Skip to main content

End of reason

We are living in perilous times. The streets are no longer safe. The paths are leading into jungles where forests of irrationality connive with beasts of fanaticism. The only sane thing that we are witnessing, today, is shouting.

We, Malawians, are voting next year and, again, the chaos of politics is upon us.

We are political people, of course, but in years or months and days preceding the election, our affinity to politics becomes huge. And, with it, reason escapes.

There have been a few issues so far on the table that have called us to posit and defend our political fortresses. I, being human and Malawian, have failed to hold the peace I had told myself I will hold in the run-up to these elections.

It was an accident, trust me, my commenting on the politics. I had told myself that this year and the election coming after it, I should keep quiet. I had learnt, from 2014, that nobody gets moved by the comments on social media. That, if anything, social media just ruins beneficial friendships as it makes people dig in and stick to their guns. They hear, but never listen. They read, but never understand. What is worse? Our voting trajectory is hardly influenced by the debates and biases on social media.

So, noting the futility of the social media arguments, I decided to step back. To observe from a far. And laugh at the madness.

Then, someday somebody said something I disagreed with. I could have let it go. Let it be swept away by the certainty of time. I wanted to let it go. I had let it go...

...then, I read it again. And again. And, the message was amplified. The misinformation he had made there became huge. I typed a response. I wanted to delete it all. To just forget it. To move in. I pressed on post.

That was it. I was in. Hitting him on his own Post, seeing him try to explain his fallacious reasoning, the likes I kept getting, it was fun. It was exhilarating. It added some value to my life. I was overjoyed.

From there, I went on a hunt. For other Posts. For other political mistruths. For anything I could respond to.

Before I knew it, it became a habit. The vow to self was broken.

But, nothing tangible has been achieved by those engagements. Nobody can say they got moved after reading my Post on something. Those who disagreed with me, they keep on disagreeing. Those who agreed with me, they keep on agreeing.

And, no! It is not about rationality. It is all about other things.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The hate that hate produced: the John Chilembwe story

1915 : a middle-aged man in his mid-forties stands amongst a group of his loyal followers. They are about 200. Perhaps, it is a chilly rainy night with the silence of a graveyard surrounding the church. “The white man has sat on us for so long,” declares the tall man with obviously a mild temper. “We need to do something, we need to act. We must send him packing from our land.” Possibly, the men listening to him shake their heads in unison. Others are yet to comprehend what is driving the man of God in front of them for they have known him as a quiet man for a long time. Thus, the story of John Chilembwe’s rebellion begins, in the January of 1915, years long before the wind of freedom and change begins to sweep in the 1960s. Many years before the bells of freedom begin to ring on the African continent. John Chilembwe, writes Robert I. Rotberg in a 2005 Harvard Magazine article, was not a radical man such that nobody could expect him to stage a rebellion. He appeared

What would Jesus do?

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

DNA's feminism

The song that placed DNA on a pedestal, Mukandipepesele , was not – at least in gender relations – ambivalent. It was clear. It was a song that portrayed the world of men: a world in which they make mistakes that leave a trail of hurt – unintentionally; and, thereafter, they seek to make things right – with little success most times.   Now, he has returned. This time, his album is called Dziko la amuna . In recent years, an album has never been ambiguous as the 13 track album that DNA has released. The literal translation of Dziko la amuna is twofold: one, it is a world for males; two, like in the song that introduced him on the local music scene, it is a world of males – that invisible yet occupied space. In the song that introduces the album, Odala , there is little that relates to the album title. It is, however, in the second song that DNA takes his audience through the world of males. A world in which value is based on the monetary possessions of a man. Not his intention