Mankhokwe...

There was a country. There was a Malawi. To pass such an indictment on a population of 16 million plus people, to address them in the past, is one of the least experiences a person like me cherish in. But, there are events that happen. These events shock and shake you. They make you question anything. And everything. Sometimes, they push you to the extreme: you deny the presence of reality. It is a sad place to be in. A dangerous seat to sit in. To have to self-anoint oneself as a judge over a people smacks of hypocrisy. Sadly, it is the place I am in. It is the place I have chosen to be in, this moment. Today, I thought of writing a eulogy to the versatile writer and journalist who surrendered his ghost on one of the roads in Malawi: Ralph Tenthani . I wanted to write an eulogy. To deny the brilliant argument made by my friend, Wana Kalua, that Tenthani was the only person worthy to write his own eulogy. Owing to his brilliant skills at writing. I wanted to. Until Beaton wrote ....

Dictators ought to be flattered…unless you want death. There are a few ‘unlesses’ when it comes to flattering dictators with most of them, however, centering around death. You have to flatter them, unless you want death or unless they are dead. Today, 14 May, is a holiday in Malawi. Malawians today have been forced to stay at home; most of them for a reason they do not understand. Others, for a reason they are confused about. Yet some are mistaken to think it is for a good cause. A struggling economy lost a productive day, today, to honour the life of a dictator: Hastings Kamuzu Banda. For 31 years, Banda sat at the helm of Malawi he had turned into a personal estate: detaining, exiling and killing – people! Yet, today, the country saves a day on the calendar to celebrate him. On the false premise that Banda fought colonialism and brought independence to Malawi.  It is such a mistaken attitude that, up to date, others call Banda with a title he erroneously award...

Something is falling apart, once again, in Burundi. Or, something seems to be falling apart in Burundi. This morning, I posted on the video that has emerged of the protests in Burundi. It was, now it appears, a premonition. The news, at this point, is that a coup has been declared in Burundi. Pierre Nkurunziza, who at the time of the coup was the President, is in Tanzania. It is said he went to meet with other African leaders to discuss a solution to the problem he has created in Burundi. Or, to be a little crude and patronising, to discuss the problem he is to Burundi. Back at home. The ending has began. An army general, Godefroid Niyombareh, has declared him an illegal President. He has claimed that a committee has been set up to run the government. If successful, Nkurunziza will go like Compaore . Once hailed. Now a memory. All for a little hangover of power. However, it is too early to declare now. The world media is watching. And expecting. Praying that something happen...

I have seen the video . At first, anger. Moments - milliseconds actually - later, justification. In a few seconds, he emerges. Within a short space, he is wiped out. The camera, of a phone most likely, focuses on other things: the commotion, the madness. None of the journalists and the news sites so far has picked up that aspect. The angle they have chosen is the violence. Its entire humiliating act is unnerving but, as well, is commercial. News is business. I am yet to see anybody focus on that 3 seconds as captured by the camera of an angry, even excited, protester. In the sparsely tarmacked road of Bujumbura, most likely. First is the slap you notice. The screams of the frightened officer muted by an angry mob are the soundtrack. A woman in a grey uniform is surrounded. All the vengeance, the justified madness, is falling on her. Yet as some resort to hands and fists to execute their judgement, one emerges with a knife. He appears poised to strike. A knife meant to scare...

At first, it was when the Malawian football player died.  His death, widely attracting attention, was what spurred the thoughts. Douglas Chirambo, for that was his name, died a pauper. His health failure was talked about on social media while the traditional media kept feeding us news of the fights going on in the club he had played for. In other words, his plight was the footnote in the debates of football administrators. You can doubt they even talked about him. You can be sure they never did. The day he died, the tongues started wagging in the corridors of football power in Malawi. The day he was to have his body transferred to be laid to rest in his home village in the rural parts of Malawi was the day football administrators started talking about the plight of Malawian football players. Before that, nothing. Silence. It was enough the football players made them money. Enough they provided entertainment. Enough they, the administrators, were basking in glory. Chiram...