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
Thursday, November 19, 2009
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.
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