My pen has dug in deep and it refuses to die.
Its crimson ink desires to portray concealed dark images
Of the outlying past that were once trampled beneath embryonic
Loads of word stipulating the organic rules.
My pen keeps on marking down
Dark patches of his magnificence.
As it ignores the white ones good for the other side of olden times
But I can’t oblige it to put down what it does not crave to.
The hand fails to control the progress of my pen.
It takes its course without heeding suggestion
That would secrete the sticky patches of his lordship
That taint his glorious throne crammed with splendour.
It keeps on writing down
About days gone, money squandered, economic management.
It ignores the development that is seen through a microscope
Which is still part of the history made.
Yet I reserve no right to halt it
Let it write what, when and where its heart desires
For it is a stubborn pen in gentle hands.
My paper crunches itself up and moves into a dancing hearth
When my hand forces my pen to take opposite directions.
History can’t be twisted
To save a few avaricious faces
No! It can’t be suppressed
For every book holds the past.
That is why my paper cries for the truth
And only the truth to be put on it.
Then it will dance and fly across the earth
Informing all and sundry
That whatever it is, his kingship has made history.
As my pen refuses to die,
I picture the truth within the borders of my congested mind
That my grey matter forces it to refuse to dry
So that more people will drink from its ink of truth
As it makes another version of history without dying.
Let the paper fly to America, Europe and back to Africa
Then my pen will never ever refuse to die.
I will crush it in the dark corner so that it may finally sleep
And save the image of the king
After a few slaps of word.
Then my pen will die
Monday, July 25, 2011
I Will Not Wait
I will not wait for his breath to resign
So that I can curse the activities of his office
He has to discern the lot before he goes to sleep
He has to be told everything while his eyes are wide open
And his expansive ears are perfectly pricked.
I will divulge the precision in written terms, songs and chants.
So my voice will live on
Even after his breath has resigned
I can’t wait for him to begin to breathe haltingly
I am safe and sound because I tell the truth
Before his breath has resigned
I will not look at the setting sun
And wait for darkness to completely shroud the universe
So that I can enlighten everyone about his hostile management
No! I will not do that
I will depict his inequities in hours of daylight
Exclusive of fear of reprisal
Because word dies not in any creation
That is why I will expose his shortfalls
So that he may be an education to others
Who will vie for the position after his breath has resigned
I will leave no stone unturned
When undressing his veiled activities
I will amass all the literature and put it on paper
And I will not ask for his observation or estimation
I will not look at his shriveled face
So that I may be filled with empathy
I will revolve my eyes away
As my pencil will be exploring the departed days
When he subjugated me and others
Then I will have no time to stare at his goodies
I will only publish his vices
When his breath is still entire
And I will not wait for his breath to resign.
So that I can curse the activities of his office
He has to discern the lot before he goes to sleep
He has to be told everything while his eyes are wide open
And his expansive ears are perfectly pricked.
I will divulge the precision in written terms, songs and chants.
So my voice will live on
Even after his breath has resigned
I can’t wait for him to begin to breathe haltingly
I am safe and sound because I tell the truth
Before his breath has resigned
I will not look at the setting sun
And wait for darkness to completely shroud the universe
So that I can enlighten everyone about his hostile management
No! I will not do that
I will depict his inequities in hours of daylight
Exclusive of fear of reprisal
Because word dies not in any creation
That is why I will expose his shortfalls
So that he may be an education to others
Who will vie for the position after his breath has resigned
I will leave no stone unturned
When undressing his veiled activities
I will amass all the literature and put it on paper
And I will not ask for his observation or estimation
I will not look at his shriveled face
So that I may be filled with empathy
I will revolve my eyes away
As my pencil will be exploring the departed days
When he subjugated me and others
Then I will have no time to stare at his goodies
I will only publish his vices
When his breath is still entire
And I will not wait for his breath to resign.
The Vulture
As we write, we shall write again
With cruel pains and on dark papers
We shall portray again and again
The statue of this once glorious vulture
This rough bird whose rumpled feathers
We are sure will have settled
And with pride we will write again.
As we sing today, we will sing again
Songs of joy, comfort, pain and aggression
We shall sing songs about the soaring vulture
That soars into the outer space
And sends its sharp, red eyes
Filled with cruelty, pride, and oppression
This perilous prey whose beaks gape
To threaten the gentle souls of parrots swallows, lapwings,
And even Eagles
But we are mindful of one thing
With mockery we will sing again.
Yet as we praise him, we won’t praise him again
As his might will finally disappear into oblivion
But we will write and write and write
To portray the statue of the fallen vulture
Where there shall be ridicule, retaliation, o-p-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n
And we will sing again and again
Songs of peace, harmony, but perhaps not compassion
We shall sing about the rising vulture
As he will rise to the sinking bottom
With its dull eyes, closed beaks
To be dethroned by the eagle
Or even by the parrots, swallows, or the lapwings
So as we praise him today
We won’t praise him again
If we do, then it will be with mockery, ridicule, oppression.
With cruel pains and on dark papers
We shall portray again and again
The statue of this once glorious vulture
This rough bird whose rumpled feathers
We are sure will have settled
And with pride we will write again.
As we sing today, we will sing again
Songs of joy, comfort, pain and aggression
We shall sing songs about the soaring vulture
That soars into the outer space
And sends its sharp, red eyes
Filled with cruelty, pride, and oppression
This perilous prey whose beaks gape
To threaten the gentle souls of parrots swallows, lapwings,
And even Eagles
But we are mindful of one thing
With mockery we will sing again.
Yet as we praise him, we won’t praise him again
As his might will finally disappear into oblivion
But we will write and write and write
To portray the statue of the fallen vulture
Where there shall be ridicule, retaliation, o-p-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n
And we will sing again and again
Songs of peace, harmony, but perhaps not compassion
We shall sing about the rising vulture
As he will rise to the sinking bottom
With its dull eyes, closed beaks
To be dethroned by the eagle
Or even by the parrots, swallows, or the lapwings
So as we praise him today
We won’t praise him again
If we do, then it will be with mockery, ridicule, oppression.
We Should Draw His Face
We should sketch his face in trees and let it be there
So that one and all can evidently see it and append some commentary
We must even illustrate it down roads far and wide
We should accompany it with captions packed with truth
Eye-catching banners should encase the face
We should not mask anything
Because our depiction will expose every pimple on the face
We should not be terrified
If his army oppresses us because of the portrayal
We will then even describe more
And add very absurd footnotes
We should even draw all the titles he has
For which dread is ignited in the recesses of our hearts
As we are reminded of the throbbing past
When our voices were censored in grubby dungeons
We should draw the face without conjuring up any images
All their connotations will be laid astride them
To exploit the meanings of the tyrannical titles
We should exhaust all his faces by drawing them
Even in rushing waters that will carry them to distant lands
The certainty should not be constrained here
Let it fly transversely across the earth
For it is offered in drawings of his face
We should not be in awe of him anymore
We should just draw his face ubiquitously
So that one and all can evidently see it and append some commentary
We must even illustrate it down roads far and wide
We should accompany it with captions packed with truth
Eye-catching banners should encase the face
We should not mask anything
Because our depiction will expose every pimple on the face
We should not be terrified
If his army oppresses us because of the portrayal
We will then even describe more
And add very absurd footnotes
We should even draw all the titles he has
For which dread is ignited in the recesses of our hearts
As we are reminded of the throbbing past
When our voices were censored in grubby dungeons
We should draw the face without conjuring up any images
All their connotations will be laid astride them
To exploit the meanings of the tyrannical titles
We should exhaust all his faces by drawing them
Even in rushing waters that will carry them to distant lands
The certainty should not be constrained here
Let it fly transversely across the earth
For it is offered in drawings of his face
We should not be in awe of him anymore
We should just draw his face ubiquitously
Life
Warning: this verse is not to be believed or trusted or praised or romanticized. It is merely a product of a frustrated hand struggling to have its void voice heard. It contains nothing to think about; it is here to represent thoughts of disillusioned citizens of this world. It should be read at owner’s risk; it should not give you a splitting headache. It must be reviled and blamed; crashed and destroyed. It is a wicked portrayal of anything; it could even be arrested for its seditious remarks. It is a verse borne out of evil thoughts – the desire to pull down a well-built palace. That is why it must be read so that it must be carefully accused.
If life were the direct opposite of death; death’s own adversary
If it were a matter of freedom and bondage opposing each other
If it were an entity filled with war, hatred, confusion and love
If it were a tall mountain desiring to have its peak cut off
If it were a deep valley keeping nothing but death and all its aides
We would no longer care for our subsistence in this world
We would only let it be the controller of all our progress
We would not worry about agony and misery; joy and peace
Because if we did, we would go against the principles of life
We would be desiring to take control over things that we know not
For life is a long voyage on a stormy sea; a dangerous adventure
Life is a frightful advancement towards inevitable destruction
Life is just a fragile link between the body and the soul
A bewildered game played by prisoners against their guards
A bored horse no longer willing to take its master forward
Life is a slovenly nanny nursing a celebrity’s sick baby
Life does not tell anything about the future of mankind
Life does not calm a turbulent sea with raging fluffy tides
Life is not interested in giving peace and comfort to world citizens
It is not a Good Samaritan waiting to save a distressed soul
Life is no man’s ever-present companion; no driver’s flexible wheel
Life is just some emptiness filled with cold water and black smoke
A blooming flower that has not yet been discovered in the forest
A fruitless fig tree that is waiting for the painful moment of death
A purposeless exploration where kings have to care for themselves
If life were a football pitch with twenty-two players chasing a tiny object
We would conclude that human wisdom hasn’t yet been discovered
Even if life were a silent song resounding ignorantly in our minds
Breaking strings of mirrored images of our near and distant future
Covering our pain in greatest moments of our undeserved sorrow
Chasing children of our fathers to their weakest points of survival
Until they are defeated in their own shells where life is finally nipped
I would no longer want to be associated with life; with its definitions
I would sing songs that have no lyrics to praise life and paint its images
That are only there to give swords to leaders who are hungry for blood
If life were a fig tree growing on fertile soil and in perfect water supply
If life were a blunt knife used to make holes in our gentle bodies
If life were a mixture of sand and milk and water and romance
If life were not what most of us think it is while in real sense it is not
If life were a jugged log where foes are thrown to tear their buttocks
Then maybe we would no longer be interested in its progresses
Perhaps we would all want to make life something more different
Something that appeals to our wishes and needs even if futile
But life is not it; not its nearest colleague because it has none
Life is not living; life is not survival; it is not even death; not any
Life is a flower whose owner tends it vigilantly until it develops thorns
To keep away preys that have sharp teeth to munch it sketchily
If life were a corridor where many people are passing by each other
If life were a dark room where beauty and war are bartered
If life were a noisy bird singing in tall trees that surround us
Most of us would have shed innocent blood, putting life to an end
Leaders would be able to give us life and life would belong to them
Kings would be able to take lives at their own will without remorse
Mothers would be able to kill the unborn babies without care
Fathers would no longer care for their children who are suffering
Because life would control everything that takes place in our affairs
If life were a representation of a slave and his master and rebellion
If life were a secret search for truth and justice in this rotten world
If life were a raging storm in winter or a drying flower in spring
If life were a bed for enemies to lie together and feel good
If life were a collection of bones and leaves and stones and hatred
Then we would be able to find in it everything we may need now
But life is nothing at all; it is a pitiable participant; a deserted stage
A distant image of pain and suffering; an unjust connection
A delicate bridge that is waiting for a heavy truck to rupture it
A crooked progress that is celebrated by criminals and haters
A slippery playfield that portends failure, success, joking, swimming
A poorly written phrase on a birthday cake with guttering candles
Life is a disintegrated car engine failing to push forward its hood
Life is found in gentle children who do not know that they exist
Thus life is just a passing image; a shifting cloud; a roaring river
If life were a forsaken village track that no longer groans
After numerous footfalls are tramping on its bumpy face
Then after some time, life would defeat human intelligence
It would force everything else to be made in honour of life
It would rumble around and inscribe on our hearts extreme fear
It would be our guiding principle; our point of future transitions
But life is none of these; it is an abstract object that speaks not
It is a deaf master; a blind king; a crippled judge; a dumb plaintiff
Life is a burnt banknote; a careless striker; an unskilled goalkeeper
It is a selfish anecdote; a hungry giant; life is a rueful offender
Life is a messy child who desires nothing but his dangerous knife
Life is a complicated phenomenon; a deceiver of kings and masters
It is filled with cheerful illusions of unalloyed hope for the future
It is never contained in hills or rivers of forests or valleys or shadows
Life is a porous bucket that is struggling to hold steaming water
A brilliant flame shining relentlessly in the amber of the setting sun
A burning red rose in a garden crammed with magpies and bees
A peaceful snake whose hiss is like a mild flow of a calm river
Life is not a pot of hot water waiting to be cooled down
It is not a plucked fresh twig that was ready to bear the fruit
It is not a remorseful hippo that has destroyed a rice paddy
Life is not any of these; it is neither any of anything in the world
It is a red mark on the king’s face; a happy sword brandishing within
An angry wasp zipping irritatingly around a leader’s seat
Life is a disk jockey playing very crude music for a single listener
A thoughtless farmer who has planted nothing yet wants to harvest
Life could be any of these – or nothing of them, if it were us
If life were a darkened platform where poetry is recited by poets
An illumined dais where leaders reveal their treacherous manifestos
A holy pulpit where wicked clerics extol nothing but deception
A lofty tower from where the king watches his willing puppets evilly
If life were a multi-paged book with nothing written on its pages
If life were a poem written with all carelessness and vulgarity
If life were a swift rivulet flowing stubbornly in the blazing sun
If only it were a collection of poorly written verse and prose
An album of unsung songs with strong and disturbing lyrics
A compilation of censored and banned letters to the beloved king
No one would be struggling trying to describe and define life
We would all be having peaceful nights in our peaceful beds
We would no longer be writing to describe or define life
We would concentrate on something else and not life
Kings would no longer be blamed for shedding innocent blood
They would just be doing what appropriately describes life
They would live in their palaces without guilty consciences
They would rule ruthlessly if it means pleasing their wives
But we would still be in bondage, if life were a fool’s companion
We would not freely write accusing verses if life favoured kings
We would live in fear of them; contemplate suicide every minute
We would strive to please the king even against our conscience
But life is no respecter of imprudent kings or willing subjects
Life is not in awe of gilded palaces with deranged kings and princes
Life favours the humble, the brave, the generous, and the truth
Life cannot be predicted using a crystal ball or a glittering mirror
It cannot fall for human wisdom and let it freely offer a direction
Life is a willful collection of rudimentary paradoxes and contradictions
If life were a gentle breeze blowing in the midnight moonlight
With evil birds sounding their warning alarms to their prey
If it were a moving ship carrying coal mixed with diamond
If it were a story told by imbeciles and unconscious boxers
If it were a clever verse hiding behind horrific qualifiers
If life were a defectively managed stage for talented actors
A justified mistake by an untrained and willful play director
An overt contradiction of justice, peace, love and harmony
If life were any of these; or any of their connotations
Babies would no longer grow and become the next generation
Our population would be diminishing every second, every minute
But life is a cheerful giver to they that ask of it earnestly
Life is a fair object; a calm entity; an unsafe master; a singer
If life were a black pen comfortably releasing crimson ink
If it were a white paper with fine hazardous black lettering
If life were a small mouth eager to release chunks of rebuke
If it were a dead army commander or a dethroned king
If it were a hungry prince living in a palace of plenty
If it were a miserable queen who has deserted the palace
If life were what most of us would want it to become
If it were built out of our wishful thinking; our illusions
If life were as complicated as this description tries to make it
If it were not as easy as this verse wants us to believe
If it were never as difficult as these lines here assume
If life were any of what this dangerous piece propagates
If only it were this piece; this stubborn and uneducated verse
This complicated description that holds nothing in it
This cheerful container that is holding nothing but nothing
If life were this shameful verse; this carefree channel
If life were anything near this confused piece; this snag
If life were not even what this dazed piece says it is not
It would still be nothing; not even what is not said to be
Not even what it is claimed to be; to fight for a definition
It would only be life the way it is, not the way it is not
It would be filled with everything; anything; with nothing
Life is an expedition in winter; a lonely encounter with foes
Life is a tempting impulse to own everything; to be the leader
Life is a king’s oppressor; a conqueror of proud princes
Life is a sharp knife that no hand that holds it can control
It is a memorable event that has not yet happened anywhere
It is a book that has numerous authors, yet makes no sense
It is an enormous warrior who fears rats and blunt knives
Life is like a preacher putting on dark glasses at night
It is like a teacher who is reluctant to teach his own child
Life is like a seed that grows only where it desires
Life is like a match stick that gets burnt after forming fire
It is as pompous as mad kings; as fast as adolescent princesses
Life is like a hand that wrote this piece; this overcoming junk
It is like all kings in the world brought together to rule each other
It is like all princes murdering their fathers to take over
Life is a quick fire sparked by an unborn baby in its mother’s womb
Life is difficult to define; to describe; to discuss; to deduce
Life is not easy to understand; to estimate; to infer; to alter
Life is simple: it is not there to be analyzed; to be evaluated
It is not there for us to understand; to work out its meaning
It is simply there that we should appreciate it; we should value it
Life is completely different from anything given in this absurd piece
It is just a passing glance; a falling image; an overthrown throne
Life is as empty as this verse; as meaningless as this poem
Life is life: life is not anything, thus this piece fails to describe life.
If life were the direct opposite of death; death’s own adversary
If it were a matter of freedom and bondage opposing each other
If it were an entity filled with war, hatred, confusion and love
If it were a tall mountain desiring to have its peak cut off
If it were a deep valley keeping nothing but death and all its aides
We would no longer care for our subsistence in this world
We would only let it be the controller of all our progress
We would not worry about agony and misery; joy and peace
Because if we did, we would go against the principles of life
We would be desiring to take control over things that we know not
For life is a long voyage on a stormy sea; a dangerous adventure
Life is a frightful advancement towards inevitable destruction
Life is just a fragile link between the body and the soul
A bewildered game played by prisoners against their guards
A bored horse no longer willing to take its master forward
Life is a slovenly nanny nursing a celebrity’s sick baby
Life does not tell anything about the future of mankind
Life does not calm a turbulent sea with raging fluffy tides
Life is not interested in giving peace and comfort to world citizens
It is not a Good Samaritan waiting to save a distressed soul
Life is no man’s ever-present companion; no driver’s flexible wheel
Life is just some emptiness filled with cold water and black smoke
A blooming flower that has not yet been discovered in the forest
A fruitless fig tree that is waiting for the painful moment of death
A purposeless exploration where kings have to care for themselves
If life were a football pitch with twenty-two players chasing a tiny object
We would conclude that human wisdom hasn’t yet been discovered
Even if life were a silent song resounding ignorantly in our minds
Breaking strings of mirrored images of our near and distant future
Covering our pain in greatest moments of our undeserved sorrow
Chasing children of our fathers to their weakest points of survival
Until they are defeated in their own shells where life is finally nipped
I would no longer want to be associated with life; with its definitions
I would sing songs that have no lyrics to praise life and paint its images
That are only there to give swords to leaders who are hungry for blood
If life were a fig tree growing on fertile soil and in perfect water supply
If life were a blunt knife used to make holes in our gentle bodies
If life were a mixture of sand and milk and water and romance
If life were not what most of us think it is while in real sense it is not
If life were a jugged log where foes are thrown to tear their buttocks
Then maybe we would no longer be interested in its progresses
Perhaps we would all want to make life something more different
Something that appeals to our wishes and needs even if futile
But life is not it; not its nearest colleague because it has none
Life is not living; life is not survival; it is not even death; not any
Life is a flower whose owner tends it vigilantly until it develops thorns
To keep away preys that have sharp teeth to munch it sketchily
If life were a corridor where many people are passing by each other
If life were a dark room where beauty and war are bartered
If life were a noisy bird singing in tall trees that surround us
Most of us would have shed innocent blood, putting life to an end
Leaders would be able to give us life and life would belong to them
Kings would be able to take lives at their own will without remorse
Mothers would be able to kill the unborn babies without care
Fathers would no longer care for their children who are suffering
Because life would control everything that takes place in our affairs
If life were a representation of a slave and his master and rebellion
If life were a secret search for truth and justice in this rotten world
If life were a raging storm in winter or a drying flower in spring
If life were a bed for enemies to lie together and feel good
If life were a collection of bones and leaves and stones and hatred
Then we would be able to find in it everything we may need now
But life is nothing at all; it is a pitiable participant; a deserted stage
A distant image of pain and suffering; an unjust connection
A delicate bridge that is waiting for a heavy truck to rupture it
A crooked progress that is celebrated by criminals and haters
A slippery playfield that portends failure, success, joking, swimming
A poorly written phrase on a birthday cake with guttering candles
Life is a disintegrated car engine failing to push forward its hood
Life is found in gentle children who do not know that they exist
Thus life is just a passing image; a shifting cloud; a roaring river
If life were a forsaken village track that no longer groans
After numerous footfalls are tramping on its bumpy face
Then after some time, life would defeat human intelligence
It would force everything else to be made in honour of life
It would rumble around and inscribe on our hearts extreme fear
It would be our guiding principle; our point of future transitions
But life is none of these; it is an abstract object that speaks not
It is a deaf master; a blind king; a crippled judge; a dumb plaintiff
Life is a burnt banknote; a careless striker; an unskilled goalkeeper
It is a selfish anecdote; a hungry giant; life is a rueful offender
Life is a messy child who desires nothing but his dangerous knife
Life is a complicated phenomenon; a deceiver of kings and masters
It is filled with cheerful illusions of unalloyed hope for the future
It is never contained in hills or rivers of forests or valleys or shadows
Life is a porous bucket that is struggling to hold steaming water
A brilliant flame shining relentlessly in the amber of the setting sun
A burning red rose in a garden crammed with magpies and bees
A peaceful snake whose hiss is like a mild flow of a calm river
Life is not a pot of hot water waiting to be cooled down
It is not a plucked fresh twig that was ready to bear the fruit
It is not a remorseful hippo that has destroyed a rice paddy
Life is not any of these; it is neither any of anything in the world
It is a red mark on the king’s face; a happy sword brandishing within
An angry wasp zipping irritatingly around a leader’s seat
Life is a disk jockey playing very crude music for a single listener
A thoughtless farmer who has planted nothing yet wants to harvest
Life could be any of these – or nothing of them, if it were us
If life were a darkened platform where poetry is recited by poets
An illumined dais where leaders reveal their treacherous manifestos
A holy pulpit where wicked clerics extol nothing but deception
A lofty tower from where the king watches his willing puppets evilly
If life were a multi-paged book with nothing written on its pages
If life were a poem written with all carelessness and vulgarity
If life were a swift rivulet flowing stubbornly in the blazing sun
If only it were a collection of poorly written verse and prose
An album of unsung songs with strong and disturbing lyrics
A compilation of censored and banned letters to the beloved king
No one would be struggling trying to describe and define life
We would all be having peaceful nights in our peaceful beds
We would no longer be writing to describe or define life
We would concentrate on something else and not life
Kings would no longer be blamed for shedding innocent blood
They would just be doing what appropriately describes life
They would live in their palaces without guilty consciences
They would rule ruthlessly if it means pleasing their wives
But we would still be in bondage, if life were a fool’s companion
We would not freely write accusing verses if life favoured kings
We would live in fear of them; contemplate suicide every minute
We would strive to please the king even against our conscience
But life is no respecter of imprudent kings or willing subjects
Life is not in awe of gilded palaces with deranged kings and princes
Life favours the humble, the brave, the generous, and the truth
Life cannot be predicted using a crystal ball or a glittering mirror
It cannot fall for human wisdom and let it freely offer a direction
Life is a willful collection of rudimentary paradoxes and contradictions
If life were a gentle breeze blowing in the midnight moonlight
With evil birds sounding their warning alarms to their prey
If it were a moving ship carrying coal mixed with diamond
If it were a story told by imbeciles and unconscious boxers
If it were a clever verse hiding behind horrific qualifiers
If life were a defectively managed stage for talented actors
A justified mistake by an untrained and willful play director
An overt contradiction of justice, peace, love and harmony
If life were any of these; or any of their connotations
Babies would no longer grow and become the next generation
Our population would be diminishing every second, every minute
But life is a cheerful giver to they that ask of it earnestly
Life is a fair object; a calm entity; an unsafe master; a singer
If life were a black pen comfortably releasing crimson ink
If it were a white paper with fine hazardous black lettering
If life were a small mouth eager to release chunks of rebuke
If it were a dead army commander or a dethroned king
If it were a hungry prince living in a palace of plenty
If it were a miserable queen who has deserted the palace
If life were what most of us would want it to become
If it were built out of our wishful thinking; our illusions
If life were as complicated as this description tries to make it
If it were not as easy as this verse wants us to believe
If it were never as difficult as these lines here assume
If life were any of what this dangerous piece propagates
If only it were this piece; this stubborn and uneducated verse
This complicated description that holds nothing in it
This cheerful container that is holding nothing but nothing
If life were this shameful verse; this carefree channel
If life were anything near this confused piece; this snag
If life were not even what this dazed piece says it is not
It would still be nothing; not even what is not said to be
Not even what it is claimed to be; to fight for a definition
It would only be life the way it is, not the way it is not
It would be filled with everything; anything; with nothing
Life is an expedition in winter; a lonely encounter with foes
Life is a tempting impulse to own everything; to be the leader
Life is a king’s oppressor; a conqueror of proud princes
Life is a sharp knife that no hand that holds it can control
It is a memorable event that has not yet happened anywhere
It is a book that has numerous authors, yet makes no sense
It is an enormous warrior who fears rats and blunt knives
Life is like a preacher putting on dark glasses at night
It is like a teacher who is reluctant to teach his own child
Life is like a seed that grows only where it desires
Life is like a match stick that gets burnt after forming fire
It is as pompous as mad kings; as fast as adolescent princesses
Life is like a hand that wrote this piece; this overcoming junk
It is like all kings in the world brought together to rule each other
It is like all princes murdering their fathers to take over
Life is a quick fire sparked by an unborn baby in its mother’s womb
Life is difficult to define; to describe; to discuss; to deduce
Life is not easy to understand; to estimate; to infer; to alter
Life is simple: it is not there to be analyzed; to be evaluated
It is not there for us to understand; to work out its meaning
It is simply there that we should appreciate it; we should value it
Life is completely different from anything given in this absurd piece
It is just a passing glance; a falling image; an overthrown throne
Life is as empty as this verse; as meaningless as this poem
Life is life: life is not anything, thus this piece fails to describe life.
Out of Mikuyu Prison
(for Jack Mapanje and all Malawians who were imprisoned without trial during the Dr Banda era)
How did you feel in your wretched heart
When the stubborn gates of Mikuyu Prison finally clinked open,
When your hand hesitantly hung above the freedom register,
When the sun sprayed its beams on your mild face,
And provoked your darkness-oriented body?
How did you feel when you finally embraced
with your hostages of fortune,
When you walked in a land of freedom;
A land of a gentle zephyr, radiant bloom and swift rivulets
When the world welcomed you back with tears and cordiality?
You must have felt very sad
You must have felt they would call you back to Mikuyu prison
Or you must have felt you were only having a reverie.
How did you react to your freedom
When it was announced to all and sundry
When his magnificence ordered that you should be released
Just like he had ordered that you should be detained
And you were finally welcomed back where you belonged?
How did you react when you had not been prosecuted
Only to be given judgment
Which didn’t exist in any files at any courtroom?
When you were finally told that you were free
You must have reacted very wrathfully.
How did you feel in your wretched heart
When the stubborn gates of Mikuyu Prison finally clinked open,
When your hand hesitantly hung above the freedom register,
When the sun sprayed its beams on your mild face,
And provoked your darkness-oriented body?
How did you feel when you finally embraced
with your hostages of fortune,
When you walked in a land of freedom;
A land of a gentle zephyr, radiant bloom and swift rivulets
When the world welcomed you back with tears and cordiality?
You must have felt very sad
You must have felt they would call you back to Mikuyu prison
Or you must have felt you were only having a reverie.
How did you react to your freedom
When it was announced to all and sundry
When his magnificence ordered that you should be released
Just like he had ordered that you should be detained
And you were finally welcomed back where you belonged?
How did you react when you had not been prosecuted
Only to be given judgment
Which didn’t exist in any files at any courtroom?
When you were finally told that you were free
You must have reacted very wrathfully.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Malawi 20/7: The Day Darkness Descended
It is widely believed that human blood is seldom shed in vain. Its sacredness flows to the next generation and refuses to be buried in blurred images of the past. Christians ascribe the belief to the death of Jesus Christ whose blood is believed to have brought redemption for mankind. Others draw their beliefs from other inspirations; but they all believe that where human life has been taken because of fighting for a particular cause, things will never be the same.
20 July has always been just an ordinary day in Malawi; it has always remained a day when Malawians would wake up every morning to undertake their respective assignments wherever they were. It obviously is someone’s birthday, but never a day that drew our attention to its fold until this year, 2011.
It is a day many of us refuse to accept it really was. It is a day that drew the world’s attention to Malawi; a day that many wish only came about in a dream and passed away at the break of dawn. It will be etched on our hearts like screaming words curved on a marble.
Those who witnessed the tragedies in broad daylight must be struggling to erase the bitter memories; memories of ghastly scenes where human blood flowed from human bodies like deserted running water taps. They must be searching for therapies that will draw their thoughts away from the sounds of gunshots that littered the atmospheres of Blantyre, Lilongwe and Mzuzu.
Photos uploaded on social sites like Facebook were sending terrible messages of suffering from Malawians. They were photos of men drowned in pools of their own blood, photos of heroes attempting to save lives of the most badly wounded, photos of riot police officers wielding their guns in warlike positions, and photos of journalists nursing wounds inflicted on them by police officers.
For the first time since we attained our now fragile democracy, people were running to and fro in search of havens of peace. People were deserting their own homes – places where their very lives had hinged on only a few hours ago – to seek refuge in places which were never their second homes. Some who were not lucky enough were killed in cross-fires.
The scenarios in the three major cities namely Blantyre, Lilongwe and Mzuzu were typical of an empire on war. Gunshots are a rare occurrence in Malawi, but on July 20, they ceased to be. And the message that was being sent across from police officers was very clear: they were on a mission to kill.
You never use a live bullet and expect to just incapacitate; you use live bullets to kill. You do not descend on your unarmed opponent with a firearm; you do with rubber bullets which can heavily incapacitate without taking a life. But police officers thought otherwise. Their training of firearms use had to be put to evident practice on July 20. It was as if they were eagerly waiting for the day their hands would be crammed with human blood.
The people who died in the fracas are the martyrs, those who killed them the villains. But the irony of life remains that those who fight that it becomes better never live to witness it. Stories will be told of numerous Malawians who lost their lives on July 20 in the process of fighting for democracy, but one thing remains that it will be the killers whose faces will be seen around town.
In all truth and fairness, the Civil Society had organised the demonstrations in a kind of professional way, until an injunction obtained by one concerned citizen Chiza Mbekeyani seemed set to mar everything. People were trickling to all the cities of this country ready to march peacefully to relevant offices, but they were told that an injunction had been obtained stopping the march. That was where the trouble seemed to have started.
People had been preparing for the peaceful march all along and they felt cheated by the eleventh hour injunction, thus their tempers began to fray. However, they managed to hold on to their patience until the police decided to fire teargas canisters at the marching crowds.
Director of Institute for Policy Interaction Rafiq Hajat holds Chiza Mbekeyani, the unregistered lawyer who applied for the injunction, opposition political parties who hijacked the demonstration, Chifundo Kachale, the judge who granted Mbekeyani the injunction, and the police for setting up roadblocks in various locations to deter people from joining the march, thereby raising temperatures from the very start, and for their other “unprofessional” actions, responsible for the violence.
“… I am proud to report that Civil Society in Blantyre had no hand in the riots, looting and violence that ensued after our peaceful demonstration,” says Hajat in a note on Facebook titled Recollections From July 20th – A Postmortem.
It is often the nature of tragedy to strike hard those who can bear it least. We all know that even though our political leaders always tell us that Malawi is not a poor country, the fact is that Malawi is neither a rich country. And it is in such poverty as ours where tragedy chooses to enter. The damaged property should be worth millions of kwacha, and just another notable cancer in the already ailing economy.
Responsibility must outwit rights. Those who engaged in violent acts by destroying property of some people who even had nothing to do with the demonstration are no lesser than criminal thugs. But maybe as has been said before, if the police handled the demonstrators professionally, no one would have had an opportunity of engaging in any violent acts.
The world is crammed with opportunists: they only wait for an opportunity. There were robbers, thieves, thugs and the unemployed in the crowds. These are disgruntled and frustrated fellows who will take every opportunity to vent their frustration on anything. They might never be right, but frustrated citizens rarely consider the other side of their lives: that they too are moral beings who must adhere to the dictates of society.
Some have been arrested, others have been wounded; but it is those that have died that have spoken most. There is no joy in death no matter the circumstances. Whether one dies on a battle field or in cross-fire, death remains a tragic thing in our progresses. It is only kind hearts that pour out sympathy that will help heal the wounds cut in the hearts of those that have lost their loved ones.
Perhaps the death of people like Saddam Hussein, Idi Amin and Osama bin Laden, just to mention a few, brought some joy to those that had been affected by the inhuman acts of these villains, but they too had people who continue treasuring their lives. They too had relatives who mourned them as though they were the only people remaining on earth.
People have been sending messages of condolence to the bereaved families. And we expected President Mutharika to do the same when he addressed the nation a day after July 20. A rare opportunity to buy the confidence of Malawians was mismanaged when the president attacked the demonstrators, describing them as agents of the devil. That should not be what Malawians expected from him; at least a calm speech filled with reconciliatory remarks would have done it, not one where the president asked for dialogue while at the same time describing the demonstrators as working for the devil.
And those that have lost their loved ones will jam their fists in their eyes when they hear that the president never sent condolence messages to the bereaved families in his first address after July 20.
“I am informed a number of people have been injured and some killed due to the demonstrations. These problems are affecting everybody. Right now we do not have peace,” said Mutharika in the address. Perhaps, it would have made sense if the president never pointed out that he had been informed that there were deaths in the demonstrations. How would he know people had died and never ask their souls to rest in peace?
The president might have never believed what he saw or was told regarding the demonstrations. It must have been hard for him to come to terms with the fact that while he was delivering his lecture, thousands of those he leads were demonstrating everywhere across the country, not sparing Lilongwe, the same city where he was.
He must have been shocked to see DPP cars and offices up in flames, if at all he had the opportunity of seeing the pictures which continue circulating on the internet. It should have astounded him to the utmost to hear or watch on BBC, CNN, Aljazeera, SABC, VOA, France 24, Reuters and other international broadcasters that there was mayhem in Malawi, if at all he listens to or watches these stations.
The Malawi Communications Regulatory Authority (Macra) thought the live coverage of the demonstrations was fuelling tension and havoc and subsequently banned live coverage of the events. But in this ‘Facebook’ generation, you can never hide information. Malawians were communicating through different social sites and the information that got across was more than that which the radio stations would cover.
Some private-owned radio stations namely Capital FM, MIJ FM and Joy Radio Station were off air for a considerable amount of time on 21 July. People were speculating that it was Macra officials and the police who had ‘destabilised’ the waves because these stations were still broadcasting scraps of the demonstrations which continued in other parts of the country.
The only radio stations which were still on air kept being very economical with the truth regarding the number of people who had died in the riots. Some were reporting 4 deaths, others 9 even when it was everywhere that 13 had passed on. Ministry of Health officials had already confirmed that 13 Malawians had been martyred and later it was confirmed that the death toll had risen to 18.
If death only meant leaving the stage for a little while only to return again in the next act, we would be eagerly waiting to welcome back they that departed. We would devise perfect measures of embracing them into our homes, but death is a cruel master. It often gropes into human affairs and strikes where it pains most.
People showed the greatest extent of love and compassion by trying as much as they could to provide first aid to those that were badly injured. In the eyes of those ‘saviours’ was a kind of sacredness that informed others that human life can never be taken for granted. And in the tears of the bereaved, there should be a glow of pain sending a message of overwhelming grief and untold love.
Perhaps, every dark night they will look at twinkling objects in the sky not as stars, but as shinning openings where the love of their lost ones will pour through and shine down upon them to inform them that where they are, they are happy for having died for Malawi. But, such tenets are only embraced by extremists who take the extraordinary beyond the extraordinary.
Luck sometimes dawns upon those who rarely seek it. One man, a builder, was killed while working on a house, some in cross-fire, while others in the stampede. Yet, thugs who were looting shops were only arrested by the police.
What is the benefit of our carefulness? What does it tell us when a person dies while in search of a haven of peace? Perhaps it informs us that security does not necessarily exist among human beings. Maybe, like Helen Keller observes “security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”
But, were they supposed to stand still while gunshots were being heard in their directions? Were they supposed to wait and reason with officers who were angry for blood? Perhaps, all options would still lead to death. Maybe life had already been defeated and death was just waiting to manifest itself. After all, death is the final point of life towards where each one of us walks.
It is usually in tragic events like those of July 20 where memories of the past quickly flash in the minds of those that have retentive memories. Mutharika started his first term with bloodshed where a girl Epiphania Bonjesi in Chilobwe, Blantyre, was shot dead by a police officer during the mayhem where people were protesting that the elections had been rigged in favour of Mutharika.
Then lately the president described Peter Mukhitho as the best Inspector General of Police Malawi has ever had. He is the very same person who urged the police to shoot and kill all thugs and robbers.
And the best IG must have obviously transformed his boys to best police officers, and these officers had the audacity of using live bullets to kill Malawians. After all, some people in the riots were obviously robbers and the police had to execute the presidential directive of shooting to kill.
Now Civil Society leaders in the North who were part of the organisers of the demonstrations have vowed to take the police officers who pulled their triggers to kill demonstrators to the International Criminal Court. And perhaps like Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of evolution theorist Charles Darwin, once observed, “He who allows oppression shares the crime.”
In his address on 21 July, Mutharika seemed to imply he does not know Malawians have problems. His declaration that he who has problems should meet him so that they should discuss may not mean anything now. Problems of fuel and forex shortage, the impasse in the University of Malawi, poor governance and many others are what Malawians have.
The president has been given opportunities before to discuss the problems with the Civil Society and opposition parties so that together they could try to find solutions to the problems that Malawi is facing, but he never gave them a chance. It was reported sometime in the past that he once lost his cool during the discussions and banged his fists on the table in total indignation. Did he have to wait for lives of Malawians to be nipped so that he should realize that Malawi is not sailing in calm waters?
Martin Luther King Junior once said that the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands in moments of challenge and controversy. The president must now be working out strategic measures that should ultimately declare his position regarding the suffering of his people. Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm, but it is when the tides begin to roar when the greatest among men must rise. This is time for Mutharika to embrace a leadership style that wears the harness of compromise.
Of course, we all know that in a position like Mutharika’s, before July 20, it was easy to roll in the illusion that the majority sides with you. But, in reality, such a feeling would only be there if one wasn’t curious enough to read the writing on the wall: are Malawians happy with fuel and forex shortage and the exorbitant taxes and many other burdens pinning down on their lives.
At least 18 people lost their lives while fighting for ‘genuine’ democracy. They are martyrs who have departed from among us and are somewhere beyond our reach. In their death, they have fought a good fight for democracy. The pain might take time to be erased from the hearts of those they have left behind.
Such are the torments of martyrdom: the real agony is most keenly felt by those that are left behind; they that saw the blood, they whose minds are crammed with horrible images of death. But, for some time, our admiration will be directed on the dead; the heroes who shed their blood on July 20.
Even though we know that there are some living heroes who showed their resolve during the demonstrations, death will always force us to fix our attention on it. Men of religion always inform us that while we mourn the departed, others are rejoicing to meet them behind the veil. In such a way, they take away a good chunk of our grief. Perhaps, death, which may indeed be seen as the last sleep is just the final awakening.
But wherever the awakening will be, among the living, gaps are created. These are gaps which may be hard to fill, especially when they were never expected at such a time. That is why joy is never found in death, even if flowers glow on the tombs. They may only act as a catharsis that will take sorrow away for a few moments, but the pain will need time to subside in the hearts of the bereaved.
Nevertheless, deaths of people fighting for democracy give us the hope that their blood has not been shed in vain. Blood is a sacred fluid that has power that changes things even if it will not take a day for the change to manifest. But the point remains that change for which blood has been shed can never be shelved forever. History will refer to July 20, a day that brought a dark cloud of sorrow upon Malawi.
20 July has always been just an ordinary day in Malawi; it has always remained a day when Malawians would wake up every morning to undertake their respective assignments wherever they were. It obviously is someone’s birthday, but never a day that drew our attention to its fold until this year, 2011.
It is a day many of us refuse to accept it really was. It is a day that drew the world’s attention to Malawi; a day that many wish only came about in a dream and passed away at the break of dawn. It will be etched on our hearts like screaming words curved on a marble.
Those who witnessed the tragedies in broad daylight must be struggling to erase the bitter memories; memories of ghastly scenes where human blood flowed from human bodies like deserted running water taps. They must be searching for therapies that will draw their thoughts away from the sounds of gunshots that littered the atmospheres of Blantyre, Lilongwe and Mzuzu.
Photos uploaded on social sites like Facebook were sending terrible messages of suffering from Malawians. They were photos of men drowned in pools of their own blood, photos of heroes attempting to save lives of the most badly wounded, photos of riot police officers wielding their guns in warlike positions, and photos of journalists nursing wounds inflicted on them by police officers.
For the first time since we attained our now fragile democracy, people were running to and fro in search of havens of peace. People were deserting their own homes – places where their very lives had hinged on only a few hours ago – to seek refuge in places which were never their second homes. Some who were not lucky enough were killed in cross-fires.
The scenarios in the three major cities namely Blantyre, Lilongwe and Mzuzu were typical of an empire on war. Gunshots are a rare occurrence in Malawi, but on July 20, they ceased to be. And the message that was being sent across from police officers was very clear: they were on a mission to kill.
You never use a live bullet and expect to just incapacitate; you use live bullets to kill. You do not descend on your unarmed opponent with a firearm; you do with rubber bullets which can heavily incapacitate without taking a life. But police officers thought otherwise. Their training of firearms use had to be put to evident practice on July 20. It was as if they were eagerly waiting for the day their hands would be crammed with human blood.
The people who died in the fracas are the martyrs, those who killed them the villains. But the irony of life remains that those who fight that it becomes better never live to witness it. Stories will be told of numerous Malawians who lost their lives on July 20 in the process of fighting for democracy, but one thing remains that it will be the killers whose faces will be seen around town.
In all truth and fairness, the Civil Society had organised the demonstrations in a kind of professional way, until an injunction obtained by one concerned citizen Chiza Mbekeyani seemed set to mar everything. People were trickling to all the cities of this country ready to march peacefully to relevant offices, but they were told that an injunction had been obtained stopping the march. That was where the trouble seemed to have started.
People had been preparing for the peaceful march all along and they felt cheated by the eleventh hour injunction, thus their tempers began to fray. However, they managed to hold on to their patience until the police decided to fire teargas canisters at the marching crowds.
Director of Institute for Policy Interaction Rafiq Hajat holds Chiza Mbekeyani, the unregistered lawyer who applied for the injunction, opposition political parties who hijacked the demonstration, Chifundo Kachale, the judge who granted Mbekeyani the injunction, and the police for setting up roadblocks in various locations to deter people from joining the march, thereby raising temperatures from the very start, and for their other “unprofessional” actions, responsible for the violence.
“… I am proud to report that Civil Society in Blantyre had no hand in the riots, looting and violence that ensued after our peaceful demonstration,” says Hajat in a note on Facebook titled Recollections From July 20th – A Postmortem.
It is often the nature of tragedy to strike hard those who can bear it least. We all know that even though our political leaders always tell us that Malawi is not a poor country, the fact is that Malawi is neither a rich country. And it is in such poverty as ours where tragedy chooses to enter. The damaged property should be worth millions of kwacha, and just another notable cancer in the already ailing economy.
Responsibility must outwit rights. Those who engaged in violent acts by destroying property of some people who even had nothing to do with the demonstration are no lesser than criminal thugs. But maybe as has been said before, if the police handled the demonstrators professionally, no one would have had an opportunity of engaging in any violent acts.
The world is crammed with opportunists: they only wait for an opportunity. There were robbers, thieves, thugs and the unemployed in the crowds. These are disgruntled and frustrated fellows who will take every opportunity to vent their frustration on anything. They might never be right, but frustrated citizens rarely consider the other side of their lives: that they too are moral beings who must adhere to the dictates of society.
Some have been arrested, others have been wounded; but it is those that have died that have spoken most. There is no joy in death no matter the circumstances. Whether one dies on a battle field or in cross-fire, death remains a tragic thing in our progresses. It is only kind hearts that pour out sympathy that will help heal the wounds cut in the hearts of those that have lost their loved ones.
Perhaps the death of people like Saddam Hussein, Idi Amin and Osama bin Laden, just to mention a few, brought some joy to those that had been affected by the inhuman acts of these villains, but they too had people who continue treasuring their lives. They too had relatives who mourned them as though they were the only people remaining on earth.
People have been sending messages of condolence to the bereaved families. And we expected President Mutharika to do the same when he addressed the nation a day after July 20. A rare opportunity to buy the confidence of Malawians was mismanaged when the president attacked the demonstrators, describing them as agents of the devil. That should not be what Malawians expected from him; at least a calm speech filled with reconciliatory remarks would have done it, not one where the president asked for dialogue while at the same time describing the demonstrators as working for the devil.
And those that have lost their loved ones will jam their fists in their eyes when they hear that the president never sent condolence messages to the bereaved families in his first address after July 20.
“I am informed a number of people have been injured and some killed due to the demonstrations. These problems are affecting everybody. Right now we do not have peace,” said Mutharika in the address. Perhaps, it would have made sense if the president never pointed out that he had been informed that there were deaths in the demonstrations. How would he know people had died and never ask their souls to rest in peace?
The president might have never believed what he saw or was told regarding the demonstrations. It must have been hard for him to come to terms with the fact that while he was delivering his lecture, thousands of those he leads were demonstrating everywhere across the country, not sparing Lilongwe, the same city where he was.
He must have been shocked to see DPP cars and offices up in flames, if at all he had the opportunity of seeing the pictures which continue circulating on the internet. It should have astounded him to the utmost to hear or watch on BBC, CNN, Aljazeera, SABC, VOA, France 24, Reuters and other international broadcasters that there was mayhem in Malawi, if at all he listens to or watches these stations.
The Malawi Communications Regulatory Authority (Macra) thought the live coverage of the demonstrations was fuelling tension and havoc and subsequently banned live coverage of the events. But in this ‘Facebook’ generation, you can never hide information. Malawians were communicating through different social sites and the information that got across was more than that which the radio stations would cover.
Some private-owned radio stations namely Capital FM, MIJ FM and Joy Radio Station were off air for a considerable amount of time on 21 July. People were speculating that it was Macra officials and the police who had ‘destabilised’ the waves because these stations were still broadcasting scraps of the demonstrations which continued in other parts of the country.
The only radio stations which were still on air kept being very economical with the truth regarding the number of people who had died in the riots. Some were reporting 4 deaths, others 9 even when it was everywhere that 13 had passed on. Ministry of Health officials had already confirmed that 13 Malawians had been martyred and later it was confirmed that the death toll had risen to 18.
If death only meant leaving the stage for a little while only to return again in the next act, we would be eagerly waiting to welcome back they that departed. We would devise perfect measures of embracing them into our homes, but death is a cruel master. It often gropes into human affairs and strikes where it pains most.
People showed the greatest extent of love and compassion by trying as much as they could to provide first aid to those that were badly injured. In the eyes of those ‘saviours’ was a kind of sacredness that informed others that human life can never be taken for granted. And in the tears of the bereaved, there should be a glow of pain sending a message of overwhelming grief and untold love.
Perhaps, every dark night they will look at twinkling objects in the sky not as stars, but as shinning openings where the love of their lost ones will pour through and shine down upon them to inform them that where they are, they are happy for having died for Malawi. But, such tenets are only embraced by extremists who take the extraordinary beyond the extraordinary.
Luck sometimes dawns upon those who rarely seek it. One man, a builder, was killed while working on a house, some in cross-fire, while others in the stampede. Yet, thugs who were looting shops were only arrested by the police.
What is the benefit of our carefulness? What does it tell us when a person dies while in search of a haven of peace? Perhaps it informs us that security does not necessarily exist among human beings. Maybe, like Helen Keller observes “security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”
But, were they supposed to stand still while gunshots were being heard in their directions? Were they supposed to wait and reason with officers who were angry for blood? Perhaps, all options would still lead to death. Maybe life had already been defeated and death was just waiting to manifest itself. After all, death is the final point of life towards where each one of us walks.
It is usually in tragic events like those of July 20 where memories of the past quickly flash in the minds of those that have retentive memories. Mutharika started his first term with bloodshed where a girl Epiphania Bonjesi in Chilobwe, Blantyre, was shot dead by a police officer during the mayhem where people were protesting that the elections had been rigged in favour of Mutharika.
Then lately the president described Peter Mukhitho as the best Inspector General of Police Malawi has ever had. He is the very same person who urged the police to shoot and kill all thugs and robbers.
And the best IG must have obviously transformed his boys to best police officers, and these officers had the audacity of using live bullets to kill Malawians. After all, some people in the riots were obviously robbers and the police had to execute the presidential directive of shooting to kill.
Now Civil Society leaders in the North who were part of the organisers of the demonstrations have vowed to take the police officers who pulled their triggers to kill demonstrators to the International Criminal Court. And perhaps like Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of evolution theorist Charles Darwin, once observed, “He who allows oppression shares the crime.”
In his address on 21 July, Mutharika seemed to imply he does not know Malawians have problems. His declaration that he who has problems should meet him so that they should discuss may not mean anything now. Problems of fuel and forex shortage, the impasse in the University of Malawi, poor governance and many others are what Malawians have.
The president has been given opportunities before to discuss the problems with the Civil Society and opposition parties so that together they could try to find solutions to the problems that Malawi is facing, but he never gave them a chance. It was reported sometime in the past that he once lost his cool during the discussions and banged his fists on the table in total indignation. Did he have to wait for lives of Malawians to be nipped so that he should realize that Malawi is not sailing in calm waters?
Martin Luther King Junior once said that the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands in moments of challenge and controversy. The president must now be working out strategic measures that should ultimately declare his position regarding the suffering of his people. Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm, but it is when the tides begin to roar when the greatest among men must rise. This is time for Mutharika to embrace a leadership style that wears the harness of compromise.
Of course, we all know that in a position like Mutharika’s, before July 20, it was easy to roll in the illusion that the majority sides with you. But, in reality, such a feeling would only be there if one wasn’t curious enough to read the writing on the wall: are Malawians happy with fuel and forex shortage and the exorbitant taxes and many other burdens pinning down on their lives.
At least 18 people lost their lives while fighting for ‘genuine’ democracy. They are martyrs who have departed from among us and are somewhere beyond our reach. In their death, they have fought a good fight for democracy. The pain might take time to be erased from the hearts of those they have left behind.
Such are the torments of martyrdom: the real agony is most keenly felt by those that are left behind; they that saw the blood, they whose minds are crammed with horrible images of death. But, for some time, our admiration will be directed on the dead; the heroes who shed their blood on July 20.
Even though we know that there are some living heroes who showed their resolve during the demonstrations, death will always force us to fix our attention on it. Men of religion always inform us that while we mourn the departed, others are rejoicing to meet them behind the veil. In such a way, they take away a good chunk of our grief. Perhaps, death, which may indeed be seen as the last sleep is just the final awakening.
But wherever the awakening will be, among the living, gaps are created. These are gaps which may be hard to fill, especially when they were never expected at such a time. That is why joy is never found in death, even if flowers glow on the tombs. They may only act as a catharsis that will take sorrow away for a few moments, but the pain will need time to subside in the hearts of the bereaved.
Nevertheless, deaths of people fighting for democracy give us the hope that their blood has not been shed in vain. Blood is a sacred fluid that has power that changes things even if it will not take a day for the change to manifest. But the point remains that change for which blood has been shed can never be shelved forever. History will refer to July 20, a day that brought a dark cloud of sorrow upon Malawi.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Academic Freedom Saga: Where The Trouble Lies Now
The closure of a university college over academic freedom would always seem an impossibility. People expect a university college to be closed on grounds ranging from lack of finances to tragic incidents that have entailed that security is lacking at the college.
But Chancellor College and The Polytechnic, the two main constituent colleges of the University of Malawi (Unima) were closed for close to four months over academic freedom which was deemed to be under threat. Now, these colleges have reopened, yet the lecturers are refusing to teach, a thing which may not make sense to most people.
Where does the trouble lie now? In a memo issued by Chanco Academic Stand Union (Ccasu) acting president, the lecturers are not committed to going back to class because the University Council has failed to meet one outstanding demand: that the ‘fired’ lecturers be ‘reinstated’ and all court cases be withdrawn.
And the question is: why is Council so bent at making sure Dr. Jessie Kabwila-Kapasula, Dr. Garton Kamchedzera, Franz Amin and Dr. Blessings Chinsinga are fired? Is there a very compelling reason that is forcing Council to hold Chanco and Poly students at ransom? Whose agenda is Council pursuing?
In any ordinary situation, humanity adores heroism because it tends to be rare, but in this saga, heroism is being valued because it seems to be everywhere. Kapasula, leading many others, has been pursuing a good cause with an unfazed and unflappable heart. Such is the hero Council and the state president seem to want to unmake.
One may ask: how does the president come in when he assured the lecturers of their academic freedom? The truth is that there was something beyond the assurance.
It takes more than intellect and wisdom to grope into a politician’s mind and deduce the real thing hidden in the deep recesses of his heart; it takes special insight – a thing that is not common among humanity. It is rare for politicians to walk in the realm of honesty. At least, such is the case in Malawi.
When Mutharika ordered the reopening of Chanco and Poly smiles indeed fritted across the faces of many who thought the president’s speech where he guaranteed all university colleges in Malawi academic freedom, marked the end of the impasse.
But, as things stand today, it seems the “actual” reopening of the two colleges is not so imminent. The president indeed guaranteed the lecturers their academic freedom; yet if you spare some time to dig deeper into the speech, you will discover that – like Ccasu President Jessie Kabwila-Kapasula observed – it was wanting in a number of aspects.
For starters, Mutharika showed that he was not utterly convinced that the lecturers were fighting for a legitimate cause. His use of phrases like “false pursuit for heroism” in the speech clearly showed that the president was not satisfied that the lecturers were right in their pursuit.
He further asked that all court injunctions should be withdrawn so that the whole impasse could be resolved in roundtable discussions. The lecturers were not convinced and they did not withdraw the injunctions. And their fears were vindicated only a few days later when Council appealed at the Supreme Court insisting that Kapasula and company should be fired.
This is where it is clear that Council is “contradicting” the president’s request that all court cases be withdrawn. And this is where Kapasula’s fears that the president was not really saying all that in good faith, get vindicated.
By the way, Mutharika is Unima Chancellor and formally holds the top most position in the university hierarchy. This consequently implies that Council can in no way do anything contrary to what the president has said. And the only logical conclusion drawn from these premises is that it is Mutharika who wants to make sure Kapasula and company are fired, and therefore one may say with all conclusiveness that Mutharika is not interested in seeing Chanco and Poly reopened.
If Mutharika honestly had the reopening of Chanco and Poly at heart, perhaps the two colleges would have opened even earlier than 4 July, but it appears the president made that speech simply to give Malawians the illusion that the stand-off was over. He might have it in mind that once he made the speech, criticism would wane, and therefore it would be easy for him to concentrate on something else.
It may not sound awkward to assume that the president told Unima Council to make every effort to ensure Chancellor College and The Polytechnic open on 4 July, and to do everything possible to make sure Kapasula and her three colleagues are fired.
Now the lecturers have vowed not to return to class until their “fired” colleagues are “reinstated”. That is exactly what was required of them. How could they return to class when their colleagues who were simply their mouthpiece have been “fired”? It would mean betraying them. In fact, you do not fire a representative for representing others.
We are all heroes of our own life stories; but it is the extent to which our heroism goes that matters. True heroism is not contained in the urge to outstrip all others, but the willingness to render service to others no matter the situation. That appears to be the character that is there in Kapasula.
In her capacity, the lady has dedicated her life to fighting for a cause worth the sacrifice. She has swept aside her personal interests just to make sure an important aspect in the university does not get trampled beneath inconsiderate desires of those who care less. That is the sole reason why they hate her; therefore, that is where the whole trouble lies.
Mutharika does not like Kapasula, Chinsinga, Kamchedzera and Amin the most. Yet, it appears these are the people he cannot ignore as long as finding a lasting solution to the impasse is concerned.
In Kapasula alone, there is that firm resolve of virtue and reason. You just need to listen to her a little and you will know that her care is not to please humanity without a purpose, but to help work out a future for those she cares about. Others may see her to go beyond the limit, but that is what fighters are deemed to do.
Firing her, Chinsinga, Kamchedzera and Amin shouldn’t even have been thought of in the first place. They are the key players as long as resolving the stand-off is concerned, and what was needed was Council sinking a little lower and displeasing the president a little, and the whole staff-off would have been over now.
It is indeed the nature of human wisdom to come out packaged in sharp ironies which entail more folly. The courts ruled that these four remain employees of Unima and as of now there is nothing that can stop them from executing any action in such capacity. But in their wisdom, authorities at the University Council choose to reject their names because to them, Kapasula and company are not Unima’s employees.
We cannot make ourselves heroes by trying to block others from becoming heroes. Kapasula and her colleagues have made themselves names because of their firm resolve which has seen them fighting on even in the midst of turbulent waters. They are the heroes we now know; the University Council is struggling to frustrate them and unmake their pursuit for justice.
Pride seems to be the character that is now blocking progress. Council authorities seem to believe that “reinstating” Kapasula would mean revering her. But honesty knows that even if Council authorities do not adore her, Malawi does, for in her has been seen that character that lacks in these Council authorities.
The beauty of Kapasula’s soul lies in the radiance that glows when she bears her noble duty as Ccasu acting president with covetable composure. She has high self-trust and self-esteem, and these characters help her become what we have seen. And these are the characters Council hate.
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Kapasula is made of sterner stuff and such a human being was supposed to be benefited from. Just like Abigail Adams, wife of John Adams, second US president, said “if we mean to have heroes, statesmen and philosophers, we should have learned women.” But these are not just any other women, but those who will use their education to know their purpose in the latter-day world.
It makes sense to sense that Council authorities are doing whatever they are doing simply to please the president, but the truth is that they are doing him untold injustice. The Mutharika administration is already in crisis. It has come under fire from different quarters, both domestic and international, and as such, it was prudent to capitalize on every development that would impel Malawians to at least have some trust in it. And finding solutions to the academic freedom saga was going to partly ease pressure on the president.
It does not really paint a good picture of the Mutharika administration to see two main constituent colleges of Unima failing to operate fully, and solutions which are very common failing to be found. That closing a university college entails failure in leadership of a state is slowly becoming a cliché that will be copied by the next observer with purpose. It has turned into a song whose lyrics’ values have been drowned in pride and peculiar authority.
Mutharika’s conscience should surely convict him for forsaking very important issues in this country. The president should not be afraid to make Kapasula and her colleagues heroes; rather he should be afraid of unmaking a hero out of himself. In his capacity as the president, he is like a bird perched on a tall tree for all to see its next move.
Malawians are always monitoring whatever he is doing and it would have been wise for him to involve the greatest level of rationality so that some issues like that of academic freedom can be resolved with all ease. Otherwise, if Council maintains that Kapasula and company are fired, what was the essence of Mutharika guaranteeing academic freedom?
It is clear that now the whole trouble in the saga lies in the president and Council trying to avoid seeing Kapasula and company as victors. Perhaps these two parties feel that if the stand-off gets resolved and Kapasula and her “fired” colleagues remain Unima’s employees, then they will be the victors. Yet, that is the only way: they will remain Unima’s employees because fighting for justice is a crime only in dictatorship states, not in Malawi.
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