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
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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!
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