My heart skipped a beat and my eyes bulged in utter disbelief as I stared at the contents of the CD pack that lay before me. For a moment, I couldn’t breath. The shocking feeling that engulfed me was beyond words. My friend, Kabudula, who sat opposite, was equally shocked. He looked at me blankly with a sorrowful mien with his hand on her mouth.
“I’m damned,” I grumbled in despair and heartbreaking sadness. This time I managed to wipe nervously some perspiration from my face with the back of my hand. I still could not come to terms with what was before me.
“Oh, boy,” Kabudula mumbled his hand still on his mouth, “This is a complete disaster. How could this happen?”
I kept mum cursing silently. The realisation that I had given my pastor a CD pack that contained a collection of x-rated movies made me wretched. Finally, he would realise I was just a fraud and a real hypocrite. I was close to tears of humiliation.
I had travelled to America a month ago on official duties. This was just among the many journeys I had travelled abroad. There was something I used to do besides office duties whenever I travelled. I made it a habit to add to my secret arsenal of adult movies. Friends who were also into that stuff would sometimes advise me to purchase the merchandise on their behalf.
How I became addicted to adult movies, I had no clue but I had vowed never to terminate the indissoluble bond that existed between us. I had a variety of collections of magazines, VCDs and DVDs safely locked in a drawer in my bedroom and the key was always safely around with me. No one was aware of this except a blessed few. At church, I pretended to be such a good person and when it was my turn to preach, I did so with astonishment and I was a darling among the flock.
“Kabudula, you’re a devil in a cassock,” A friend one time who saw me preach chided me, “Do these people you’re admonishing that they’ll fly in hell if they sin know that you’re a custodian of x-rated movies.”
“Just imagine,” I had said laughing, “It’s really funny. They’re so clueless.”
So it happened that as I was planning for the journey, that I received a call from my pastor telling me to buy him some Christian music videos. He gave me a list of singers that he wanted.
“This will be done pastor,” I said hanging up. Kabudula, my friend had also asked me to buy him a collection of adult movies.
When I returned from America, I told the driver who had come to pick me at the airport to drop me at my pastor’s house. I did not find him. The houseboy told me he had gone to visit a certain family we prayed with. I left the pack with him telling him to give it to him. Then I called Kabudula and informed him to come and collect his movies when I realised the tremendous boon I had committed. I had switched the packs. The one meant for Kabudula had found its way at the pastor’s house.
“You have to spin a yarn that’ll get you safely out of this mess,” Kabudula advised, “You can blame the airline you flew in for switching your bag or maybe you took somebody else bag. He’ll believe you. He trusts you, Shakina.”
Kabudula was a right. A well woven lie could get me out. There was no reason to cry foul. The bag switch idea sounded flamboyant. I had to tell him that. But then this question kept re-echoing in my mind: why did this whole thing happen. Why had this clandestine activity been exposed? Maybe God wanted me to be a better person. I began feeling that only the truth could set me free.
I set off to his house in a haze. He received me as if nothing had happened.
“Have you seen the contents of the CD pack that I purchased for you,” I dropped my voice and looked away in shame.
“Not yet,” he said, “There was something that was restraining me from checking.”
“Yeah,” I said choked by the strength of my shame, “I want to confess that I have been living a fraud.” I started crying. “I feel great sorrow and shame for what I’ve done.”
“Brother, what is it that you have done?” he asked with concern and added with an authoritative voice. “Oh yes, if you confess your sins, God is faithful and just to forgive you and cleanse you from all unrighteousness.”
I told him everything. How I was into it and the secret DVDs I kept, magazines, how I was a supplier and when I finished, I expected him to rebuke me for being such, for preaching as I did and yet involving myself in the very things I preached vehemently against. I expected him to scold me for being a stinking chameleon and rotten impostor, but instead he said:
“Christ died for sinners. I’ll be a cheat to tell you otherwise, brother Shakina,” he indicated, “The benefits of Christ's passions is intended not only for good people. His grace was meant for persons who deserved nothing? If it were for creatures who have not sinned, what was the need?”
Then he asked me to kneel down and he prayed. After he finished, his concluding remark was: “Never doubt God's promise on forgiveness. Doubt produces fear. It is also a great insult to God…if I don't trust you, it means I think you are a liar, and you can’t think that of God, right?”
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Sunday, June 7, 2009
That Day Had Come
Mateso Kazembe
My husband’s deeds were killing me. To be precise, I was on the verge of going insane. I had prayed, begged and cried to God to change him back to what he used to be - loving and caring - but to no avail. With each passing day, he grew worse. He gave himself to drink than ever before and kept coming home late.
I reached a point where I began to question God’s inscrutable ways. As I considered the long hours I had devoted to prayer; the many times I had fasted and the myriad prayer requests I had submitted at church pleading with God to do something about him, I began to lose faith. My brethren’s assurances that God would eventually answer my prayers no longer enchanted me.
As I contemplated, I came to the conclusion that God was being entirely unfair with me. I had served him faithfully for many years and yet, He couldn’t honour that little query to bring back my husband’s sanity; instead, he had opted to ignore me completely. That thought made me bitter and I felt there was no need to worship Him anymore.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” I mumbled to myself bitterly, “He’s taken the bird. I’ve nothing. So what’s the need of praying?”
Some weeks passed and the pastor of my local assembly paid me a visit. Possibly, he had come to notice my erratic attendance of fellowship and wanted to find out why. He came with his wife and found me sobbing. My husband had beaten me for complaining over his actions. This was something he had never done all our married life and I was at pains to accept the reality of it.
“I’m so sorry sister Grace,” the pastor said after I had narrated what had happened, “But everything happens for a reason and sometimes it seems God isn’t listening to our pleas but by and by…”
“Well that I don’t need,” I interrupted him, “All I need is this to work out not somebody telling me everything happens for a reason. Pastor, I’m desperate for a miracle. My husband’s beaten me! Something he’s never done. At this pace, I won’t be surprised to hear he’s going after other women.”
The pastor’s face was grave as a professor of philosophy considering the riddle of the universe as he listened to me.
“Your frustrations are understandable my sister,” he concurred and then looked like saying more before his attention shifted to the posters and pictures I had put on the walls of the house. Almost everywhere in the house was a bible verse, or a religious poem or something biblical. This, I had done as a desperate attempt to make my husband change. The pastor appeared shocked.
“Sister, I think you need to cultivate a new attitude in the way you perceive your husband.” He paused for a moment and continued: “Sometimes the thing that makes a difference is attitude. Why don’t you stop pestering him to change about the way he lives? Try changing the way you talk to him... Also when I look at your house, there is no place for your husband to be recognized. Take down a lot of these Bible verses and also some of the pictures. Put up a few pictures that are associated with his life, I believe you might begin to see things take a drastic change.”
“But pastor, aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” I protested, “Why are you attacking me and taking sides with that pathetic drunkard? You’re such a great disappointment!”
“No! No! No! I have taken no sides,” he denied vehemently, “But sometimes as Christians our ideas and approach concerning certain perspectives are wrong. While Jesus loved sinners, we tend to do otherwise. You know the story about that harlot, don’t you? The one who washed his feet with her tears. Did Jesus say, hey harlot get off, I’m the Son of God. No. He didn’t. Just think of his disciples, would you consider He would go for such in spite of all the learned men of that age? Jesus loved sinners and treated them as His dearest friends. That way He won them. All I’m saying is instead of screaming at your husband to change his ways, why not just love him? Become his friend, sister Grace.”
After they had left, I began to contemplate that perhaps I had looked at it all wrong. Yes, I had pleaded, begged and cried but it always seemed like everything I did was just no good. Maybe, I had to try what he had suggested.
I took down the posters and pictures and stopped preaching and saying anything to him about going to church. I began calling him sweetheart. This surprised him at first, but eventually he began responding.
Four months later, he asked me with concern: “What have you done with all the pictures you took off the wall?” My answer was loaded with feigned disinterest: “Ah, you mean that. I put them in the bottom of the drawer. I figured you were tired of looking at them.”
“Oh,” he said in surprise, “Now dear, I’ve noticed you don’t ask me to go to church any more?” At this moment, I wanted to scream with joy. It had been ages since he called me that. I answered unable to conceal my joy: “Well, I figured I had asked you so much that I have worn out your patience.”
That night as I prayed, I thanked God for bringing back my husband. He had not changed for better completely, but he was on track. He was coming home on time. His visits to the pub were decreasing. I had faith he would become better. I apologised to God for my earlier despairing and begged him to grant me the wisdom on how to act when faced with similar situations.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Damn Tradition
[Published in the Weekend Nation of 25/04/09]
My journey to Ntaja to see my uncle-Kabudula-to inform him that I had found someone to marry was, without equivocation, awful. I had boarded a local bus from Zomba Depot and shared the double seat with a wino. Everything about him was nauseating. As well as his body odour and smell coming from his mouth being putrid, he dragged me into conversations I was never interested in a little bit.
“Hey mate, what’s your take on gay marriages?” He popped a question looking me in the face as the bus stopped at Chinamwali, “You know what, the way I see it God wasn’t stupid to create a woman, was He?” He coughed for a moment and added: “If pigs, dogs and even cockroaches respect the order God has given, why not man?”
I snubbed him by looking away to the window and touched my nose praying he would get my message that I was more disturbed with the fetid smell from his mouth than gay marriages, but it seemed my actions only fuelled him. As the bus approached Malosa, he was at it again.
“Do you think Malawi will ever win its fight against corruption,” he queried adding, “because if you were to ask me, my answer would be hell no! I mean you saw what happened at that police roadblock, right?” This time, I just grinned at his argument but kept my mouth zipped. It was until the bus reached Liwonde Depot, when he tapped me on the shoulder and begged to know if Zuma’s deed about taking a shower after having intercourse with an HIV positive woman prevented him from being infected, that I lost my cool.
“Dude, can you find someone to tell your hogwash,” I told him in the face: “Surely, I’ve got my own problems, but Zuma isn’t one of them, but you smelling like a pit-latrine. So please do me this little favour by closing your stinking mouth because that smell has been driving me nuts since Zomba.”
His mouth snapped open in surprise at my attack.
“I never noticed I was offending you, mister,” he squeaked a rude apology and chided with sarcasm, “I really appreciate your honesty scumbag, though I don’t like being likened to a pit-latrine, alright?” He emphasized his point jabbing my chest with his finger.
He derided me for the remainder of my journey. I wished I had used my personal vehicle. I was more than relieved when I reached Ntaja. The two hour journey looked like it had taken ages. As I disembarked from the bus, my mind was preoccupied with how I was to break the good news to Kabudula. I had no doubt he was going to be pleased considering he had preached to me countless times the importance of getting married.
I reached his home and was well received by my aunt. Kabudula was not at home. My aunt explained he had left that morning for the tavern and I was to expect him around midnight.
“At first, he only imbibed on weekends,” she indicated sadly, “But then he slipped into this pattern some months ago when he lost the primary elections. I’ve failed to talk him out of it.”
All this came as a surprise. This description did not fit the Kabudula I knew at all. He had been my quintessence of every good thing I could imagine. I had reached this far in life because of him.
But then at exactly 10 minutes after midnight, my aunt was vindicated. I heard Kabudula singing drunkenly approaching the house. The realisation that it was really him knocked me like a blow from a tomahawk. What had changed him? The loss? Having schooled me that a strong man takes adversities as they come in life and never concedes defeat, I felt ashamed of him. It was now my turn to make him see reason.
I immediately realised there was a problem. My custom never permitted kids to impart wisdom to adults. It was an abomination; there were other approaches I could do it. But then this whole thing was getting out of hand. I told myself with vigour not to stand aside and watch him going astray. I had to talk to him no matter the repercussions.
He reached the door and began beating it calling his wife to come and open. I rushed and opened the door. He was instantly shocked to see me. He gave me one appraising look before exclaiming: “Imran! When did you arrive, son?”
“This afternoon around 1 PM,” I said closing the door: “We need to talk uncle.”
“Take it easy, son,” he said brandishing his arm in the air, “Your father called and informed me that you’ve found a girl to marry. I was so proud of that news. I was worried stiff when you remained single. I kept on asking myself this question: is Imran okay? But you’ve proved it, kid. Let’s spare the nitty-gritty till morning, alright. Right now, I need a rest.” He began staggering to his bedroom.
“It’s not about me, uncle,” I said my heart racing, “It’s about the way you’re treating aunt.” He paused in his drunken step and turned to face me. His facial expression was that of annoyance.
“Imran, you can’t school me on how to run my family,” he pointed out angrily, “How ridiculous. Where are your manners, kid? I’ll inform your father about this. He won’t be pleased at all.”
“Uncle, you are a good person,” I said ignoring his threat, “You can’t let a loss in a primary election ruin your life. Your wife needs you at home. He misses your love.”
“This is rubbish. This woman will surely kill me and walk on my grave. What has this hyena told you, son?” He blurted out furiously, “What is it I don’t do in this house? I buy everything and give her plenty of monies. But what I hate is she doesn’t let me drink my beer in peace. I need tons of freedom, son.”
“But whatever the case,” I persisted, “Aunt did not marry you because of your monies. I believe she had that at her parent’s house. She married you because she loved you and you’re depriving her of that.”
My journey to Ntaja to see my uncle-Kabudula-to inform him that I had found someone to marry was, without equivocation, awful. I had boarded a local bus from Zomba Depot and shared the double seat with a wino. Everything about him was nauseating. As well as his body odour and smell coming from his mouth being putrid, he dragged me into conversations I was never interested in a little bit.
“Hey mate, what’s your take on gay marriages?” He popped a question looking me in the face as the bus stopped at Chinamwali, “You know what, the way I see it God wasn’t stupid to create a woman, was He?” He coughed for a moment and added: “If pigs, dogs and even cockroaches respect the order God has given, why not man?”
I snubbed him by looking away to the window and touched my nose praying he would get my message that I was more disturbed with the fetid smell from his mouth than gay marriages, but it seemed my actions only fuelled him. As the bus approached Malosa, he was at it again.
“Do you think Malawi will ever win its fight against corruption,” he queried adding, “because if you were to ask me, my answer would be hell no! I mean you saw what happened at that police roadblock, right?” This time, I just grinned at his argument but kept my mouth zipped. It was until the bus reached Liwonde Depot, when he tapped me on the shoulder and begged to know if Zuma’s deed about taking a shower after having intercourse with an HIV positive woman prevented him from being infected, that I lost my cool.
“Dude, can you find someone to tell your hogwash,” I told him in the face: “Surely, I’ve got my own problems, but Zuma isn’t one of them, but you smelling like a pit-latrine. So please do me this little favour by closing your stinking mouth because that smell has been driving me nuts since Zomba.”
His mouth snapped open in surprise at my attack.
“I never noticed I was offending you, mister,” he squeaked a rude apology and chided with sarcasm, “I really appreciate your honesty scumbag, though I don’t like being likened to a pit-latrine, alright?” He emphasized his point jabbing my chest with his finger.
He derided me for the remainder of my journey. I wished I had used my personal vehicle. I was more than relieved when I reached Ntaja. The two hour journey looked like it had taken ages. As I disembarked from the bus, my mind was preoccupied with how I was to break the good news to Kabudula. I had no doubt he was going to be pleased considering he had preached to me countless times the importance of getting married.
I reached his home and was well received by my aunt. Kabudula was not at home. My aunt explained he had left that morning for the tavern and I was to expect him around midnight.
“At first, he only imbibed on weekends,” she indicated sadly, “But then he slipped into this pattern some months ago when he lost the primary elections. I’ve failed to talk him out of it.”
All this came as a surprise. This description did not fit the Kabudula I knew at all. He had been my quintessence of every good thing I could imagine. I had reached this far in life because of him.
But then at exactly 10 minutes after midnight, my aunt was vindicated. I heard Kabudula singing drunkenly approaching the house. The realisation that it was really him knocked me like a blow from a tomahawk. What had changed him? The loss? Having schooled me that a strong man takes adversities as they come in life and never concedes defeat, I felt ashamed of him. It was now my turn to make him see reason.
I immediately realised there was a problem. My custom never permitted kids to impart wisdom to adults. It was an abomination; there were other approaches I could do it. But then this whole thing was getting out of hand. I told myself with vigour not to stand aside and watch him going astray. I had to talk to him no matter the repercussions.
He reached the door and began beating it calling his wife to come and open. I rushed and opened the door. He was instantly shocked to see me. He gave me one appraising look before exclaiming: “Imran! When did you arrive, son?”
“This afternoon around 1 PM,” I said closing the door: “We need to talk uncle.”
“Take it easy, son,” he said brandishing his arm in the air, “Your father called and informed me that you’ve found a girl to marry. I was so proud of that news. I was worried stiff when you remained single. I kept on asking myself this question: is Imran okay? But you’ve proved it, kid. Let’s spare the nitty-gritty till morning, alright. Right now, I need a rest.” He began staggering to his bedroom.
“It’s not about me, uncle,” I said my heart racing, “It’s about the way you’re treating aunt.” He paused in his drunken step and turned to face me. His facial expression was that of annoyance.
“Imran, you can’t school me on how to run my family,” he pointed out angrily, “How ridiculous. Where are your manners, kid? I’ll inform your father about this. He won’t be pleased at all.”
“Uncle, you are a good person,” I said ignoring his threat, “You can’t let a loss in a primary election ruin your life. Your wife needs you at home. He misses your love.”
“This is rubbish. This woman will surely kill me and walk on my grave. What has this hyena told you, son?” He blurted out furiously, “What is it I don’t do in this house? I buy everything and give her plenty of monies. But what I hate is she doesn’t let me drink my beer in peace. I need tons of freedom, son.”
“But whatever the case,” I persisted, “Aunt did not marry you because of your monies. I believe she had that at her parent’s house. She married you because she loved you and you’re depriving her of that.”
Monday, March 9, 2009
Domestic Disturbance
By Mateso Kazembe
[published in the Weekend Nation of 07/03/09]
Something huge at Kabudula’s home was amiss. Everything, as he trudged into his house from work, indicated that there was a very big problem. His wife, Naliyera, had her head cupped in her hands with a gloomy expression covering her face. She had not heard the car and she was unaware that he was in the house. His daughter, Chisomo, managed a quick glance at him but swiftly looked away blinking away tears.
Kabudula felt panicky and was instantly engulfed with a helpless sensation. He had no clue of where to start from as a horde of questions buzzed in his head. What had happened? Who had died? Why hadn’t he been informed of the death if that was the case? Or may be Chisomo had goofed her MSCE examinations despite his numerous sermons admonishing her to work hard. He immediately dismissed both “schools of thought” when Chisomo came to him crashing on her knees, sobbing bitterly and begging for mercy. Her face was contorted. Streams of tears cascaded down her beautiful face. She had been crying for hours.
“Dad, I’m…I’m…so…so sorry,” she said meaning every word and came apart as if she had thrown a piston in one of the valves of her heart. She looked sick with guilt and Kabudula’s confusion was accelerated a plus. Naliyera now brought back to her senses by Chisomo’s actions, hastily stood up like someone who had sat on live coal and screamed: “You shouldn’t forgive this cockroach. She’s shamed this family and has to be punished.”
Kabudula was unsure of what to do or say. He was getting more confused and restless every additional second. He longed with ill-grace and impatience to know what had happened; just to get a tip of the iceberg of what this madness was all about but to no avail. Chisomo continued her sobs and Naliyera’s mouth was still zipped. He felt like screaming: “can somebody tell me what the hell is wrong here!” but thought against it. Instead, he turned to Chisomo and said: “It’s okay dear.” The only right thing he could do anyway and raised her up.
“Share with daddy your problem. I’m your father, not so? Your problems no matter how colossal are mine too. Say it darling, we’ll handle it together as a family.” Kabudula said with the best caring and considerate tone he could master and Chisomo was nodding her head like a little girl as he pronounced every word. Upon noting that this trick was working, he absently took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped her tears which were still flowing. Naliyera was still silent but appeared more restless than ever before. Her mouth snapped open to say something but Kabudula looked at her with an expression of “you better keep your mouth shut” and she obeyed.
There followed a silence lucid as crystal. Chisomo had cooled and any moment she looked like talking and this was encouraging for Kabudula.
“I’m…I’m…I’m…” Chisomo broke the silence, stammered and looked down biting her index finger. Kabudula encouraged her to speak with an expression he had perfected over the years to extract vital information from people.
“I’m…I’m…pre…pregnant…dad,” she confessed with a sorrowful mien and Kabudula felt his heart melting. The shattering revelation struck him like a series of blows to the stomach. He was shocked to the marrow and for a moment, he could not blink or move a muscle trying to digest the dreadful news. He had heard that the first pain from a bullet wound was numbness, but strangely, he felt the same thing.
“Oh, my good Lord Jesus Christ!” he snorted helplessly, “Pregnant? Why Chisomo, why? Tell me you’re joking.” This time he laboured to produce the words. His daughter had just turned 15 and now she was pregnant. That hit him really hard. His dignity and pride were wounded.
“I told you she has to be punished, didn’t I? She’s absolutely disgraced this family. What didn’t we give this fool? Everything, didn’t we? But see what she’s done.” A bitter Naliyera lamented after eons of silence.
Anger came to Kabudula in black waves. Naliyera was right. Chisomo had bloated the family’s copybook with her act. He had tried as a parent to provide everything she needed to her, but she had opted to repay him with “this shame” -a shame that would pitilessly cripple his status. He, as a church elder, had chastened other parents mercilessly whose kids had fallen pregnant for deficient upbringing but today he was in a similar predicament. Chisomo had failed him terribly. Now, those people he had lambasted would enjoy every minute of this. This realisation drove him mad and bitter.
“Why did you do this, Chisomo?” He asked shaking his head sadly in incomprehension and commenced flouncing about the room gripped with a black rage. His thoughts were the confused orders of a ratted army as he felt too far eclipsed and alienated to be reasonable. A pain that even faith would never relieve bivouacked in his heart.
“I’ll show you that I’m really pissed.” He seethed prowling with raging fury, “I’ll make you wish you had never done this,” he promised shaking like a delirium patient and headed for the bedroom. He came back with a belt dangling in his right arm, but Chisomo had disappeared so was Naliyera.
“She…she bolted away when you went into the bedroom,” Naliyera informed him struggling to get her breath back. “I chased her but couldn’t catch her. I don’t know where she has gone to.”
“I don’t care,” Kabudula said. His breathing was rapid. “Wherever, she has gone let her rot. How dare she disgrace this family? How dare she?”
Three days passed; Kabudula was unconcerned not in the slightest sense of her whereabouts. He kept on saying “let her rot.” But after a week, his anger cooled down and uneasiness gripped him. Where was his daughter, he almost asked himself loudly. On the tenth day, he was more than desperate to know of her whereabouts.
“If not for you Chisomo would have been here,” he screamed an accusation at his wife as guilty-conscious struck him.
“Don’t shift that crap on me,” Naliyera retorted back, “you’re the one who threatened to beat her. Not me!”
“But you told me to punish her,” Kabudula defended himself and added in resignation: “Anyway, the thing is we both didn’t act wisely.”
“I’ve realised that kids sometimes do things you don’t except them to do,” he reasoned regretfully, “We acted as if her being pregnant was the end of everything.”
“I don’t care now what people will say,” Naliyera added with vigour, “but Chisomo needs our support more than anything in this world. She’s needs a companion. She needs someone to give her comfort and hope. I regret my earlier actions.” She confessed with virile eloquence.
“Let’s go and look for our kid,” Kabudula commanded at last
[published in the Weekend Nation of 07/03/09]
Something huge at Kabudula’s home was amiss. Everything, as he trudged into his house from work, indicated that there was a very big problem. His wife, Naliyera, had her head cupped in her hands with a gloomy expression covering her face. She had not heard the car and she was unaware that he was in the house. His daughter, Chisomo, managed a quick glance at him but swiftly looked away blinking away tears.
Kabudula felt panicky and was instantly engulfed with a helpless sensation. He had no clue of where to start from as a horde of questions buzzed in his head. What had happened? Who had died? Why hadn’t he been informed of the death if that was the case? Or may be Chisomo had goofed her MSCE examinations despite his numerous sermons admonishing her to work hard. He immediately dismissed both “schools of thought” when Chisomo came to him crashing on her knees, sobbing bitterly and begging for mercy. Her face was contorted. Streams of tears cascaded down her beautiful face. She had been crying for hours.
“Dad, I’m…I’m…so…so sorry,” she said meaning every word and came apart as if she had thrown a piston in one of the valves of her heart. She looked sick with guilt and Kabudula’s confusion was accelerated a plus. Naliyera now brought back to her senses by Chisomo’s actions, hastily stood up like someone who had sat on live coal and screamed: “You shouldn’t forgive this cockroach. She’s shamed this family and has to be punished.”
Kabudula was unsure of what to do or say. He was getting more confused and restless every additional second. He longed with ill-grace and impatience to know what had happened; just to get a tip of the iceberg of what this madness was all about but to no avail. Chisomo continued her sobs and Naliyera’s mouth was still zipped. He felt like screaming: “can somebody tell me what the hell is wrong here!” but thought against it. Instead, he turned to Chisomo and said: “It’s okay dear.” The only right thing he could do anyway and raised her up.
“Share with daddy your problem. I’m your father, not so? Your problems no matter how colossal are mine too. Say it darling, we’ll handle it together as a family.” Kabudula said with the best caring and considerate tone he could master and Chisomo was nodding her head like a little girl as he pronounced every word. Upon noting that this trick was working, he absently took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped her tears which were still flowing. Naliyera was still silent but appeared more restless than ever before. Her mouth snapped open to say something but Kabudula looked at her with an expression of “you better keep your mouth shut” and she obeyed.
There followed a silence lucid as crystal. Chisomo had cooled and any moment she looked like talking and this was encouraging for Kabudula.
“I’m…I’m…I’m…” Chisomo broke the silence, stammered and looked down biting her index finger. Kabudula encouraged her to speak with an expression he had perfected over the years to extract vital information from people.
“I’m…I’m…pre…pregnant…dad,” she confessed with a sorrowful mien and Kabudula felt his heart melting. The shattering revelation struck him like a series of blows to the stomach. He was shocked to the marrow and for a moment, he could not blink or move a muscle trying to digest the dreadful news. He had heard that the first pain from a bullet wound was numbness, but strangely, he felt the same thing.
“Oh, my good Lord Jesus Christ!” he snorted helplessly, “Pregnant? Why Chisomo, why? Tell me you’re joking.” This time he laboured to produce the words. His daughter had just turned 15 and now she was pregnant. That hit him really hard. His dignity and pride were wounded.
“I told you she has to be punished, didn’t I? She’s absolutely disgraced this family. What didn’t we give this fool? Everything, didn’t we? But see what she’s done.” A bitter Naliyera lamented after eons of silence.
Anger came to Kabudula in black waves. Naliyera was right. Chisomo had bloated the family’s copybook with her act. He had tried as a parent to provide everything she needed to her, but she had opted to repay him with “this shame” -a shame that would pitilessly cripple his status. He, as a church elder, had chastened other parents mercilessly whose kids had fallen pregnant for deficient upbringing but today he was in a similar predicament. Chisomo had failed him terribly. Now, those people he had lambasted would enjoy every minute of this. This realisation drove him mad and bitter.
“Why did you do this, Chisomo?” He asked shaking his head sadly in incomprehension and commenced flouncing about the room gripped with a black rage. His thoughts were the confused orders of a ratted army as he felt too far eclipsed and alienated to be reasonable. A pain that even faith would never relieve bivouacked in his heart.
“I’ll show you that I’m really pissed.” He seethed prowling with raging fury, “I’ll make you wish you had never done this,” he promised shaking like a delirium patient and headed for the bedroom. He came back with a belt dangling in his right arm, but Chisomo had disappeared so was Naliyera.
“She…she bolted away when you went into the bedroom,” Naliyera informed him struggling to get her breath back. “I chased her but couldn’t catch her. I don’t know where she has gone to.”
“I don’t care,” Kabudula said. His breathing was rapid. “Wherever, she has gone let her rot. How dare she disgrace this family? How dare she?”
Three days passed; Kabudula was unconcerned not in the slightest sense of her whereabouts. He kept on saying “let her rot.” But after a week, his anger cooled down and uneasiness gripped him. Where was his daughter, he almost asked himself loudly. On the tenth day, he was more than desperate to know of her whereabouts.
“If not for you Chisomo would have been here,” he screamed an accusation at his wife as guilty-conscious struck him.
“Don’t shift that crap on me,” Naliyera retorted back, “you’re the one who threatened to beat her. Not me!”
“But you told me to punish her,” Kabudula defended himself and added in resignation: “Anyway, the thing is we both didn’t act wisely.”
“I’ve realised that kids sometimes do things you don’t except them to do,” he reasoned regretfully, “We acted as if her being pregnant was the end of everything.”
“I don’t care now what people will say,” Naliyera added with vigour, “but Chisomo needs our support more than anything in this world. She’s needs a companion. She needs someone to give her comfort and hope. I regret my earlier actions.” She confessed with virile eloquence.
“Let’s go and look for our kid,” Kabudula commanded at last
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Somethings In Life
Mateso Kazembe
I had boarded an express bus going to Mzuzu at Limbe depot at 6 PM and had the double-seat to myself until a young boy of about 12 got in and sat next to me. He, for a minute or so, concentrated on settling himself comfortably and then offered me a greeting to which I responded with a smile. I was about to ask him where he was going when he abandoned the seat for another one that was behind me.
I hardly spared the boy any more thought and shifted my full attention to the interviews I was to attend in Mzuzu the following day in the afternoon. This was to be my very first interview since graduating from college the previous two years. A bulk of my classmates had landed themselves jobs in various government and private institutions and it seemed I was among the unlucky minority that was still languishing in joblessness.
Casting back in my mind, I recalled to have applied for over a hundred jobs, but for some mysterious reasons, I was not called for interviews. As I marvelled why fate had chosen to treat me in such a way, I offered a silent prayer to God to give me this job, as it was my only hope and lifeline.
Finally, the bus pulled out of the depot leaving behind a cloud of black-oily smoke from its exhaust pipe. As it made its first stop at Kachere, just some 5 km from Limbe, the 12 year-old boy who had initially sat by me amused everyone when he asked the conductor if we had reached Salima.
The conductor wearing an amused smile on his lips answered the boy with a flat no frivolously and continued issuing tickets. At Namadzi as the bus stopped for the second time, the boy was at it again. He hesitantly asked from the lanky conductor if this was Salima. Again, he got a flat no, but this time the conductor’s tone depicted some annoyance. Considering the boy’s age, my earlier surprise began to fade. I realised that it was just a safety precaution from him to make sure that he was not lost. After all, as young as he was, he was alone in the bus without a guardian.
But still, I began questioning the motive of his parents at allowing a small boy like him to embark on such a long journey alone and at night and to a destination he did not know. I felt sad for the boy and told myself I had to do something. As I reflected on how I was to assure the boy that I would tell him when we reached Salima, he was at it again when the bus drove into Zomba depot.
“Son, let off the pressure and cool down, I’ll personally tell you when we get there,” the conductor promised impatiently, “just take a little sleep.”
“Worry not kid,” I added assuredly, “Salima is a long way. I’ll tell you. Just sleep.”
The boy humbly obeyed and truly went to sleep.
The driver never allowing the engine revulsions of the bus to drop drove into Balaka two hours later from Zomba. From the way the bus was moving, I was impressed. I had not anticipated being in Balaka by 10 PM. This meant I would arrive in Mzuzu at a good time and fully prepare for the interviews.
The little boy was forgotten. Half the bus was asleep and those who were still chatting were in the dark about the little boy’s fate. The conductor was preoccupied with issuing tickets to passengers that had just boarded. Even I myself though I was fully awake at Salima depot, I had completely forgotten about him.
Now as the bus made its next stop in Nkhotakota, the boy woke from his slumber and asked again. Immediately, I was conscious stricken, so was the conductor and everybody that knew the boy’s fate. Guilty was written all over the conductor’s face. He tried to force a smile but it dissolved into an affecting grimace. He had betrayed the boy. I too kept silent in shame for letting him down. I did not posses the courage to look at him.
There was only one way to help the boy. The bus had to return to Salima and drop him. Despite there being protestations, a consensus was reached and the bus set off for Salima. One and a half hours later, we reached Salima again.
“Son, sorry for everything,” the conductor apologised, “this is Salima.”
The boy made no move, to everybody’s surprise. But instead he unzipped his bag and started fumbling for something.
“Hey, little imp,” an old man close to the boy, said angrily, “You’re wasting our time. Didn’t you hear him; he said this is Salima as you wished.” And the response that came from the boy resulted in a silence that was heavy and lucid as crystal for a moment before the whole bus exploded into gales of laughter. The little boy confessed in a calm voice that his mother had given him some food that he was supposed to start eating when he reached Salima, but he was going to Mzuzu.
I was the one who laughed most. But the conductor laughed all the way and he was not ashamed to brag the story to anyone who boarded the bus along the way. The old man who was close to the boy had tears running down his cheeks. Everyone was amused.
The bus finally arrived in Mzuzu at 5:30 AM.
And as if by coincidence, in the interviews that afternoon, I was asked to say any story when I confessed that I was a writer and I diligently said this one. I was told that I had gotten the job the following week.
I had boarded an express bus going to Mzuzu at Limbe depot at 6 PM and had the double-seat to myself until a young boy of about 12 got in and sat next to me. He, for a minute or so, concentrated on settling himself comfortably and then offered me a greeting to which I responded with a smile. I was about to ask him where he was going when he abandoned the seat for another one that was behind me.
I hardly spared the boy any more thought and shifted my full attention to the interviews I was to attend in Mzuzu the following day in the afternoon. This was to be my very first interview since graduating from college the previous two years. A bulk of my classmates had landed themselves jobs in various government and private institutions and it seemed I was among the unlucky minority that was still languishing in joblessness.
Casting back in my mind, I recalled to have applied for over a hundred jobs, but for some mysterious reasons, I was not called for interviews. As I marvelled why fate had chosen to treat me in such a way, I offered a silent prayer to God to give me this job, as it was my only hope and lifeline.
Finally, the bus pulled out of the depot leaving behind a cloud of black-oily smoke from its exhaust pipe. As it made its first stop at Kachere, just some 5 km from Limbe, the 12 year-old boy who had initially sat by me amused everyone when he asked the conductor if we had reached Salima.
The conductor wearing an amused smile on his lips answered the boy with a flat no frivolously and continued issuing tickets. At Namadzi as the bus stopped for the second time, the boy was at it again. He hesitantly asked from the lanky conductor if this was Salima. Again, he got a flat no, but this time the conductor’s tone depicted some annoyance. Considering the boy’s age, my earlier surprise began to fade. I realised that it was just a safety precaution from him to make sure that he was not lost. After all, as young as he was, he was alone in the bus without a guardian.
But still, I began questioning the motive of his parents at allowing a small boy like him to embark on such a long journey alone and at night and to a destination he did not know. I felt sad for the boy and told myself I had to do something. As I reflected on how I was to assure the boy that I would tell him when we reached Salima, he was at it again when the bus drove into Zomba depot.
“Son, let off the pressure and cool down, I’ll personally tell you when we get there,” the conductor promised impatiently, “just take a little sleep.”
“Worry not kid,” I added assuredly, “Salima is a long way. I’ll tell you. Just sleep.”
The boy humbly obeyed and truly went to sleep.
The driver never allowing the engine revulsions of the bus to drop drove into Balaka two hours later from Zomba. From the way the bus was moving, I was impressed. I had not anticipated being in Balaka by 10 PM. This meant I would arrive in Mzuzu at a good time and fully prepare for the interviews.
The little boy was forgotten. Half the bus was asleep and those who were still chatting were in the dark about the little boy’s fate. The conductor was preoccupied with issuing tickets to passengers that had just boarded. Even I myself though I was fully awake at Salima depot, I had completely forgotten about him.
Now as the bus made its next stop in Nkhotakota, the boy woke from his slumber and asked again. Immediately, I was conscious stricken, so was the conductor and everybody that knew the boy’s fate. Guilty was written all over the conductor’s face. He tried to force a smile but it dissolved into an affecting grimace. He had betrayed the boy. I too kept silent in shame for letting him down. I did not posses the courage to look at him.
There was only one way to help the boy. The bus had to return to Salima and drop him. Despite there being protestations, a consensus was reached and the bus set off for Salima. One and a half hours later, we reached Salima again.
“Son, sorry for everything,” the conductor apologised, “this is Salima.”
The boy made no move, to everybody’s surprise. But instead he unzipped his bag and started fumbling for something.
“Hey, little imp,” an old man close to the boy, said angrily, “You’re wasting our time. Didn’t you hear him; he said this is Salima as you wished.” And the response that came from the boy resulted in a silence that was heavy and lucid as crystal for a moment before the whole bus exploded into gales of laughter. The little boy confessed in a calm voice that his mother had given him some food that he was supposed to start eating when he reached Salima, but he was going to Mzuzu.
I was the one who laughed most. But the conductor laughed all the way and he was not ashamed to brag the story to anyone who boarded the bus along the way. The old man who was close to the boy had tears running down his cheeks. Everyone was amused.
The bus finally arrived in Mzuzu at 5:30 AM.
And as if by coincidence, in the interviews that afternoon, I was asked to say any story when I confessed that I was a writer and I diligently said this one. I was told that I had gotten the job the following week.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Moment of Truth
By Mateso Kazembe
It was a few minutes before midnight and Kabudula had not eaten anything since morning. An almost empty bottle of kachasu and a tumbler stood on the untidy floor within reach of his dangling arm. He reached down for it and poured what remained of the kachasu into the tumbler, raised it to his lips and guzzled the contents. He shuddered as the raw spirit went down his throat.
His house was in a mess like a garbage pit. The floor was unswept and gritty with sand. Dirty plates and mugs lay higgledy-piggledy on the table and a column of black ants was climbing one leg to reach them. To his left, there was a frying pan and pots which were greasy with congealed leftovers.
Kabudula was in helpless bondage to earth’s cruelty. His life had been ransacked of every good thing it used to have after his parents died intestate. Kape, his uncle had pounced savagely on what they had left. He had taken up everything even the bric-a-brac leaving him with practically nothing. His life had turned topsy-turvy then. Financial problems had become acute. Every plan he had in store had crumbled to dust and his prospects for a good future had vanished.
Pain that even faith would never relieve had bivouacked in his heart. He had slided into drinking then and his life was now a mess. He had become bibulous and an inveterate sot.
As he sat on his only chair with the empty tumbler in his hand, he glanced at the empty bottle of kachasu and instantly began conceiving plans of refuelling it. Beer was his only acquaintance who lessened the sharp edge of problems and gentled down the pitiless sun of reality that beat down on him.
Next morning as he was coming from refilling his bottle, he met Burandi an old friend of his father who was shocked to see him in such a state.
“Oh! Kabudula, why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked struck with pity at how he looked.
“When did it become your business how I look?” he dismissed him and swallowed some beer into his mouth. “Just leave me alone old man or do you want some?” he asked with a soup-con of malice in his voice as he swished the kachasu through his teeth, rinsing his mouth with it and Burandi refused by shaking his head. “This is the only solace I have after everybody has deserted me,” he confessed helping himself again and marvelled: “Nothing like it.”
“I understand you, son,” Burandi said with a sorrowful mien, “I know it’s painful to lose parents and everything. Really painful. But don’t be so disheartened by it. You’ve to acknowledge that death is the final phase of life; everybody will go through it. You see, life is never ‘all beer and skittles.’ Sometimes, you need to be a brave man that smiles in the face of adversity, who learns to take the smooth and rough as they come.”
In his drunken stupor, Burandi’s words revitalised his hopes. His tongue was a hermitage of hope and inspiration for Kabudula. He was a soothing voice he had needed, offering words of comfort that bandaged his wounded being and assuaged his pains.
Miraculously, Kabudula’s life took on a new pattern. He sponged out the past bitter memories and looked forward. He entrusted his faith in books just as the saints put theirs in God. There developed something in him that constantly demanded more and he fought for it. He studied with unfaltering determination and unflagging energies; tackled problems with unswerving devotion and became a voracious student for more knowledge. As studying became a quenchless urge in his quest for gold, exams found him armed to the teeth. He made it college and graduated with flying colours.
Twelve years later, on a sombre weekend, Kabudula was at the veranda of his magnificent home when he saw a gaunt reed thin man coming towards his house. The stranger, with lips that were chapped and rough, had a wizened face grimed with dust. He was really a pitiful sight. As he concentrated on his face, he was struck by something familiar about it. When he struggled with the memory, he was breathless to realise that this was Kape, that meretricious rascal now emaciated by illness. The disease he was suffering from had reduced him to a tiny shrivelled figure without juices or vitality.
“What’s it you want from me you heartless old man?” he heckled with asperity when Kape reached the foot of the veranda.
“Son,” he said rubbing sweat from his cadaverous face with his fetid clothes, “I know I don’t deserve to be here. You’ve every right to chase me for what I did to you. But Kabudula, I’m here for your forgiveness. I’ll soon kick a bucket and I wish to die a happy man. Would you forgive me, please,” he confessed and each word came hard.
Kabudula kept mum, short of words. Kape’s state aroused compassion in him. Of course, he had sworn never to forgive him for the injustice he had done to him, but he had not conceived he would die like this. His body had surrendered to a pearly withering and he was nothing but a bag of bones.
“I’m ashamed of my avarice, son. I don’t know what came over me. I was a fool,” he scolded himself shaking his head in incomprehension. “I apologise to you. I’ve been thinking about the life I’ve lived these past years. There are things I did that I don’t even know who that person was that did those things; he doesn’t seem related to me. Son, it’s a shame you’ve to be dying to know this,” he said weak voiced and edgy and began crying. He came apart as if he had thrown a piston in one of the valves of his heart and absently, Kabudula approached him and embraced him.
“It’s ok, uncle,” he said, “It’s ok.”
It was a few minutes before midnight and Kabudula had not eaten anything since morning. An almost empty bottle of kachasu and a tumbler stood on the untidy floor within reach of his dangling arm. He reached down for it and poured what remained of the kachasu into the tumbler, raised it to his lips and guzzled the contents. He shuddered as the raw spirit went down his throat.
His house was in a mess like a garbage pit. The floor was unswept and gritty with sand. Dirty plates and mugs lay higgledy-piggledy on the table and a column of black ants was climbing one leg to reach them. To his left, there was a frying pan and pots which were greasy with congealed leftovers.
Kabudula was in helpless bondage to earth’s cruelty. His life had been ransacked of every good thing it used to have after his parents died intestate. Kape, his uncle had pounced savagely on what they had left. He had taken up everything even the bric-a-brac leaving him with practically nothing. His life had turned topsy-turvy then. Financial problems had become acute. Every plan he had in store had crumbled to dust and his prospects for a good future had vanished.
Pain that even faith would never relieve had bivouacked in his heart. He had slided into drinking then and his life was now a mess. He had become bibulous and an inveterate sot.
As he sat on his only chair with the empty tumbler in his hand, he glanced at the empty bottle of kachasu and instantly began conceiving plans of refuelling it. Beer was his only acquaintance who lessened the sharp edge of problems and gentled down the pitiless sun of reality that beat down on him.
Next morning as he was coming from refilling his bottle, he met Burandi an old friend of his father who was shocked to see him in such a state.
“Oh! Kabudula, why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked struck with pity at how he looked.
“When did it become your business how I look?” he dismissed him and swallowed some beer into his mouth. “Just leave me alone old man or do you want some?” he asked with a soup-con of malice in his voice as he swished the kachasu through his teeth, rinsing his mouth with it and Burandi refused by shaking his head. “This is the only solace I have after everybody has deserted me,” he confessed helping himself again and marvelled: “Nothing like it.”
“I understand you, son,” Burandi said with a sorrowful mien, “I know it’s painful to lose parents and everything. Really painful. But don’t be so disheartened by it. You’ve to acknowledge that death is the final phase of life; everybody will go through it. You see, life is never ‘all beer and skittles.’ Sometimes, you need to be a brave man that smiles in the face of adversity, who learns to take the smooth and rough as they come.”
In his drunken stupor, Burandi’s words revitalised his hopes. His tongue was a hermitage of hope and inspiration for Kabudula. He was a soothing voice he had needed, offering words of comfort that bandaged his wounded being and assuaged his pains.
Miraculously, Kabudula’s life took on a new pattern. He sponged out the past bitter memories and looked forward. He entrusted his faith in books just as the saints put theirs in God. There developed something in him that constantly demanded more and he fought for it. He studied with unfaltering determination and unflagging energies; tackled problems with unswerving devotion and became a voracious student for more knowledge. As studying became a quenchless urge in his quest for gold, exams found him armed to the teeth. He made it college and graduated with flying colours.
Twelve years later, on a sombre weekend, Kabudula was at the veranda of his magnificent home when he saw a gaunt reed thin man coming towards his house. The stranger, with lips that were chapped and rough, had a wizened face grimed with dust. He was really a pitiful sight. As he concentrated on his face, he was struck by something familiar about it. When he struggled with the memory, he was breathless to realise that this was Kape, that meretricious rascal now emaciated by illness. The disease he was suffering from had reduced him to a tiny shrivelled figure without juices or vitality.
“What’s it you want from me you heartless old man?” he heckled with asperity when Kape reached the foot of the veranda.
“Son,” he said rubbing sweat from his cadaverous face with his fetid clothes, “I know I don’t deserve to be here. You’ve every right to chase me for what I did to you. But Kabudula, I’m here for your forgiveness. I’ll soon kick a bucket and I wish to die a happy man. Would you forgive me, please,” he confessed and each word came hard.
Kabudula kept mum, short of words. Kape’s state aroused compassion in him. Of course, he had sworn never to forgive him for the injustice he had done to him, but he had not conceived he would die like this. His body had surrendered to a pearly withering and he was nothing but a bag of bones.
“I’m ashamed of my avarice, son. I don’t know what came over me. I was a fool,” he scolded himself shaking his head in incomprehension. “I apologise to you. I’ve been thinking about the life I’ve lived these past years. There are things I did that I don’t even know who that person was that did those things; he doesn’t seem related to me. Son, it’s a shame you’ve to be dying to know this,” he said weak voiced and edgy and began crying. He came apart as if he had thrown a piston in one of the valves of his heart and absently, Kabudula approached him and embraced him.
“It’s ok, uncle,” he said, “It’s ok.”
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Privatise Water Boards
by Mateso Kazembe
Tension has started brewing upon recent media reports that government is advancing plans to privatise the country’s water services in particular Blantyre Water Board (BWB) and Lilongwe Water Board (LWB). This has generated concerns and debate about government’s wisdom of wanting to privatise the water services both from individuals and the civil service organisations.
There is no gainsaying that lately, privatisation of state owned enterprises (SOEs) has become both politically unpopular and detestable among most Malawians. This is evident from the rising tides of public discontent that emanate from rumours or reports that government is privatising a certain firm.
One then may tend to wonder why government despite constant protests that privatisation is harmful to the poor masses, it still continue privatising SOEs.
From my point of view, it appears, most Malawians out there do not have a complete vivid view and understanding of the activities embracing privatisation; that is why the most quoted “evils” of privatising SOEs are job loss, company closure and unemployment. Everything said against it is taken as gospel and creates its own panic.
However, it ought to be noted that privatisation is not black as it is painted and the debate surrounding privatisation of SOEs obscures the variety of roles private enterprises play. This article then will act as a glimpse why government has kept its ‘chin up’ and said it want to privatise water boards though there are fears that this would put the poor Malawian in a very awkward situation.
It is to the knowledge of every Malawian that good water services are crucial for both public health and national economic development. However, water services in the country are characterised by a huge disparity between the urban and rural areas. Most areas in Blantyre and Lilongwe suffer from a deficit of coverage. Thousands and thousands are still unconnected to piped water. On top of that, despite the country having one of Africa’s largest lakes and a horde of rivers that run all year round in all three regions, there comes a time when piped water becomes a real problem. Industries using water as a raw material in their production process have their operations ground to a halt and in the process, a lot of billions of kwacha being lost. All this is because of lack of government capacity.
Hence, by privatising water boards, the government is looking for a lasting solution. It has a desire to have improved water services to the satisfaction of every Malawian; the constant grumbling about water boards being inefficient to be forgotten and become history. Industries’ operations will ground to a halt from other problems but not water shortage.
The precarious state of the country’s water services-if one is to judge from the traditional yearly acute water shortages or the presence of faeces in treated water, as was the reported case in Ndirande-can be attributed to government’s lack of funds necessary to carry out the improvement and expansion of water services and water boards in general. Our water boards have also been affected by indebtedness and other financial problems. Often times, they do not have access to sources of commercial finance, as they lack such requisites as creditworthiness: this consequently posses growing pressure on the public budget.
This being the case, I do not see any reason why the government should not privatise the water boards.
There is mounting evidence that private sector participation has provided significant improvement in public sector delivery. Bakhresa Grain and Milling (G&M), Mapeto (DWSM) and Mchenga Coal Mine are some of the quintessence of the goodness of privatisation. There was a time when production of wheat and maize flour at Bakhresa G&M was zero, but barely some months after private hands took over, production rose to 24 697 metric tonnes of wheat milled and 3 400 metric tonnes of maize milled respectively. As for Mchenga mine, coal extraction was a mere 85 metric tonnes per day, which later increased to an outstanding 560 metric tonnes a day when a private firm took over. Similarly, Mapeto (DWSM) is currently enjoying a production of 70 000 linear metres of cloth a day from a meagre 1 200 linear metres, all this due to privatisation. This entails that Mapeto (DWSM) can now produce export and as a result bring in the much-needed foreign exchange.
I have every reason to believe the very same thing would result from the privatisation of our water services because private enterprises are more efficient than public enterprises. They also increase the financial resources needed for service improvement. Private operators seek the highest possible efficiency in order to maximize commercial returns and reduce possible losses from inefficiency and non-paying customers. In return efficiency gains benefit all service users, in particular, the poor.
It is also without question that the country’s water boards are characterised by too much political “interference” and corruption. The management also, most of the times, is an unqualified and mostly chosen based on political appeasement policy. The consequences of such actions are that the standard of work is compromised and gross abuse of public resources in form of unpaid bills and use of vehicles to ferry party loyalists. We can only say bye to all this if the water boards are in private hands.
In addition, by being in private hands, it means the government would no longer subsidise operations of the water boards which entails they will no longer be using tax payers money to survive. This implies that the government would be dishing fewer subventions. The saved money will in turn be used on other pressing social needs.
Lastly, it is quite sad that only the shortfalls of privatisation of SOEs are highlighted. People do argue that private firms driven by the lust for more profits would retrench workers to achieve this motive. As I agree that there might be some grain of truth in these claims, at times the opposite happens: jobs are saved and others created. There is an insurmountable evidence to back up this. At one time, Bakhresa G&M and Mapeto (DWSM) were in a very convoluted situation. Government had halted production, retrenched workers and was only maintaining a skeleton temporary staff. Creditors were filling injunctions and petitions to wind up the business. However, barely a few months these companies were privatised, a great many of these jobs were saved and all the creditors secured. Above all, there were increased investments. Mapeto invested K475 million in new machinery and repairs while Bakhresa G&M invested about K900 Million in a new mill. This I believe again would likely follow privatisation of water boards. New investments will come in, a lot more jobs created and water services will improve both in quality and quantity.
As an endnote, privatisation of water boards as well as bringing in new investments, creating new jobs and providing water services of improved quality and quantity will benefit every Malawian abundantly. Privatisation of water services should not disturb our peace. There is nothing to be jittery about; it is for our own especial benefit, not an economic suicide as others envisage it to be. Hence, let us all support the privatisation of water boards.
There is no gainsaying that lately, privatisation of state owned enterprises (SOEs) has become both politically unpopular and detestable among most Malawians. This is evident from the rising tides of public discontent that emanate from rumours or reports that government is privatising a certain firm.
One then may tend to wonder why government despite constant protests that privatisation is harmful to the poor masses, it still continue privatising SOEs.
From my point of view, it appears, most Malawians out there do not have a complete vivid view and understanding of the activities embracing privatisation; that is why the most quoted “evils” of privatising SOEs are job loss, company closure and unemployment. Everything said against it is taken as gospel and creates its own panic.
However, it ought to be noted that privatisation is not black as it is painted and the debate surrounding privatisation of SOEs obscures the variety of roles private enterprises play. This article then will act as a glimpse why government has kept its ‘chin up’ and said it want to privatise water boards though there are fears that this would put the poor Malawian in a very awkward situation.
It is to the knowledge of every Malawian that good water services are crucial for both public health and national economic development. However, water services in the country are characterised by a huge disparity between the urban and rural areas. Most areas in Blantyre and Lilongwe suffer from a deficit of coverage. Thousands and thousands are still unconnected to piped water. On top of that, despite the country having one of Africa’s largest lakes and a horde of rivers that run all year round in all three regions, there comes a time when piped water becomes a real problem. Industries using water as a raw material in their production process have their operations ground to a halt and in the process, a lot of billions of kwacha being lost. All this is because of lack of government capacity.
Hence, by privatising water boards, the government is looking for a lasting solution. It has a desire to have improved water services to the satisfaction of every Malawian; the constant grumbling about water boards being inefficient to be forgotten and become history. Industries’ operations will ground to a halt from other problems but not water shortage.
The precarious state of the country’s water services-if one is to judge from the traditional yearly acute water shortages or the presence of faeces in treated water, as was the reported case in Ndirande-can be attributed to government’s lack of funds necessary to carry out the improvement and expansion of water services and water boards in general. Our water boards have also been affected by indebtedness and other financial problems. Often times, they do not have access to sources of commercial finance, as they lack such requisites as creditworthiness: this consequently posses growing pressure on the public budget.
This being the case, I do not see any reason why the government should not privatise the water boards.
There is mounting evidence that private sector participation has provided significant improvement in public sector delivery. Bakhresa Grain and Milling (G&M), Mapeto (DWSM) and Mchenga Coal Mine are some of the quintessence of the goodness of privatisation. There was a time when production of wheat and maize flour at Bakhresa G&M was zero, but barely some months after private hands took over, production rose to 24 697 metric tonnes of wheat milled and 3 400 metric tonnes of maize milled respectively. As for Mchenga mine, coal extraction was a mere 85 metric tonnes per day, which later increased to an outstanding 560 metric tonnes a day when a private firm took over. Similarly, Mapeto (DWSM) is currently enjoying a production of 70 000 linear metres of cloth a day from a meagre 1 200 linear metres, all this due to privatisation. This entails that Mapeto (DWSM) can now produce export and as a result bring in the much-needed foreign exchange.
I have every reason to believe the very same thing would result from the privatisation of our water services because private enterprises are more efficient than public enterprises. They also increase the financial resources needed for service improvement. Private operators seek the highest possible efficiency in order to maximize commercial returns and reduce possible losses from inefficiency and non-paying customers. In return efficiency gains benefit all service users, in particular, the poor.
It is also without question that the country’s water boards are characterised by too much political “interference” and corruption. The management also, most of the times, is an unqualified and mostly chosen based on political appeasement policy. The consequences of such actions are that the standard of work is compromised and gross abuse of public resources in form of unpaid bills and use of vehicles to ferry party loyalists. We can only say bye to all this if the water boards are in private hands.
In addition, by being in private hands, it means the government would no longer subsidise operations of the water boards which entails they will no longer be using tax payers money to survive. This implies that the government would be dishing fewer subventions. The saved money will in turn be used on other pressing social needs.
Lastly, it is quite sad that only the shortfalls of privatisation of SOEs are highlighted. People do argue that private firms driven by the lust for more profits would retrench workers to achieve this motive. As I agree that there might be some grain of truth in these claims, at times the opposite happens: jobs are saved and others created. There is an insurmountable evidence to back up this. At one time, Bakhresa G&M and Mapeto (DWSM) were in a very convoluted situation. Government had halted production, retrenched workers and was only maintaining a skeleton temporary staff. Creditors were filling injunctions and petitions to wind up the business. However, barely a few months these companies were privatised, a great many of these jobs were saved and all the creditors secured. Above all, there were increased investments. Mapeto invested K475 million in new machinery and repairs while Bakhresa G&M invested about K900 Million in a new mill. This I believe again would likely follow privatisation of water boards. New investments will come in, a lot more jobs created and water services will improve both in quality and quantity.
As an endnote, privatisation of water boards as well as bringing in new investments, creating new jobs and providing water services of improved quality and quantity will benefit every Malawian abundantly. Privatisation of water services should not disturb our peace. There is nothing to be jittery about; it is for our own especial benefit, not an economic suicide as others envisage it to be. Hence, let us all support the privatisation of water boards.
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