Kondwani Kamiyala

By Kondwani Kamiyala, first published in The Nation on Sunday newspaper. A thought for town mongers, and those in the diaspora. At first, it was Edgar and Davis’s song Musamabwere Kumudzi that compelled me to make the visit to my native land in Dowa. The last time I went there was in 1989, when I was just a Standard Four pupil, so that piece of music made me agree: it is not a wise thing to return to your roots as a corpse. They said the road to Dowa is not smooth. Yet, I enjoyed it. The dusty road which branches from the M1 at Dowa Turn-off to the district headquarters is paracetamol-coaxing but, as a matter of fact, the dust road from the turn-off to Dowa central was smooth for me, considering that earlier on, I had traveled from Blantyre to Balaka for 12 hours. It was all thanks to a Shire Buslines night rider that broke down twice—for some five hours near the Kamuzu Stadium in Blantyre and for another two hours somewhere between Zomba and Liwonde. Travelling from se

This is an excerpt from my upcoming maiden novel. The title is not fully determined, but it will be published later in the year. It's a journey through politics, romance, history, Malawian mysticism...... An hour later The high-class BCA suburb residential area was getting dark quickly, a cold breeze was sweeping through the night from the Thyolo Highlands. Reverend Dr MacDonald Chando was feeling cold, in spite of the cardigan he was putting on and the log fire chuckling at the fireplace. And he felt rather restless. He drew a Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible from the bookshelf and went to sit by the fire. The Bible always restored peace in his mind. The press conference that changed the course of politics in the land had gotten to his head, though he had been silent for the greater part of it. Throughout the afternoon, he had made so many silent prayers, calling for the success of their cause. But still, something at the back of his mind told him something could go wron

IMFA Usachite matama imfa Thakati ndiwe Opanda chisoni Polodza akulu Ndiwedi mbanda Mantha ulibe Wamayi moyo pokhwathula Yosamva mankhwala Nthenda ndiwe kuli chete ana watengera Kwanthawi ndakusaka Ndikakupeza ndikupha Usachite matama imfa.

Political Promises Popular people play politics Exposing plastic hopes opposite penury Promising people power of poverty Poor people persevere Pleonastic promises for prosperity Politicians perpetually permit Weep not Ô people Political promise is not the pill To pacify your poliomyelitis of poverty. --------------------------------- The Protest March This black land you know, son Knew protest marches before democracy Your granny has led marches Villagers follow him Down the village paths in protest Women have wailed here Men have groaned there Old men sob and moan After a nocturnal sit-in at the nsiwa Things must change Some propagate religious lies We loved, but God loved most All is not lost, for peace comes As we walk down the village paths To the grave, protesting Protesting against death.

1. Yeah, senseless Yeah, Senseless Do you hear? All women are mine, Webster In my Angolan village. Incorrigible corrupt Creating chicken economics At Bretton Woods, COMESA ….international thievery. Still, you dream And you, With your sexually transmitted degrees Retire to abyssimal oblivion I drank your water Swallowed your bait Waited waited and waited That fool is a politician he fooled me AGAIN Yeah, Senseless 2. A Baby is a Politician A baby is a politician when he needs us he comes crawling begging cajoling kneeling To the point of weeping When he comes of age Denies we changed his diapers.

Kulira Kwanga Poem by Kondwani Kamiyala, as recited before President Bingu wa Mutharika on Anti-Corruption Day, 2005 Uku ndi kulira kwanga Kulilira mchimwene wanga Wapita nayo njala atalephera kuhonga wachimanga Koposadi ndamulira poti ampingo anakana kuyimbiea chifukwa abusa zam'manja sadapatsidwe Dzana adalephera wakumadzi ulendo kumaphunziro adalibe passport Passport Officer ankafuna naye atadyapo Dzulo ntchito adamukana mkulu wangayu Olemba amafuna ya Fanta Osati degree yake Inde, malume anga ndiwalira Atsikira kuli chete, osathandizidwa Dotolo atapotoza mlomo anati: m'thumba sapisa ndi chibakela Kuuza mtolankhani zakulira kwanga Mopanda mankhalu anandilumira mano “Opanda chipondamthengo kapena kuwasha palibe nkhani apa” Mayi Malawi, imvani kulira kwanga Laziphuphu tchimo, n'lowawa zedi Inu andale, azamalamulo Atolankhani, apolisi, abizinesi achipatala, amipingo eeeeeh, a Malawi tonse tithane ndiziphuphu kuti lathu dziko tikweze kuti liyende mkaka ndi uchi waulemelero o

Thick blood Short Story by Kondwani Kamiyala I remember that particular Monday morning for it was at the month-end. I had just got my salary and had spent more than half of it settling bills, paying back debts and buying groceries at the weekend. Each of the 20 teachers at Dzukani School has his own desk in the staffroom. Mine is at the far left of the room. Against the wall is my locker, where I keep my handies: a chalk box, notebooks, a coffee mug.... I loved my corner, for I could see everything that was going on in the staffroom with the least effort and without my presence being heavily felt. That Monday morning, the Biology teacher, Mrs. Dithi, was chatting with Mrs. Chatha, the Geography teacher. Mrs Chatha was renowned among teachers and students for her tongue in cheek. The two were talking about the engagement party they had been to on Sunday. One girl, who had been a student at the school some years back, was getting engaged to a reputable businessman. "If you ask me, I

For Brown Vitsitsi and Chawezi Chirwa: taught, my friends, you now teach future teachers the complexities of learning…. Tapiwa I ignored the knock at my front door. Usually, when I mark the students’ work, I do not entertain any disturbances, let alone interruptions. The students’ English notebooks, heaped on my coffee table, stared at me, as if challenging my intellect. I had promised myself I would finish them all by eight, in three hours’ time. The knock persisted. I rose from the reed basket chair and walked towards the door. When I held the knob, I looked around the room. My living room was a mess: books were lying all over the place, the plates I had used at lunch were still on the table and I do not know when I last mopped the floor, to say the least. Why should I care, I reasoned, every visitor into my home knows this is a bachelor’s lair. I froze when I saw the visitor. It was Tapiwa, one of my students. She smiled at me. She turned around and nodded at me when our eyes locked

I welcome you, wherever you may be, to this my blog. Here I take you into the literary world of my sort. It is a traverse into my culture, my roots and, my writing. By extension, I still believe in the same old Nizanian belief that Writing Eases my Pain a Little. I guess writing has that theraupetic value, both to the writer, and the reader. All writing that is devoid of such a salutary value is not worth the name.