Mankhokwe...

There are two Malawians on the list of Africa's top 39 writers under the age of 40 that are set to be part of the Hay festival. One of them is Stanley Kenani, the other is Shadreck Chikoti. Over a year ago, I interviewed the former for a magazine article. This is the article which, as well, is the first in a just introduced series that will be featuring Malawian artists: Stanley Onjezani Kenani, the two time nominee of the Caine Prize for African literature, would rather identify himself as a Malawian first, and last. Questions beyond that, to establish his tribal or geographical space in terms of home district, will be answered of course but with a shaken confidence. “I normally refuse the labels of tribe, district etcetera. I prefer to simply be called Malawian,” he says after saying, with an obvious uneasiness, that he comes from the Western side of Kasungu. And, as a professional then he is three-fold. He identifies himself as an accountant, an auditor and – of

If Lucius Banda, the musician cum politician (or the other way round), were to be releasing two albums every year since embarking on his musical journey then by the end of this year, Malawi could have boasted of a musician with forty albums appended to his name. If he were to release one each year, as the practice is amongst many local musicians, his name could have been associated with twenty albums. However, the path of Lucius Banda has been marked with some wide gorges and deformed by some deep gullies that by now, he boasts of seventeen albums to his credit. It is a rare feat still – yet to be beaten by another person in Malawi. When he first appeared on the scene in 1994, two decades ago, Lucius Banda – before he had gotten the badge of soldier on the lapel of the jacket of his name – he was considered simply as a revolutionary musician. An angry politician, probably, using music to advance his agenda: an anger against the falling Malawi Congress Party. Little

The sun was just beginning to burn the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Some weeks before, four fishermen had been fished from their trade by the carpenter’s son to be his disciples. They were now with him. Sitting on the shores of the sea they had always regarded as a home. Their past, forgotten; hope erected in the future. Jesus, for that was the name of the son of the carpenter whom the church had denounced, was busy preaching to his congregation. His voice was small, his frame was little – almost frail. The cloth he had used to wrap his body in was dirty such that in within his congregation you could hear some little whispers of people wondering what made this man believe he was the son of God and not just Joseph, the carpenter. His voice had no charisma. It lacked that magic and fire that John the Baptist (now in prison) had had in those days when he had baptized people in this very same sea, calling them of the wicked generation, calling them to turn away from their sins