The Day We Went To War

War is often fought with guns, explosives and blades. And sometimes with words. There even is war that is fought with sticks and fists, and that is the war we fought on April 6 in Mwanza. The ironic part of it all is that when we were supposed to run and seek havens of peace somewhere else, we stood still as we were being beaten to a pulp by those who are employed to protect us.

We had nowhere to run to; our vehicle was packed near the police station, it had to go through the police checkpoint, and above all, we were being beaten by police officers who said they were only undertaking an act of revenge.

Rumour was everywhere that president Bingu wa Mutharika had died, but the absence of any official communication from government officials meant it was no mourning period. Thus, the match against Mwanza Eagles had to go on; there was no need for postponement.

Around 10 am we started off from our base, Chancellor College, in Zomba, with high expectations that we were going to Mwanza to play football. It had never dawned in our minds that we were going to war. In fact, we were safe in the assumption that security would be there since we were to play against a police team. But, we had our wishes miscalculated: football would be played; war would be fought too.

Mwanza Eagles had already visited us at our Chirunga Stadium, and that is the day the war began. I was told by a colleague that some Chanco fans pelted stones at the referee, but that was all, and nobody was injured. Even the report which was sent by the referee to football authorities never indicated that someone had been injured at Chirunga Stadium.

Now, Mwanza Eagles and its overzealous fans were set to exact sweet revenge on the visitors who had given them a tough time in Zomba. After reaching the Mwanza police roadblock – which is planted at the police station – I could already observe that things were not what we imagined they would be.

“Oh, so you are finally here. This is the day we have been waiting for,” said a police officer who opened the roadblock gate for our 32-seater coaster. His face told a complete story of a man who would strive with every fibre of his being to make sure we were punished.

We disembarked from the minibus at a filling station that stood about two hundred meters away from the police station. As the players dressed, and some Chanco fans disappeared into the market, I decided to go to the pitch which is only about 150 metres from the police station.

“They are finally here, and they must know that they have not come here to play football; they have come here to fight a war,” I overheard one man say as I walked around the pitch to inspect it. He was in civilian clothes, but I later learnt that he was a police officer.

Then onto the scene appeared another officer who was in his uniform. Noting that I was one of the students from the Zomba-based college, he tried his best to ensure I knew they were set for revenge. “You were clever in Zomba; let’s see if you will be clever here again. We don’t care whether we will lose the game or not; all we care about is to teach to a lesson you will live to remember,” he said, attracting a resounding applause from his colleagues. That is when I realized Malawi needed a more reformed police service.

The first half of the game was punctuated by myriad verbal attacks from the police officers and other Eagles fans directed at Chanco fans and even players. They kept informing us that we should be ready for any attack as the game approached the end. Even the referee himself together with his linesmen seemed to lose touch with reality. The police team scored a goal from a clear offside position, but no one could protest because we knew that we were not there to play football, but to fight a war.

With about twenty minutes remaining, the police officers and their supporters decided to do what they had all along been preparing for. In the twinkling of the eye, they descended on every Chanco student who was within their reach. While the game was being played on the pitch, war was being fought outside. The officers even attacked some women who were rebuking them for being such unprofessional.

A friend of mine was persistently beaten with a huge piece of bamboo which left a deep cut on his cheek. Others too were injured. We rushed to the hospital this fellow who had been terribly wounded, after getting a police report. He was properly treated, but is still nursing the deep cut he sustained on his cheek.

There were some two female police officers who felt sorry for the injured student and decided to accompany him to the hospital on a police car. But, while the boy was being taken to hospital, some topless male police officers stormed the station, baying for more blood of the students. They even threatened to break the window panes of our minibus. All this was happening at the police station, a place I should believe should be the epitome of order.

In fact, earlier on, before the match had started, our driver decided to pack the minibus within the police station’s fence, but he was shocked to see a police officer lock the gate with handcuffs the moment the vehicle got in.

“I asked him why he was doing this and he didn’t answer. I then realized he wanted us to have nowhere to run to the moment they began to fight us,” said the driver, adding that he then told the officer that he wanted to take the coaster somewhere. He too had realised that there was a war to be fought.

Above all, one thing that we learn on this year’s Good Friday is that there are moments which cannot be predicted. There are wars which we may not be prepared to fight, yet they are wars we must fight anyway. But, when it is the police that are fighting the very same people they are supposed to protect, one wonders how citizens’ security can be guaranteed.