we see that people writing in the Papers are the same ones, don’t you have a provision for budding writers?’
And Arnold provided the same answer he provided last semester when he, together with James Mphande, visited their former ‘home’, the Writers’ Workshop, that Thursday night. He said that they used to have a provision when they were just introducing the Arts page in the Sunday times. He even revealed that the Arts page was originally meant for budding writers. Then, he said, he could receive a story and work on it so that it becomes ‘palatable’ and then send it back to the author and then ask him if he/she wanted the story to be thus but then...
‘There were two cases that made me stop that. After I had done that to some story and had sent it back to the author so that he looks at his story, it never got back to me; the next thing I remember is that I just saw it in another paper.
‘And it was not only that but after I had worked on another story that was really badly written, that is in bad English, but had a good plot and had sent it back to the author to show him how I had improved it, I received the same “thank you” for the job I did for two weeks: the story appeared in another paper. That was the end of it all.’
Then, after a very long session of questions and responses we marched over to the ‘factory’ (which I have really forgotten its name, that is if we were told) that now produces the newspapers so that they be in readable content from the Designer’s desk.
In the ‘factory’
Amazed? Possibly yes. We were amazed with what greeted our naked eyes and ears. Amazed at how the papers we scramble for in the library are produced for us to read, how someone works hard to have them appear as they are, how some machines work to cut the papers so that they be in the form in which they are, amazed at the processes we cannot really explain but a very young boy who is not afraid of being laughed at when he sees something not really fascinating but perhaps unexpected.
In the main library
We stayed for some minutes in the ‘factory’ before being moved to the main library which was said to have been an office of the Sunday Times (and Daily Times?) just some months before our arrival. It is a library that keeps all the photos, not the digital ones. A library that awarded us the opportunity to look at Kamuzu Banda during his early days when he used to give his hair a ‘seda’ (an old style indeed, wonder if someone still does that to his hair!); that was when he had the hair. Looking at him together with Haille Sellasie at the Emperors’ view on the Zomba plateau. Looking at him being sworn in as the Prime Minister of this country.
And somewhere in the library we came across an illustration that went together with a Short Story, I think I remembered the story: it was by one Ralph Kinn Tenthani entitled The Lawyer. And it has to be the hands of Haswel Kunyenje that worked on that illustration. How beautiful!
Winding up the tour
The main library was the last place to be visited and then we were leaving for our home, Chirunga, with Arnold escorting us when Sheena Kapachika started asking the common questions, the ‘leisure’ ones:
Who writes the Zebedee’s column?
‘Zebedee’s column is written by Zebedee,’ responded Arnold gently.
A murmur. Then another, and another, and another went around. Possibly, it was a sign of disapproval. No wonder Sheena argued further: ‘I heard that it is . . . (name withheld) who authors that.’ Most people shook their heads in, perhaps, agreement.
‘I also used to hear that before I came here,’ Arnold said, ‘but when I came here I discovered that it all was a lie. I discovered that Zebedee is the one who writes Zebedee’s column.’
Lonjezo Sithole could not agree with him: ‘during his fifteenth anniversary, Zebedee himself (yes, he also said Zebedee) said that the name is a pen-name...’
And I picked it up to claim how Zebedee himself (I also said Zebedee) said how he had come to harvest the name Zebedee. But, Arnold was not just going to bulge in; maybe, even he himself does not know Zebedee or he knows him as he said later: ‘even if I am to tell you, you won’t know him. He works here but you can’t know him.’
And now, who writes the drycleaner?
That was Lusayo Kanyika who whispered the question before I projected it for Arnold's ears and the entire group’s. But, it was not Arnold who picked up the question. It was Hardson Chamasowa, the man from Smongolia: ‘I heard that it is George or is it John er er er John I think. He used to have a column in the Sunday Times but he no longer does have it. I have just forgotten the name but it is John...’
‘Isn’t it... (Name withheld)?’ I asked and that seemed to have curtailed the debate before Hardson was reminded that the Sunday Times had never had anybody responding to the name John or George writing a column since its inception five years ago.
And that question went unanswered as it had gone, only speculations remained as to who is the Drycleaner, the man in the laundry who never gets tired of washing linen – dirty linen.
What does it take to work in the Print Media?
It was Ruth Kawonga who asked the question. Arnold was responding to the question when grumbles were heard, somebody was complaining that we had to be mindful of time. He claimed the Coaster had already arrived and was waiting for us. But then, nobody was to leave with a question for we never knew when we were to be in Blantyre again and BNL to be specific. So, the questions went on:
What does it take for an article to be a feature?
That was Tendai Munemo, the Workshop’s secretary. And Arnold explained the differences that exist between a feature, opinion and even analysis. Never bother to know how the so-called tired ones looked; after all, they had already been told that for those who wished to leave could do so and wait in the Coaster.
Leaving BNL
Then after all the questions had been exhausted, we left. But before leaving I told Arnold: ‘you greet Sellina (meaning Sellina Nkowani) on behalf of the workshop.’
And Arnold Chachacha Munthali, who had been our guide (or host!), had said: ‘I will.’
And then I had left together with Lusayo for the Coaster to start the journey back to Chancellor College through the Polytechnic with each one of us carrying a Newspaper (some pages of Malawi News) in our hands.
In the Coaster
We left BNL as the time registered 15:50 when we were scheduled to leave at 15:00. That was what made the hottest issue in the Coaster. No need to go into detail; we left BNL and embarked on the journey to Zomba through the Polytechnic and what happened in the Coaster is another story surely for another day. It can make a good novel indisputably, the best selling!
Monday, September 28, 2009
POEM
THE WRITERS’ WORKSHOP WRITES ON ELECTIONS
FOR TUESDAY, I9TH MAY 2009
Do not bring out your machetes
Do not load your Kalashnikovs
Spare me that bullet
Oh! Save me from that bloodbath
Forget not Epiphania Bonjesi
So young, innocent – no today
Only with our papers
Are we to triumph in this battle.
Liberate me.
Yes, liberate me
Only by being fair
Let in failure, sanity supersede emotions
For it is not a destination; just a stepping stone
A stepping-stone to levels of higher integrity
Without bullets and machetes, hatred and jealousy
The pen will regain its initial sharpness
That pierces through the hard hearts of the unconquered
Leaders, lock up your insanity
Allow us to celebrate wisely
Our hard-earned freedom of conscience
And the sweetness of choice
The choice of words to pen
That will liberate us from the nutshell
The nutshell of violence in Africa
Do not forget the promises
You scribbled on our innocent hearts
As you were campaigning
We got you right
Therefore, make your promises a reality
THE END
FOR TUESDAY, I9TH MAY 2009
Do not bring out your machetes
Do not load your Kalashnikovs
Spare me that bullet
Oh! Save me from that bloodbath
Forget not Epiphania Bonjesi
So young, innocent – no today
Only with our papers
Are we to triumph in this battle.
Liberate me.
Yes, liberate me
Only by being fair
Let in failure, sanity supersede emotions
For it is not a destination; just a stepping stone
A stepping-stone to levels of higher integrity
Without bullets and machetes, hatred and jealousy
The pen will regain its initial sharpness
That pierces through the hard hearts of the unconquered
Leaders, lock up your insanity
Allow us to celebrate wisely
Our hard-earned freedom of conscience
And the sweetness of choice
The choice of words to pen
That will liberate us from the nutshell
The nutshell of violence in Africa
Do not forget the promises
You scribbled on our innocent hearts
As you were campaigning
We got you right
Therefore, make your promises a reality
THE END
ANNOUNCEMENT
THE CURRENT WRITERS’ WORKSHOP
EXECUTIVE
PRESIDENT DAVE NAMUSANYA BACHELOR OF ARTS – MEDIA FOR DEVELOPMENT TWO
VICE PRESIDENT TAKULANAWO KATHUMBA BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES TWO
PUBLICITY SECRETARY PRECIOUS MKOKA BACHELOR OF EDUCATION - HUMANITIES TWO
VICE PUB. SECRETARY MICHAEL GONDWE BACHELOR OF EDUCATION - HUMANITIES TWO
SECRETARY TENDAI MUNEMO BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES TWO
TREASURER TADALA TEMBO BACHELOR OF LAWS (HONORS) ONE
YEAR REPRESENTATIVES
RHODRICK MICHONGWE BACHELOR OF EDUCATION – LANGUAGES ONE
INNOCENT CHIPOFYA BACHELOR OF EDUCATION – HUMANITIES TWO
HAPPINESS ZIDANA BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES THREE
SAM MANDA BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES FOUR
EXECUTIVE
PRESIDENT DAVE NAMUSANYA BACHELOR OF ARTS – MEDIA FOR DEVELOPMENT TWO
VICE PRESIDENT TAKULANAWO KATHUMBA BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES TWO
PUBLICITY SECRETARY PRECIOUS MKOKA BACHELOR OF EDUCATION - HUMANITIES TWO
VICE PUB. SECRETARY MICHAEL GONDWE BACHELOR OF EDUCATION - HUMANITIES TWO
SECRETARY TENDAI MUNEMO BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES TWO
TREASURER TADALA TEMBO BACHELOR OF LAWS (HONORS) ONE
YEAR REPRESENTATIVES
RHODRICK MICHONGWE BACHELOR OF EDUCATION – LANGUAGES ONE
INNOCENT CHIPOFYA BACHELOR OF EDUCATION – HUMANITIES TWO
HAPPINESS ZIDANA BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES THREE
SAM MANDA BACHELOR OF ARTS – HUMANITIES FOUR
Monday, August 24, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
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