Tuesday, June 09, 2009
KOMA CROC: A CROCODILES’ PARADISE
Patrick Achitabwino
What comes to mind when people think of Mangochi is the azure Lake Malawi and Malawi’s pride, Chambo fish. The current strong advocacy for turning Mangochi into a tourism haven in a bid to turn tourism into Malawi’s gold has heavily been based on the presence of Lake Malawi and its wonderful shores highly spiced with numerous holiday resorts.
A trip to Koma Croc will let you realize that Mangochi has more to offer beyond the lake and delicious Chambo fish. Ever heard of anywhere in the country where the most feared animals, crocodiles, are bred for tourism? Koma Croc is the place. A single trip to the place will assure you that Malawi has more to offer in the tourism sector than meets the eye. Perhaps we only lack the vision, will and desire to diversify our minds.
The crocodiles’ haven is almost 25 kilometers away from Mangochi boma towards Monkey bay. A few kilometers before reaching a path to Lake Malawi National Park is a sign post written “Koma Croc” pointing a dusty road to the right that snakes through the edge of a hill. It is that road that leads to the amazing land of crocodiles.
The place looks more deserted with a few buildings. A single glance at the office of the Koma Croc is enough to tell you that you have dared to visit crocodiles in their territory. On the wall is nailed a skin of a slained crocodile.
Cast your eyes on a large tree close to the office; you will be assured that perhaps some crocodile hunters once challenged the mighty crocodiles. There is also nailed another skin of a crocodile, a rare sight indeed.The adventure starts with a payment of a few kwachas. You will not walk anyhow. The office has a guide, who for stage one will take you to a waist-high, roofless building. It has a small dam within. You stand by the waist-high wall as he courageously jumps into the building. Small crocodiles gather in groups, basking in the sun.Drama begins when the tour guide gathers courage to challenge any of the small crocodiles. He is trained to catch them, perhaps the making of our own “Malawian crocodile hunter”. He provokes one small crocodile with a stick then it jumps towards it and as it falls to the ground he slightly pins it down to the ground with the stick around its neck. It wriggles its head and tail powerlessly. Next, he grabs it by the mouth and tail then takes it close to you. Finally he throws it back into the little dam.
“If that has to bite you, it can not cause great harm,” he assured me though I could not be that courageous to follow suit.
The next destination is some cages where middle sized crocodiles are kept. Perhaps they are then grown up into more lethal animals, the guide dares not touching any of them, let alone stepping into their cage.Finally you are taken into a large building, over two meters high, roofless. In it large crocodiles are in different compartments. There is one pavement for visitors to walk through in admiration of the crocodiles. The pavement is separated from the crocodiles with wire fences.You see large crocodiles basking in the sun, others swimming lazily in the dams within. It excites to learn some tricks crocodiles use to catch their prey. I saw a crocodile with its eyes closed, mouth agape. You might think it is dead.
“Its mouth stinks,” the guide told me and my colleagues. “That’s why you can see all those houseflies flying into its mouth.” A crocodiles is clever, once many houseflies fill its mouth, it closes it and swallows them. The trick continues over and over.
But just as many tourism places are in the country, the crocodile farm needs a face lift. It must be highly cared for to attract the attention of tourists. With the Blantyre zoo existing in history books, if well cared for and publicized, the Koma Croc can be the best place where families can be going for a closer look at the fearsome animals. It can also be a good place for educational visits.
What comes to mind when people think of Mangochi is the azure Lake Malawi and Malawi’s pride, Chambo fish. The current strong advocacy for turning Mangochi into a tourism haven in a bid to turn tourism into Malawi’s gold has heavily been based on the presence of Lake Malawi and its wonderful shores highly spiced with numerous holiday resorts.
A trip to Koma Croc will let you realize that Mangochi has more to offer beyond the lake and delicious Chambo fish. Ever heard of anywhere in the country where the most feared animals, crocodiles, are bred for tourism? Koma Croc is the place. A single trip to the place will assure you that Malawi has more to offer in the tourism sector than meets the eye. Perhaps we only lack the vision, will and desire to diversify our minds.
The crocodiles’ haven is almost 25 kilometers away from Mangochi boma towards Monkey bay. A few kilometers before reaching a path to Lake Malawi National Park is a sign post written “Koma Croc” pointing a dusty road to the right that snakes through the edge of a hill. It is that road that leads to the amazing land of crocodiles.
The place looks more deserted with a few buildings. A single glance at the office of the Koma Croc is enough to tell you that you have dared to visit crocodiles in their territory. On the wall is nailed a skin of a slained crocodile.
Cast your eyes on a large tree close to the office; you will be assured that perhaps some crocodile hunters once challenged the mighty crocodiles. There is also nailed another skin of a crocodile, a rare sight indeed.The adventure starts with a payment of a few kwachas. You will not walk anyhow. The office has a guide, who for stage one will take you to a waist-high, roofless building. It has a small dam within. You stand by the waist-high wall as he courageously jumps into the building. Small crocodiles gather in groups, basking in the sun.Drama begins when the tour guide gathers courage to challenge any of the small crocodiles. He is trained to catch them, perhaps the making of our own “Malawian crocodile hunter”. He provokes one small crocodile with a stick then it jumps towards it and as it falls to the ground he slightly pins it down to the ground with the stick around its neck. It wriggles its head and tail powerlessly. Next, he grabs it by the mouth and tail then takes it close to you. Finally he throws it back into the little dam.
“If that has to bite you, it can not cause great harm,” he assured me though I could not be that courageous to follow suit.
The next destination is some cages where middle sized crocodiles are kept. Perhaps they are then grown up into more lethal animals, the guide dares not touching any of them, let alone stepping into their cage.Finally you are taken into a large building, over two meters high, roofless. In it large crocodiles are in different compartments. There is one pavement for visitors to walk through in admiration of the crocodiles. The pavement is separated from the crocodiles with wire fences.You see large crocodiles basking in the sun, others swimming lazily in the dams within. It excites to learn some tricks crocodiles use to catch their prey. I saw a crocodile with its eyes closed, mouth agape. You might think it is dead.
“Its mouth stinks,” the guide told me and my colleagues. “That’s why you can see all those houseflies flying into its mouth.” A crocodiles is clever, once many houseflies fill its mouth, it closes it and swallows them. The trick continues over and over.
But just as many tourism places are in the country, the crocodile farm needs a face lift. It must be highly cared for to attract the attention of tourists. With the Blantyre zoo existing in history books, if well cared for and publicized, the Koma Croc can be the best place where families can be going for a closer look at the fearsome animals. It can also be a good place for educational visits.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Poverty alleviation: Role of Financial and Insurance Institutions
The stabilization of the kwacha on the market coupled with the lowering on bank interest rates can be a panacea to economic development most especially in trying to fish the poor from the vicious cycle of grinding poverty. The lowering of the interest rates could lead to widening access to credit and mortgage facilities to many poor people.
Access to credit is an important element in economic development as it supports small-business creation and provides greater financial flexibility to local communities and to the whole economy as a whole. Access to credit among the poor is one of the vital weapons in the struggle against the ‘silent holocaust’ of poverty.
Loans have a great effect to help the poor to diversify their risks, invest in productive assets, and enable education, healthcare and lifestyle expenses to be within reach. Access to credit enables the poor to smooth consumption during periods of low income or unexpected loses without having to sell productive assets or spend working capital.
A great challenge to financial institutions in the present scenario is that it appears that the financial system in its present state favours larger corporate borrowers than individual households. Further beyond, smaller borrowers receive higher-priced loans than the large corporate borrowers. In the very end, the lowering of bank interest rates has had little impact on the lives of poor.
His Excellency the State President Dr. Bingu wa Mutharika once challenged banking institutions to revise their credit banking policies to be in line with means for fighting poverty among the masses. Recently, the Minister of Economic Planning and Development Hon. Ken Lipenga added a voice to the same call. In a country where over half of the population live below the poverty line, it sounds more of an alienating factor to expect the same people to have collateral in case of requesting for loans.
S. Rutherford stresses that a good financial service for the poor is one that is done in the most convenient, flexible, affordable and surest way.
Worldwide banks are now positively responding to the call of providing financial services to the poor. Permanent access to financial services can help poor people take control of their lives. To overcome poverty, people need to be able to borrow, save, invest and protect their families against risks. As Lannart Barg argues, direct access to financial services can allow very poor people to progress.
Access to credit performs wonders when it is supported by access to insurance services. Whilst both savings and credit facilities are integral in assisting the poor overcome unforeseen loses their benefits are limited to the capacity of the individual to save or make repayments says Sabbir Patel in the article: “Insurance and poverty alleviation.”
In the agro-based Malawi economy, many poor people require access to insured loans to invest in farming. In many areas in Malawi people can benefit from livestock insurance as well as crop insurance schemes. Such insurances have the power to protect the farmers from loses of climatic and natural disasters.
At present the poor have little means for money management as there is little access to banking and insurance services. It only requires a little change in the business philosophies of banking and insurance institutions to enable the poor enjoy the benefits of their services. As expressed in the book: “Empowerment and poverty reduction,” empowering poor men and women requires the removal of formal and informal institutional barriers that prevent the poor from taking action to improve their well being – individually or collectively – and limit their choices.
The development of the nation must start with addressing the plight of the poor who are in the majority.
Access to credit is an important element in economic development as it supports small-business creation and provides greater financial flexibility to local communities and to the whole economy as a whole. Access to credit among the poor is one of the vital weapons in the struggle against the ‘silent holocaust’ of poverty.
Loans have a great effect to help the poor to diversify their risks, invest in productive assets, and enable education, healthcare and lifestyle expenses to be within reach. Access to credit enables the poor to smooth consumption during periods of low income or unexpected loses without having to sell productive assets or spend working capital.
A great challenge to financial institutions in the present scenario is that it appears that the financial system in its present state favours larger corporate borrowers than individual households. Further beyond, smaller borrowers receive higher-priced loans than the large corporate borrowers. In the very end, the lowering of bank interest rates has had little impact on the lives of poor.
His Excellency the State President Dr. Bingu wa Mutharika once challenged banking institutions to revise their credit banking policies to be in line with means for fighting poverty among the masses. Recently, the Minister of Economic Planning and Development Hon. Ken Lipenga added a voice to the same call. In a country where over half of the population live below the poverty line, it sounds more of an alienating factor to expect the same people to have collateral in case of requesting for loans.
S. Rutherford stresses that a good financial service for the poor is one that is done in the most convenient, flexible, affordable and surest way.
Worldwide banks are now positively responding to the call of providing financial services to the poor. Permanent access to financial services can help poor people take control of their lives. To overcome poverty, people need to be able to borrow, save, invest and protect their families against risks. As Lannart Barg argues, direct access to financial services can allow very poor people to progress.
Access to credit performs wonders when it is supported by access to insurance services. Whilst both savings and credit facilities are integral in assisting the poor overcome unforeseen loses their benefits are limited to the capacity of the individual to save or make repayments says Sabbir Patel in the article: “Insurance and poverty alleviation.”
In the agro-based Malawi economy, many poor people require access to insured loans to invest in farming. In many areas in Malawi people can benefit from livestock insurance as well as crop insurance schemes. Such insurances have the power to protect the farmers from loses of climatic and natural disasters.
At present the poor have little means for money management as there is little access to banking and insurance services. It only requires a little change in the business philosophies of banking and insurance institutions to enable the poor enjoy the benefits of their services. As expressed in the book: “Empowerment and poverty reduction,” empowering poor men and women requires the removal of formal and informal institutional barriers that prevent the poor from taking action to improve their well being – individually or collectively – and limit their choices.
The development of the nation must start with addressing the plight of the poor who are in the majority.
The vaccine
The chief’s lieutenant stripped the child at his bareback. There arose, in the foggy dusk of his mind, thoughts of how a swelling crowd would gather in his support, and of how policemen would comb the place like ants in the name of law and order, and maybe the worst would really come to the worst and the police would use their batons and the barrels of the guns, but if that happened at all, if that happened, oh God have mercy, stones would have to rain at the law enforcers.
Nothing succeeded, Che Jalasi believed, unless there were men and women prepared to go out and fight and sacrifice. He was ready to fight for his child to walk again. He was ready to sacrifice for the mobility of his child. He had already sacrificed a lot. When his wife tried to vaccinate the child behind his back, he chased her and since then he had been living all alone with no intention of reconciling with the wife.
The spectacled doctor, a stethoscope hanging around his neck had talked to him as he was watching his face and saw how anger had tightened it and how veins had arisen up on his neck.
“The legs have been severely deformed. This child has been affected by polio. You must have not immunized him.”
His eyes protruded. “It is not your polio. Somebody has bewitched my child. Of all the children born in our village who have not been immunized, why only my child has to suffer polio. I know who has done this. I swear, I will beat him until my child walks again.”
The doctor was wrong. Something at the back of his mind was telling him who had bewitched his child. He would tear him to pieces. He had caught the snake by the tail and it had to bite.
“Poor moth,” he said by himself as he was hurrying home. “He thought he could fly over fire and not get singed.”
He could not accept that his child be vaccinated in accordance with the immunization campaign that the government was carrying out in the country. The people of Inkosi Mtepuwa were opposed to the vaccination. The Inkosi had told his people that the immunization campaign was a plot by the government to make their children impotent.
“We are labeled as rebels,” he addressed a gathering of his people. “This government wants to suppress our future generation. These vaccines are destined to kill the maleness of all the male children. As long as I, Inkosi Mtepuwa the first, am alive, none of my people will allow their children to be killed silently by the government.”
The gathering clapped hands. They loved their Inkosi. He had always been behind them, protesting against the government for failing to bring development into his area. Just some few years past he advised his people not to cast ballots to choose a parliamentarian for the area following the sudden demise of another.
“Why should we vote for people who do not help us? Why should it be our right to vote when it does not benefit us? Why should our people queue on long lines all just to send somebody into a house full of disagreements and foul language?”
His people believed him. Che Jalasi, the chief’s loyal lieutenant, was the eyes and ears of the chief. He was the architect behind several meetings held in the village reminding people that it was a suicide taking their children to the health centre for immunization.
“Our chief doesn’t say things he does not know. When he was working in South Africa, the apartheid government planned to poison the piped water that was meant for the blacks community so that all blacks perish. Is there any difference with this government that wants to kill the reproduction power of our children? This is a silent holocaust.”
Che Jalasi was even at the forefront of a group of protesters who run to the health centre, panga knives and spears in hands. He knocked the health assistant’s door open, grabbed him by the neck and get him seated on the veranda of the health centre.
“No more vaccinations in our community.”
The health assistant trembled at the panga knife that was held close to his neck, the very key that with only a single strike could open the iron gate of death.
“Do you hear me?”
“I…I...I am …” A slap rung thunders in his left ear as he scampered down. Words could no longer come to his lips.
Che Jalasi pinned down the health assistant on the neck . “The government is paying you to betray your people. You believe in their lies. During the days I was born nobody was vaccinated. Our people have grown up healthy without vaccinations. Since when have vaccinations become of great part of our people?”
As his meaty legs kept pushing him home, he rubbed dust out of his eyes. If only the health assistant could dream, he had to escape from the Mtepuwa kingdom. His life was mourning for the kid stripped at the back. He thought of the crippled legs. He would have loved to see his child growing up as athletic as he was, marshalling his young boys from the bully children of the adjacent villages, rise to one of the feared bodyguards either for the current chief or any other to follow. It was a pride to be a Chief’s lieutenant in Mtepuwa Kingdom.
One thing could not be erased from his mind. The health assistant at the health clinic home had bewitched his child so that all lies about the importance of vaccination appear to be true. What a coward, Che Jalasi thought, if the healthman was man enough he should have gathered courage to face him face to face, a knobkerrie by a knobkerrie, spear by a spear, and wrestle till the last man stands.
He stormed into his home village singing anti-immunization songs. People heard him, a cluster gathered and sped direct to the health assistant’s home.
“My son should walk. You can’t bewitch my son…,” he was perspiring.
The health assistant stood still, immersed in the sea of the eyes of the angering villagers. They had machetes, torn branches of trees, axes, stones and whatever weapon they could use to vent their wrath on the bewitching health man. He had seen the crowd demolishing his house and the clinic, setting everything ablaze.
Police vehicles screeched to a stop as baton wielding officers jumped out. Che Jalasi stood in front of the crowd as if he was an impenetratable barricade. They pointed guns at him and defiantly held a panga knife and spear in a combat stance.
“You are obstructing justice…” a pot-bellied police officer said.
“We are denying the power of the justice that wants to kill our children. We are defending the justice that will make our generations live.”
The police charged at him. He took one step back then swayed an axe over one policeman. It stuck on his thigh. Stones flew at the police as they let guns speak the language of law and order. Che Jalasi was shot in the right leg and arrested alongside Inkosi Mtepuwa the first and thirty other protesters.
In the prison he could not remember how long he had been fighting the bedbugs and fleas and the lice and the other tiny things that gave him sleepless nights. Two weeks must have passed as the wound on his thigh was rotting, stinking and giving out pus. From a distance his ears listened to the news bulletin on the winding-powered radio.
“We will fight back for our kingdom,” he said by himself.
The Minister of Local Government had just announced that Inkosi Mtepuwa the first had been dethroned by command of government for denying his people access to vaccines. The Ministry of health had also confirmed that 65 children were at risk of suffering polio in the Mtepuwa kingdom. The government had therefore demanded that immunization be carried out in the kingdom with immediate effect.
“Spare my child,” tears rolled down his cheeks. “Spare my child …” He fainted.
Nothing succeeded, Che Jalasi believed, unless there were men and women prepared to go out and fight and sacrifice. He was ready to fight for his child to walk again. He was ready to sacrifice for the mobility of his child. He had already sacrificed a lot. When his wife tried to vaccinate the child behind his back, he chased her and since then he had been living all alone with no intention of reconciling with the wife.
The spectacled doctor, a stethoscope hanging around his neck had talked to him as he was watching his face and saw how anger had tightened it and how veins had arisen up on his neck.
“The legs have been severely deformed. This child has been affected by polio. You must have not immunized him.”
His eyes protruded. “It is not your polio. Somebody has bewitched my child. Of all the children born in our village who have not been immunized, why only my child has to suffer polio. I know who has done this. I swear, I will beat him until my child walks again.”
The doctor was wrong. Something at the back of his mind was telling him who had bewitched his child. He would tear him to pieces. He had caught the snake by the tail and it had to bite.
“Poor moth,” he said by himself as he was hurrying home. “He thought he could fly over fire and not get singed.”
He could not accept that his child be vaccinated in accordance with the immunization campaign that the government was carrying out in the country. The people of Inkosi Mtepuwa were opposed to the vaccination. The Inkosi had told his people that the immunization campaign was a plot by the government to make their children impotent.
“We are labeled as rebels,” he addressed a gathering of his people. “This government wants to suppress our future generation. These vaccines are destined to kill the maleness of all the male children. As long as I, Inkosi Mtepuwa the first, am alive, none of my people will allow their children to be killed silently by the government.”
The gathering clapped hands. They loved their Inkosi. He had always been behind them, protesting against the government for failing to bring development into his area. Just some few years past he advised his people not to cast ballots to choose a parliamentarian for the area following the sudden demise of another.
“Why should we vote for people who do not help us? Why should it be our right to vote when it does not benefit us? Why should our people queue on long lines all just to send somebody into a house full of disagreements and foul language?”
His people believed him. Che Jalasi, the chief’s loyal lieutenant, was the eyes and ears of the chief. He was the architect behind several meetings held in the village reminding people that it was a suicide taking their children to the health centre for immunization.
“Our chief doesn’t say things he does not know. When he was working in South Africa, the apartheid government planned to poison the piped water that was meant for the blacks community so that all blacks perish. Is there any difference with this government that wants to kill the reproduction power of our children? This is a silent holocaust.”
Che Jalasi was even at the forefront of a group of protesters who run to the health centre, panga knives and spears in hands. He knocked the health assistant’s door open, grabbed him by the neck and get him seated on the veranda of the health centre.
“No more vaccinations in our community.”
The health assistant trembled at the panga knife that was held close to his neck, the very key that with only a single strike could open the iron gate of death.
“Do you hear me?”
“I…I...I am …” A slap rung thunders in his left ear as he scampered down. Words could no longer come to his lips.
Che Jalasi pinned down the health assistant on the neck . “The government is paying you to betray your people. You believe in their lies. During the days I was born nobody was vaccinated. Our people have grown up healthy without vaccinations. Since when have vaccinations become of great part of our people?”
As his meaty legs kept pushing him home, he rubbed dust out of his eyes. If only the health assistant could dream, he had to escape from the Mtepuwa kingdom. His life was mourning for the kid stripped at the back. He thought of the crippled legs. He would have loved to see his child growing up as athletic as he was, marshalling his young boys from the bully children of the adjacent villages, rise to one of the feared bodyguards either for the current chief or any other to follow. It was a pride to be a Chief’s lieutenant in Mtepuwa Kingdom.
One thing could not be erased from his mind. The health assistant at the health clinic home had bewitched his child so that all lies about the importance of vaccination appear to be true. What a coward, Che Jalasi thought, if the healthman was man enough he should have gathered courage to face him face to face, a knobkerrie by a knobkerrie, spear by a spear, and wrestle till the last man stands.
He stormed into his home village singing anti-immunization songs. People heard him, a cluster gathered and sped direct to the health assistant’s home.
“My son should walk. You can’t bewitch my son…,” he was perspiring.
The health assistant stood still, immersed in the sea of the eyes of the angering villagers. They had machetes, torn branches of trees, axes, stones and whatever weapon they could use to vent their wrath on the bewitching health man. He had seen the crowd demolishing his house and the clinic, setting everything ablaze.
Police vehicles screeched to a stop as baton wielding officers jumped out. Che Jalasi stood in front of the crowd as if he was an impenetratable barricade. They pointed guns at him and defiantly held a panga knife and spear in a combat stance.
“You are obstructing justice…” a pot-bellied police officer said.
“We are denying the power of the justice that wants to kill our children. We are defending the justice that will make our generations live.”
The police charged at him. He took one step back then swayed an axe over one policeman. It stuck on his thigh. Stones flew at the police as they let guns speak the language of law and order. Che Jalasi was shot in the right leg and arrested alongside Inkosi Mtepuwa the first and thirty other protesters.
In the prison he could not remember how long he had been fighting the bedbugs and fleas and the lice and the other tiny things that gave him sleepless nights. Two weeks must have passed as the wound on his thigh was rotting, stinking and giving out pus. From a distance his ears listened to the news bulletin on the winding-powered radio.
“We will fight back for our kingdom,” he said by himself.
The Minister of Local Government had just announced that Inkosi Mtepuwa the first had been dethroned by command of government for denying his people access to vaccines. The Ministry of health had also confirmed that 65 children were at risk of suffering polio in the Mtepuwa kingdom. The government had therefore demanded that immunization be carried out in the kingdom with immediate effect.
“Spare my child,” tears rolled down his cheeks. “Spare my child …” He fainted.
In life and in death
They had sunk their ballooning bodies on the bedside of Michael, trembling, shuddering and aghast. Life was breathing out of him, the limbs had been broken, the head had been bandaged and the beddings were blooded.
He uttered a word but his voice faded like a faint echo from distant hills. He carried in his soul not only his voice but his and the voice of Miranda. Mr. and Mrs. Yotamu exchanged glances as rivulets of tears flew out of their eyes. They looked at their son in the eyes again; they were lifeless and lusterless and seemingly pupil less.
Michael had not slept at home for three days. The last time he bombarded his parents’ house, he had snaked in shouting, the hairs on his head standing erect with anger. His wounded heart was cursing the days and the hours and the bitter moments which seemed to lengthen and lengthen.
“You don’t understand what it is to love Miranda,” he shouted.
Mr. Yotamu’s face thickened as anger exploded through his bushy mouth. “You are not grown up enough to understand love. Look at my bald head, my life has seen and known more than you.”
Michael rolled his shirt as his glance clashed with her mother’s face. She knew they would not agree anything. As long as Michael was their child they would never succumb to his emotions.
“We seek the best for your life. We raised you up and we would love to see you happily married. Not to that lunatic…”
Michael had his hands elevated in the air. “God forbid. She is as human as papa and you.”
Life had been rosy until the moment Michael arrived with Miranda in his parent’s house. It was time he was grown up enough to have a matrimonial ring on his finger. He had walked in, hand in hand with Miranda. Her other hand was striking the walking stick down as she was searching for where to step her foot next.
“Meet Miranda,” Michael had said as they were seated. “We have been in love since the days of our college and I am pleased to say that we have resolved to get married.”
Mr. Yotamu did not answer. Mrs. Yotamu looked at her son with disgust.
“We are all teaching at the same secondary school,” he continued, unmindful of their displeased faces.
Mr. Yotamu took a sip of cold water, angrily gazed at his son. His voice, like thunder, roared: “She is blind, isn’t it?”
“Yes dad.”
“You are marrying a blind girl, isn’t it?”
“Yes dad.”
He cleared his throat. “We have never had a blind person in our clan and I swear, you should not be the first one to bring this bad omen amidst our people.”
Miranda’s heart thundered as tears trekked out of her sightless eyes.
Mrs. Yotamu added more salt on the fresh wound: “I think something is wrong with you my son. Of all the girls, why a blind one? What is there in the blind that is so special that the sighted do not have?”
Michael felt the bricks of pride being demolished. Miranda was not just any ordinary woman. She was a woman full of love. Thrice, girls with sight had duped him for others. He wanted to tell them that back at the college when he was admitted at the hospital Miranda was on his bedside.
Michael wore a mantle of courage on his shoulders: “She is blind, yes, but her soul has eyes that can see love. You are sighted but in your sighted eyes you are unable to see love. To me, as blind as she is, she is not just a breathing living thing but the Miranda of my dreams. If only you had eyes that could see what lies in oceans of love, you would have smiled at Miranda. She would not have been shedding tears…”
Mr. Yotamu bashed the table. “Out of my sight.”
With his meaty hands he rushed at the girl, grabbed her on the wrist and muscled her out. Michael could hardly believe the action of his beastly father. Miranda fell on the veranda as Michael walked slowly towards her. He held her on his bosom as her tears rained on his chest.
Michael stormed into the house lazily in the evening like a cat fished out of the bowl of oil, disjointed, restless and tired. He looked at his mother as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Do you know what you have done mama…”
They were both looking at him.
“Mama, Miranda is at the hospital. Her blood pressure shot high resulting into stroke. I have seen her being oxygenated…”
Mr. Yotamu banged the table. “If you have nothing to say you better retire for sleep.”
Michael changed his shirt then stood before them. “If it was a blind man marrying a sighted woman you would not complained. It now seems a crime for the opposite to happen.”
He banged the door behind his back, dragging his feet slowly like an impregnated chameleon on the way to the hospital, leaving behind a tiny cloud of dust. The image of Miranda was before him, ricocheting his mind over and again. In the hospital his eyes caught a glance with those of Miranda: they had lost the sparkle and were looking more distant. She felt her hand in his then felt a cold chill down his spine. Blood had stopped flowing. It was all over for Miranda.
“In life and in death I will always love you,” with a tearful face Michael said as he was throwing soil in her grave that had welcomed its new tenant. He saw the soil closing her from the chapter of the living. But not to him, together they had written a painful chapter that could not be thrown away. From the disordered chamber of his brain, Miranda had not departed and she would never depart.
Mr. and Mrs. Yotamu were shaken when the police called them with the shocking news that their son had been hit by a speeding track. He had been walking on the road, unmindful of the direction. Witnesses had said that several cars hooted at him but he kept walking until a truck hit him.
“We should have let him marry Miranda,” her voice was sorrow-stricken as her hand firmly rested on Michael’s chest. He coughed, blood gushed out of his mouth.
“Our only son…,” her voice died as she got lost into sobs. She looked at the husband in the eyes; they were red as his countenance sombred.
The doctor pressed Michael at the chest and blood gushed out again.
“Our records show that he was absent minded as he was crossing the road,” the doctor tried to sooth them. A stethoscope was hanging down his chest as he was gazing at them through the spectacles that were hanging on the edges of his nostrils.
“Mama,” his voice labored to be audible.
“Speak my son, speak.”
Michael coughed, parted the blooded lips open then distantly said. “You…you see what you have done to Miranda…”
They looked at him; his face was drenched in tears. “I have no reason to remain alive in this world where others have power to deny others love. When Miranda was alive I was happy but you killed my happiness hours…”
The doctor pulled a thermometer out of Michael’s armpits as he labored to speak.
“Death is kind mama. I will meet Miranda in the world of the dead where love can blossom regardless of blindness. Love, ma…loves…”
His mouth remained agape as the eyes stood still. The doctor punched him on the chest then spread his arms in the air.
“I am afraid we have lost such a wonderful young man.”
She fainted.
He uttered a word but his voice faded like a faint echo from distant hills. He carried in his soul not only his voice but his and the voice of Miranda. Mr. and Mrs. Yotamu exchanged glances as rivulets of tears flew out of their eyes. They looked at their son in the eyes again; they were lifeless and lusterless and seemingly pupil less.
Michael had not slept at home for three days. The last time he bombarded his parents’ house, he had snaked in shouting, the hairs on his head standing erect with anger. His wounded heart was cursing the days and the hours and the bitter moments which seemed to lengthen and lengthen.
“You don’t understand what it is to love Miranda,” he shouted.
Mr. Yotamu’s face thickened as anger exploded through his bushy mouth. “You are not grown up enough to understand love. Look at my bald head, my life has seen and known more than you.”
Michael rolled his shirt as his glance clashed with her mother’s face. She knew they would not agree anything. As long as Michael was their child they would never succumb to his emotions.
“We seek the best for your life. We raised you up and we would love to see you happily married. Not to that lunatic…”
Michael had his hands elevated in the air. “God forbid. She is as human as papa and you.”
Life had been rosy until the moment Michael arrived with Miranda in his parent’s house. It was time he was grown up enough to have a matrimonial ring on his finger. He had walked in, hand in hand with Miranda. Her other hand was striking the walking stick down as she was searching for where to step her foot next.
“Meet Miranda,” Michael had said as they were seated. “We have been in love since the days of our college and I am pleased to say that we have resolved to get married.”
Mr. Yotamu did not answer. Mrs. Yotamu looked at her son with disgust.
“We are all teaching at the same secondary school,” he continued, unmindful of their displeased faces.
Mr. Yotamu took a sip of cold water, angrily gazed at his son. His voice, like thunder, roared: “She is blind, isn’t it?”
“Yes dad.”
“You are marrying a blind girl, isn’t it?”
“Yes dad.”
He cleared his throat. “We have never had a blind person in our clan and I swear, you should not be the first one to bring this bad omen amidst our people.”
Miranda’s heart thundered as tears trekked out of her sightless eyes.
Mrs. Yotamu added more salt on the fresh wound: “I think something is wrong with you my son. Of all the girls, why a blind one? What is there in the blind that is so special that the sighted do not have?”
Michael felt the bricks of pride being demolished. Miranda was not just any ordinary woman. She was a woman full of love. Thrice, girls with sight had duped him for others. He wanted to tell them that back at the college when he was admitted at the hospital Miranda was on his bedside.
Michael wore a mantle of courage on his shoulders: “She is blind, yes, but her soul has eyes that can see love. You are sighted but in your sighted eyes you are unable to see love. To me, as blind as she is, she is not just a breathing living thing but the Miranda of my dreams. If only you had eyes that could see what lies in oceans of love, you would have smiled at Miranda. She would not have been shedding tears…”
Mr. Yotamu bashed the table. “Out of my sight.”
With his meaty hands he rushed at the girl, grabbed her on the wrist and muscled her out. Michael could hardly believe the action of his beastly father. Miranda fell on the veranda as Michael walked slowly towards her. He held her on his bosom as her tears rained on his chest.
Michael stormed into the house lazily in the evening like a cat fished out of the bowl of oil, disjointed, restless and tired. He looked at his mother as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Do you know what you have done mama…”
They were both looking at him.
“Mama, Miranda is at the hospital. Her blood pressure shot high resulting into stroke. I have seen her being oxygenated…”
Mr. Yotamu banged the table. “If you have nothing to say you better retire for sleep.”
Michael changed his shirt then stood before them. “If it was a blind man marrying a sighted woman you would not complained. It now seems a crime for the opposite to happen.”
He banged the door behind his back, dragging his feet slowly like an impregnated chameleon on the way to the hospital, leaving behind a tiny cloud of dust. The image of Miranda was before him, ricocheting his mind over and again. In the hospital his eyes caught a glance with those of Miranda: they had lost the sparkle and were looking more distant. She felt her hand in his then felt a cold chill down his spine. Blood had stopped flowing. It was all over for Miranda.
“In life and in death I will always love you,” with a tearful face Michael said as he was throwing soil in her grave that had welcomed its new tenant. He saw the soil closing her from the chapter of the living. But not to him, together they had written a painful chapter that could not be thrown away. From the disordered chamber of his brain, Miranda had not departed and she would never depart.
Mr. and Mrs. Yotamu were shaken when the police called them with the shocking news that their son had been hit by a speeding track. He had been walking on the road, unmindful of the direction. Witnesses had said that several cars hooted at him but he kept walking until a truck hit him.
“We should have let him marry Miranda,” her voice was sorrow-stricken as her hand firmly rested on Michael’s chest. He coughed, blood gushed out of his mouth.
“Our only son…,” her voice died as she got lost into sobs. She looked at the husband in the eyes; they were red as his countenance sombred.
The doctor pressed Michael at the chest and blood gushed out again.
“Our records show that he was absent minded as he was crossing the road,” the doctor tried to sooth them. A stethoscope was hanging down his chest as he was gazing at them through the spectacles that were hanging on the edges of his nostrils.
“Mama,” his voice labored to be audible.
“Speak my son, speak.”
Michael coughed, parted the blooded lips open then distantly said. “You…you see what you have done to Miranda…”
They looked at him; his face was drenched in tears. “I have no reason to remain alive in this world where others have power to deny others love. When Miranda was alive I was happy but you killed my happiness hours…”
The doctor pulled a thermometer out of Michael’s armpits as he labored to speak.
“Death is kind mama. I will meet Miranda in the world of the dead where love can blossom regardless of blindness. Love, ma…loves…”
His mouth remained agape as the eyes stood still. The doctor punched him on the chest then spread his arms in the air.
“I am afraid we have lost such a wonderful young man.”
She fainted.
Foerver my love
Destiny is destiny; no mortal being can tamper with it. Dogs can rule this world but they cannot rule God. Though the term dog is an inverse reading of the term God, a dog will always remain a vicious animal with no power to change the course that God has curved for us.
Clara my love, my life is skinned to the born as I cast a glimpse at the torrent of tears bursting out of your sparkling eyes. Please lean on my shoulder; it is the only shoulder you can cry on for comfort. This epoch of pain and sadness, this chapter of abandonment and restlessness shall soon come to pass. We will triumph with time. Thoughts of you always linger in my brain, awake or asleep, sparking a feel of a terrible sensation of blood flow through my veins, a flow of the desire and the longing to be with you always.
“Promise me that you will love me forever, that you will love me the way I am,” you told me, lying at the hospital bed. Your bright eyes had lost the touch with reality. I assured you that I would. I said that to you I would hang on like death; that without you my life would be worthless, with no desire to live but no wish to die.
It hurts me to see you in tears. I know the merciless wounds that words can wreck on a human. Words cut beyond razors, for razors cut where you can see but words mercilessly dissect the inner marrows of the heart where you can’t see. Trust me, my life is ready to go any mile, to withstand any pains that there might be, until we realize our dream. Remember Clara, you are the reason why I am alive, the dream of my life, the candle that lights my path of happiness.
To begin from the very beginning, yes the beginning of the beginning, I told my mother straight in the face that I see no woman on earth other than you fit enough to go to the altar with. I told her in the face that I love you and that I was even ready to sacrifice my life for you.
I looked at mama, Clara, it was as if she was ill, there was a tremor on her face. Then I heard her voice very slow and very soft like the sea breaking steadily against old and broken cliffs: “You are too young to understand love. You are too young to mention love and death in one mouth.”
I see Clara; the measure of one’s intelligence is not by the size of the head. At last I have come to realize that in as much as my mother is a woman; she is far away from understanding what love is all about.
Probably my mother does not understand what it is to have your blood flowing in my vessels. I can never part away from you, we can never part away from each other, not even death can separate us. Every time I touch my heart and feel its beat, I am reminded that what carries life in my blood vessels is your love. Mama can’t see that. She is blinded by the need to get hold of grandchildren she can call her own.
The circumstances through which we met makes me believe beyond reasonable doubt that we were meant for each other. I just saw you by my bedside at the hospital. Doctors told me that I had fallen from the school bus, drunk, on the way from a soccer match back to the campus, Mangani College of Sciences. Of course we were all in the same class but we had not been that close. Something pricked me when the doctor told me that I had had a blood transfusion and that you had donated blood for the cause. From that moment on I stopped seeing you like Clara Yakaya, I only saw an angel in your form.
“I wish you a quick recovery,” I heard your voice dancing softly in my ears. After you were gone, your name sprung up to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour into my bosom. I thought a little of the future, I thought of your blood that was keeping me alive, I thought of the joy my life would get if only I live with you till death do us part. Clara, I was thinking that when you come again how would I explain my absolute adoration of your beauty: a tall woman with an elegant figure, long-legged, narrow-hipped, broad-backed, strings of black hair dancing on your forehead.
I caught a glimpse of you again on the next day in the company of fellow students. Honestly Clara, cease crying, my heart leapt a somersault. I did not know how I would unburden the scrolls of love buried in the innermost soul of my heart. You gave me a handshake; I grabbed your hand longer in mine. There was something in your eyes that told me that you would be mine forever, something that whispered into my heart that you would never leave me. Actually, in your left ear I whispered that I love you. You just smiled then left with your colleagues for the school campus.
I see it unthinkable that four years later in our love life, having introduced you to my parents so too the inverse being true, my mother then has to insert a wedge in our life to tear us apart. I solemnly swear by the moon and the stars and the sky that I do not subscribe to what my mother said to you. She is not God. It is only you and me who have the moral mandate to decide our destiny.
You see what, I am highly surprised that a week prior to events that led to disagreements with mom, we visited her. I saw you pounding maize with the apongozi side by side. She actually confided in me that I had made the right choice. Why now? Why the indecision?
Of course what upset her was that a medical examination revealed that you have uterus cancer. We were together. Doctors actually said that the only solution was to operate on you and remove the infected uterus. Oh, God, we sighed a sigh of discomfiture, that entailed that we would never ever have a child of our own.
Danger, Clara, danger. You visited mama this afternoon only to meet a woman who could not dare look you in the face. I looked at papa only to see his face going somber; his life seemed to have fled. He tried to infuse life and happiness on his face, a mark that could not help to betray the cold and dark heart underneath his ribs.
“Sorry apongozi,” mama at last faced you in the face. “You must leave my son alone. He cannot marry a woman who will not bear her a child. He is my only child.”
You see, I didn’t expect mama to be that ruthless. I saw you returning back, dejected, desolate. I rushed over to you but you parried me away. I rushed back to my parents; there was nothing we could agree. Clara, I remain yours, the Patrick Sache on your life, the one whose life is kept alive by your blood. I promise you Clara that forever you will be my love. There can never be any woman to fill the space that you have been occupying. I have a solution; we will go to orphanages, pick two kids from there then make them our own. Please smile, at least I have to see the whiteness of your teeth.
Clara my love, my life is skinned to the born as I cast a glimpse at the torrent of tears bursting out of your sparkling eyes. Please lean on my shoulder; it is the only shoulder you can cry on for comfort. This epoch of pain and sadness, this chapter of abandonment and restlessness shall soon come to pass. We will triumph with time. Thoughts of you always linger in my brain, awake or asleep, sparking a feel of a terrible sensation of blood flow through my veins, a flow of the desire and the longing to be with you always.
“Promise me that you will love me forever, that you will love me the way I am,” you told me, lying at the hospital bed. Your bright eyes had lost the touch with reality. I assured you that I would. I said that to you I would hang on like death; that without you my life would be worthless, with no desire to live but no wish to die.
It hurts me to see you in tears. I know the merciless wounds that words can wreck on a human. Words cut beyond razors, for razors cut where you can see but words mercilessly dissect the inner marrows of the heart where you can’t see. Trust me, my life is ready to go any mile, to withstand any pains that there might be, until we realize our dream. Remember Clara, you are the reason why I am alive, the dream of my life, the candle that lights my path of happiness.
To begin from the very beginning, yes the beginning of the beginning, I told my mother straight in the face that I see no woman on earth other than you fit enough to go to the altar with. I told her in the face that I love you and that I was even ready to sacrifice my life for you.
I looked at mama, Clara, it was as if she was ill, there was a tremor on her face. Then I heard her voice very slow and very soft like the sea breaking steadily against old and broken cliffs: “You are too young to understand love. You are too young to mention love and death in one mouth.”
I see Clara; the measure of one’s intelligence is not by the size of the head. At last I have come to realize that in as much as my mother is a woman; she is far away from understanding what love is all about.
Probably my mother does not understand what it is to have your blood flowing in my vessels. I can never part away from you, we can never part away from each other, not even death can separate us. Every time I touch my heart and feel its beat, I am reminded that what carries life in my blood vessels is your love. Mama can’t see that. She is blinded by the need to get hold of grandchildren she can call her own.
The circumstances through which we met makes me believe beyond reasonable doubt that we were meant for each other. I just saw you by my bedside at the hospital. Doctors told me that I had fallen from the school bus, drunk, on the way from a soccer match back to the campus, Mangani College of Sciences. Of course we were all in the same class but we had not been that close. Something pricked me when the doctor told me that I had had a blood transfusion and that you had donated blood for the cause. From that moment on I stopped seeing you like Clara Yakaya, I only saw an angel in your form.
“I wish you a quick recovery,” I heard your voice dancing softly in my ears. After you were gone, your name sprung up to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour into my bosom. I thought a little of the future, I thought of your blood that was keeping me alive, I thought of the joy my life would get if only I live with you till death do us part. Clara, I was thinking that when you come again how would I explain my absolute adoration of your beauty: a tall woman with an elegant figure, long-legged, narrow-hipped, broad-backed, strings of black hair dancing on your forehead.
I caught a glimpse of you again on the next day in the company of fellow students. Honestly Clara, cease crying, my heart leapt a somersault. I did not know how I would unburden the scrolls of love buried in the innermost soul of my heart. You gave me a handshake; I grabbed your hand longer in mine. There was something in your eyes that told me that you would be mine forever, something that whispered into my heart that you would never leave me. Actually, in your left ear I whispered that I love you. You just smiled then left with your colleagues for the school campus.
I see it unthinkable that four years later in our love life, having introduced you to my parents so too the inverse being true, my mother then has to insert a wedge in our life to tear us apart. I solemnly swear by the moon and the stars and the sky that I do not subscribe to what my mother said to you. She is not God. It is only you and me who have the moral mandate to decide our destiny.
You see what, I am highly surprised that a week prior to events that led to disagreements with mom, we visited her. I saw you pounding maize with the apongozi side by side. She actually confided in me that I had made the right choice. Why now? Why the indecision?
Of course what upset her was that a medical examination revealed that you have uterus cancer. We were together. Doctors actually said that the only solution was to operate on you and remove the infected uterus. Oh, God, we sighed a sigh of discomfiture, that entailed that we would never ever have a child of our own.
Danger, Clara, danger. You visited mama this afternoon only to meet a woman who could not dare look you in the face. I looked at papa only to see his face going somber; his life seemed to have fled. He tried to infuse life and happiness on his face, a mark that could not help to betray the cold and dark heart underneath his ribs.
“Sorry apongozi,” mama at last faced you in the face. “You must leave my son alone. He cannot marry a woman who will not bear her a child. He is my only child.”
You see, I didn’t expect mama to be that ruthless. I saw you returning back, dejected, desolate. I rushed over to you but you parried me away. I rushed back to my parents; there was nothing we could agree. Clara, I remain yours, the Patrick Sache on your life, the one whose life is kept alive by your blood. I promise you Clara that forever you will be my love. There can never be any woman to fill the space that you have been occupying. I have a solution; we will go to orphanages, pick two kids from there then make them our own. Please smile, at least I have to see the whiteness of your teeth.
Monday, June 01, 2009
RETHINKING MARTYRHOOD
Rethinking Martyrhood
Patrick Achitabwino
“We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” I have a Dream speech, Martin Luther King Jr.
When Martin Luther King Jr. was delivering the famous I have a dream speech in Washington DC on 28 August 1963, his eyes were focused on the future of America. He was later to be a martyr for freedom. Many decades after his assassination, America finally has a black president in the name of Barack Obama. If the soul of the revered reverend has to look at the trend, definitely it will be filled with excitement that the struggle he spearheaded alongside many other black civil rights activists like Malcolm X has not in vain.
Just as America has had a huge share of martyrs for freedom, so too is Malawi. The history of the liberation of the country from colonialism and even autocratic regime cannot be complete if it alienates the role that martyrs played in shaping the democratic destiny that we attained. It is imperative however that we realise that the heroic activities that led to their deaths were meant to serve only a single purpose: developing the motherland. If we are falling back on development, if we are wasting much time with corruption, fraud, and all evils that impinge on socio-economic development of the country, certainly, knowingly or not, we are render the martyrs heroic acts of no value.
44 years later after gaining independence over half of the population of our country live on less than USS$ 2 a day, our mothers walk long distances to access water, access to health facilities is beyond reach of millions. Three governments later, we are still challenged to develop our country in line with the vision of our beloved martyrs. The emancipation of our country from colonialism and dictatorship cannot be highly appreciated if the majority of our people continue to be sadly crippled by abject poverty, political immaturity bordering on settling personal scores than addressing issues that can lead to development, and development of myopic programmes to appease political followers or opponents. 44 years later while sitting on a vast land of wealth that is so fertile but also harboring essential minerals that can speed the country’s economic emancipation, we are yet to utilize the potential we have for the benefit of the masses. The dream of the martyrs is miles away from being fulfilled in totality.
When those who lived to ensure that future generations live in a better Malawi decided to take up arms or oppose ideologies that were retrogressive in the development agenda of the country were martyred they were like signing a promissory note for the country, blessing us with the mandate to carry over their vision for the benefit of the citizens of the country.
Suffice so to say, the raising of the national flag in the name of independence was not in itself an end to the freedom that our forefathers craved for. The struggle was basically meant to ensure that the liberation of the country brings with it food on the tables of people, social, economic and academic development, create jobs for generations present then and those to come. Even the attainment of democracy was not only meant to provide us a license to speak anything in the name of freedom of expression, it was meant to empower us to speak developmental issues, strategies for economic growth and poverty alleviation. Unfortunately, we have wasted much time on political propaganda. At best, we have been mediocre in implementing strategies for economic growth. If the souls of our heroic martyrs have to take a look at deliberations in the national assembly, they will feel ashamed that honourables elected to address the needs of the people do easily, and with little remorse, turn the august house into a kindergarten where they have a license to speak any language with the privilege of not being prosecuted. That actually taking place when the masses they represent go on empty bellies.
We have, as a nation, a mandate to carry on with the dream of our heroes and heroines of the country who lost their lives for a cause: freedom for the people of their motherland. The onus is on us now to liberate our brothers and sisters from the bondage of poverty, deprivation, suffering, gender and other discrimination. As Africa’s political icon Nelson Mandela said in his inaugural address, so too we can say on our own soil, let there be justice for all, let there be peace for all, let there be work, bread, water and salt for all. There is no better means to thank our distinguished martyrs than to further the dreams that led to their premature deaths.
On this martyrs’ day let us reflect with a vision for the future the lives of Reverend John Chilembwe, John Grey Kufa, Attati Mpakati, Masauko Chipembere, Orton Chirwa, Mkwapatira Mhango, Aaron Gadama and the other renowned and unrenowned martyrs who sacrificed their lives for a better Malawi.
Patrick Achitabwino
“We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” I have a Dream speech, Martin Luther King Jr.
When Martin Luther King Jr. was delivering the famous I have a dream speech in Washington DC on 28 August 1963, his eyes were focused on the future of America. He was later to be a martyr for freedom. Many decades after his assassination, America finally has a black president in the name of Barack Obama. If the soul of the revered reverend has to look at the trend, definitely it will be filled with excitement that the struggle he spearheaded alongside many other black civil rights activists like Malcolm X has not in vain.
Just as America has had a huge share of martyrs for freedom, so too is Malawi. The history of the liberation of the country from colonialism and even autocratic regime cannot be complete if it alienates the role that martyrs played in shaping the democratic destiny that we attained. It is imperative however that we realise that the heroic activities that led to their deaths were meant to serve only a single purpose: developing the motherland. If we are falling back on development, if we are wasting much time with corruption, fraud, and all evils that impinge on socio-economic development of the country, certainly, knowingly or not, we are render the martyrs heroic acts of no value.
44 years later after gaining independence over half of the population of our country live on less than USS$ 2 a day, our mothers walk long distances to access water, access to health facilities is beyond reach of millions. Three governments later, we are still challenged to develop our country in line with the vision of our beloved martyrs. The emancipation of our country from colonialism and dictatorship cannot be highly appreciated if the majority of our people continue to be sadly crippled by abject poverty, political immaturity bordering on settling personal scores than addressing issues that can lead to development, and development of myopic programmes to appease political followers or opponents. 44 years later while sitting on a vast land of wealth that is so fertile but also harboring essential minerals that can speed the country’s economic emancipation, we are yet to utilize the potential we have for the benefit of the masses. The dream of the martyrs is miles away from being fulfilled in totality.
When those who lived to ensure that future generations live in a better Malawi decided to take up arms or oppose ideologies that were retrogressive in the development agenda of the country were martyred they were like signing a promissory note for the country, blessing us with the mandate to carry over their vision for the benefit of the citizens of the country.
Suffice so to say, the raising of the national flag in the name of independence was not in itself an end to the freedom that our forefathers craved for. The struggle was basically meant to ensure that the liberation of the country brings with it food on the tables of people, social, economic and academic development, create jobs for generations present then and those to come. Even the attainment of democracy was not only meant to provide us a license to speak anything in the name of freedom of expression, it was meant to empower us to speak developmental issues, strategies for economic growth and poverty alleviation. Unfortunately, we have wasted much time on political propaganda. At best, we have been mediocre in implementing strategies for economic growth. If the souls of our heroic martyrs have to take a look at deliberations in the national assembly, they will feel ashamed that honourables elected to address the needs of the people do easily, and with little remorse, turn the august house into a kindergarten where they have a license to speak any language with the privilege of not being prosecuted. That actually taking place when the masses they represent go on empty bellies.
We have, as a nation, a mandate to carry on with the dream of our heroes and heroines of the country who lost their lives for a cause: freedom for the people of their motherland. The onus is on us now to liberate our brothers and sisters from the bondage of poverty, deprivation, suffering, gender and other discrimination. As Africa’s political icon Nelson Mandela said in his inaugural address, so too we can say on our own soil, let there be justice for all, let there be peace for all, let there be work, bread, water and salt for all. There is no better means to thank our distinguished martyrs than to further the dreams that led to their premature deaths.
On this martyrs’ day let us reflect with a vision for the future the lives of Reverend John Chilembwe, John Grey Kufa, Attati Mpakati, Masauko Chipembere, Orton Chirwa, Mkwapatira Mhango, Aaron Gadama and the other renowned and unrenowned martyrs who sacrificed their lives for a better Malawi.
