Mankhokwe...

The question was not whether it is true or false. That, in a way, sounded already settled. The question was when are they arriving in other parts of Malawi. “So, the bloodsuckers have not yet reached where you come from?” My friend was asked by a well meaning gentleman. We were at the outskirts of Blantyre. A rural area within the city of Blantyre. To contextualize this for those not in the know. A good section of Malawians are believing that,using dark magic, some evil people are sucking blood out of them. In thesilence of the night. While they are asleep. When the rumour started, those of us given to humour dismissed it as a joke. Made a few unruly comments on it. Then, three people were killed in Mulanje. The mob thatkilled them suspected them of being bloodsuckers. As we were attempting to come to terms with it, a chief’s house was ransacked by his subjects. The crime? He was accused of conniving with the bloodsuckers. That made the situation bad, the rumou

Tomorrow, 31 August, I will be going back to my Alma mater in Zomba (at Chancellor College, University of Malawi). The English department will be hosting me where I will be presenting my paper on urban music and how it presents situations as well as create conditions of the hard-to-reach youth in Malawi. For today, and now, I will just share the abstract and the details: Popular culture as a mirror: contextualising the music of Mafo within the situation of the youth in Malawi Urban music in Malawi has become one of the most followed popular culture products, especially among young people, owing to its easier accessibility and experimentation (mixing genres that young people are familiar with). Despite this being the case, it is one of the under researched areas in Malawi with most of the academic research on Malawian music focusing on old and established musicians such as Lucius Banda and Joseph Nkasa. One of the urban musicians who has mostly been reviled owing to what is said

This blog, unusually, dedicates the month of June to Malawian literature. I have discussed about Malawian literature on this blog, of course, but none has ever been as constant as I challenge myself to do in this month of June. The lasttime I commented on Malawian literature , I only remained with a few steps to declare it dead. But, it was because of the material that I was focusing on which, much as it might be generalisable to Malawian literature, it was not the absolute.    Nevertheless, to be cautious and safe, I am not assuming that June is the month for this blog to celebrate Malawian literature. I am not focusing on celebration. I will just focus on it as it comes – the Malawian literature. So, if it gives the reasons for celebration, I will celebrate. If it takes away the reasons for celebration, I will commiserate. In the end, I aim to try to give a picture of Malawian literature – mostly as it is published in the weekend papers. This picture from an ardent f

There is a difficult place in Malawian literature. A seat that can pass for a hot one – literally and literary. That, of a critic. To start with, Malawian literature is just a difficult place for anyone. For the writer, it is a space riddled with a dying publishing market, a less (actually non ) paying market and of course a shrinking pool of opportunities for writers. For the reader, it is a place where original and refreshing literature is unavailable. A place where you really have to dig hard and harder to find something appealing; when you do find it, it is hardly affordable – the price!   However, much as the two groups face those challenges, none can be equated to the agonies of a critic. The critic of Malawian literature lives in a place not enviable.  It is worse if that critic, at some point in time, was also attempting to write. It means that all one is left with is criticising friends’ work. And, no one takes criticism worse than a Malawian writer. There are

Have you ever heard of Neil and the New Vibration? Maybe yes, most likely not. But, you needed to have heard of them. For the record, this post is about music. Malawian music. In this case, Malawian music is really a loose term stretching from songs done in Malawi, by Malawians or people who have some sort of affinity – no matter how loose – to Malawi. It is, in a way, as I wish. And, I do not say that to sound dictatorial. There is a song, Chemwali , by Neil and the New Vibration. It is from the album, Made in Malawi . The places that I patronise, the people that I talk music with, have neither played nor told me about the song. They have not told me about Neil nor the New Vibration. I chanced on their music not long ago. I just went on the internet to look up Malawian music. There, they came. I played Chemwali , I was awestruck. You should listen to the song. You should pay a particular attention to the Malawian-sounding guitar in the song. There is a sadness in the

I am writing this while listening to Peter Mawanga's Meditation song . I am busy thinking; but about writing. These days, I hardly write serious things: short stories, essays, features and such. Even Facebook status updates. These days, it is as if I have hit a dead end. I get an idea, beam at the prospect of writing it but once I sit to write it, I slump into confusion. I most likely abandon that project or, if not, the end result hardly makes me proud. My friends tell me how much they write per day and I can only envy them. For me, even writing a proper text message seems a tall order. Even now, as I have no energy with which to respond to WhatsApp texts, I have logged off. Pretending to be asleep. But sleeping I am not. Instead, I am here. Thinking. I am thinking about my situation. Wondering how that little boy who would write a story, an essay, in a day metamorphosed into this grumpy unfocused me…when did that even happen? As I am thinking, Mawanga and h

We do not steal. We, the common people. It is the Politicians, the Clergy, the actual robbers that steal. For us, stealing is a foreign concept. We do not steal. We have our things stolen from us. If anything, we get. Without the owner's consent, or even knowledge. Sometimes, they might not even remember that they had something which they cannot remember anymore. Say a book... I have a library. A small growing library that is growing at a snail's pace. Still, it is my library. I used to have books. In stock. A few classic titles and, of course, my favorites that some might not even have heard of. And, titles that I only boasted of or had found them in my patient moments at the DAPP Library which was in the trade fair. Now, it is closed. I used to have Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner in my library. Now, it can only be traced in my memory. Somebody helped himself to it and, I can only pray, somebody also helped herself to it from him. It is as if, they stole