Mankhokwe...

  (For Harry, 28/12/13) Two, three, four…actually five story ideas race through his mind as his day starts. Today is actually a good day, he says to himself. And the sky agrees with him: the sun is shy, the clouds not so pursuing and they are as if they are some October clouds – the modern October, not the old one which vomited out rains en masse. Today is the day for writing, he assures himself. Out of the five stories he had, one remains in his mind. The others, in some miraculous way, have taken out a graceful exit. The story flows with a rare and admirable vividness. Who can stop it? He is happy, for the first time in weeks. Finally, he will get back to his trade. Once again, he will sit behind his laptop and not just watch it but write. It is writing he previously enjoyed, it is writing that held his sanity, it is writing he stopped, it is writing he is getting back to. And now, he is confident, he will write with maturity and expertise. Time has altere

There is no bold proclamation announcing its existence. The press carries no adverts announcing its aptitude test yet, silently, the school exists and producing graduates day in and day out with varying qualifications. For The Big Issue Magazine (Malawi), I wrote this article and I hereby publish it. The streets are near deserted. It is a Sunday and this is not least expected. The sun, almost as if it intends not to do what it is doing, is gently sliding into oblivion for the day to pave way for darkness and some stars. In the opposite direction are coming some little boys. Their ages hover around seven and ten – nobody is even entering the teens, at least roughly judging by the looks on their faces. Their clothes are dirty, their feet naked and their faces unbathed. It is not strange. The boys have dressed according to their trade: begging. The woman walking towards them has a MK 5 coin ready to disperse it to these boys and then proceed with her journey to the bus t

We are in the third row. The three of us. We have marched in while there are spaces, gaping and wide, but have opted for the third one. There is the first one, vacant. The second one, vacant. The fourth one, sparsely populated. But it is the third one we have chosen. Before us the stage is set. The inaugural edition of The Land of Poets Festival is in progress. We have come in late. We have found the programme already underway. However, I am sure, we have not missed a lot. Two men are called on stage after we have settled properly. Only one has a label attached to him. They call him Mr. Malawi. The other one is just Mr. Malawi’s friend. They have an act to perform. Theirs is not poetry. Just some strands of art. Mr. Malawi is the short one. The one who has high heeled shoes to obviously compensate for the gift God did not trust him with: height. He is the one who speaks in a replica of the former head of state, late Bingu wa Mutharika. The way his voice pours o

Alex was not the boy who lived next door, no! At first, he used to live across the small street that separated our households. Then, he was the boy, actually the best friend, who lived a plot away – after some years. Alex was the one whom I played with. He was the one whom when he joined me at Zingwangwa Secondary School, a year below me, made me excited as I introduced him to the snippets of Secondary school life. We were close the very first days in Secondary School, the time he was just getting acquainted to the environment of putting on a pair of trousers at school and not some grey shorts of Chimwankhunda Primary School. People lied about me and Alex. They said we were brothers. The truth, however, started emerging as we went on with our educational path that we were not brothers, not only by divine providence but also choices. As Alex polarized himself to the sciences, I found my solace in the humanities. There, our paths diverged and we put to rest al