Kondwani Kamiyala

IT'S BEEN quite some time since I last posted at this blog. Primarily, I had to turn back and look into myself again. What did I really seek to achieve by setting up this blog? Primarily, it was a means of getting my works of literature to be read by friends spread across the world. My initial belief was also that this blog would act as an electronic archive for my work. It was necessary to store my work electronically for those who care to access it at any time from any place. Not that my work matters, but simply because I have to have my own voice as it were. In doing this, little did I know that a new fire would be ignited by those initial posts. I discovered that there was more I could do to this blog. That is why I delved into culture (see A Return to My Native Land , which goes to the sub-root of my Chewa roots). I also went into art and the arts, like tackling the exhibition by artist Massa Lemu and writer Timwa Lipenga. I also tackled travel, with the post Memories from the

a Short Story by Kondwani Kamiyala THE OCTOBER noon sun was high up the blue sky, and the boys could feel its scorching heat on the sandy soil beneath their feet. Hoes perched on the shoulders, hunger, thirst and tiredness gripped the boys as they trod on the lonesome path linking Chatha Village and the maize fields. Since daybreak, they had been in the field tilling the land in preparations for the first rains. Mabvuto and Zuze had taken heed of their widowed mother's advice to work hard in the field. With that heat, she had said, they should expect the first rains any time and they should never be caught sleeping. As they approached the village, they noticed a group of villagers gathered in front of the house of the village's most feared person, Chikanga. From what they could make out, Chikanga was in a rage of fury, as he was speaking with swift hand gestures. Saliva was coming out of his mouth, showering on those that were close to him. "How dare you cross my path? Why

IT WAS June 1992. I remember the time so vividly. I was a standard seven pupil at one of the public primary schools in Blantyre. Anyone who was in standard three or seven during the Kamuzu days had the most interesting experience of the Dr. Banda propaganda machinery. As little children, we did displays in praise of the Ngwazi during the MCP annual festivals at the Kamuzu Stadium. Such rallies characterised the opening of the Youth Week, Kamuzu Day and Independence Day celebrations. We were at such rehearsals for the 28th Independence Day celebrations that June. But it was different from the previous years in that at that time, pressure was rising against' Dr. Banda's 'dictatorship'. Kamlepo Kalua, Shyley Kondowe and others were speaking highly against the evils of Dr. Banda's rule on the South African Channel Africa. Malawians were aroused by such messages against oppression. One day, general strikes erupted in all the major cities. City Assembly staff, on strike,

The slave is free Thought has no yokes The prisoner is free There is no prison for dreams Freedom is at the poor man’s door Sleep is never sold Man is not born free Slavery, bondage at birth end where the umbilical cord is cut I wrote this short poem titled Liberty sometime back. My inspiration at the time was a young man who was in prison for a year. Of course, at the time, I was also thinking about poverty and democracy in Malawi. Apparently, the young man spent two years in the prison for a rather weird crime: His brother was involved in a high profile armed robbery and murder case and bolted. When the police came to his home, they arrested his younger brother (I will call him AMMS, for want of a name) and sister. After a day or two, the sister was released. Police went on to give evidence against AMMS, for crimes committed by his brother. He was sentenced to go to jail and do seven years. Hearing of his younger brother’s fate, the malefactor gave himself up to police who arrested