Mwana Wane

“You are too mobile,” scolded Mrs. Gondwe. For three weeks the primary school had no headmistress, and though she had returned only yesterday, she was already about the yard twisting laundry. Her left leg was still swollen and she limped when she walked. For three weeks she was bedridden at St. John’s, a new hospital built across from the airfield. It was a beautiful addition to the dirt strip off the M1, but not uncommon as Mzuzu was a growing city bustling with new constructions. Afumu was sitting under the vines when he proudly introduced me to their son, my brother, a student at the Malawi College of Accountancy, currently visiting on holiday. Strange we had not met till today. It was Sunday and the dry season heat was rising with the morning sun.

She reluctantly dropped the pair of trousers in the basin and walked slowly to a chair under the vine shade. The severe pneumonia left her but the high blood pressure had to be constantly monitored. She struggled to settle in the blue plastic chair. Afumu Gondwe put the leather chief chair out instructing me to sit on the chieftainship. I sat and inquired on her condition. She said that it had been a terrible three weeks and she was in a lot of pain. “I saw heaven, but God returned me back here,” she said with a sting of despair. Sadness was draped over her face, a sadness that rose from an inability to understand God, to come to terms with his judgment. She didn’t want to be here anymore, life had taken its tolls and she spoke of her return dripping with such disdain.

Mwana Wane. This is our child. That is how Mr. and Mrs. Gondwe always introduce me to others. What can a child do for such sadness? Our time on earth is short, though perhaps for many it’s too long. “No more salt and sugar, take lots of walks,” I prescribed hopelessly. Things have taken a turn for the worse in Malawi. People are desperate for money and hope is being sucked out though a national straw to the very top. The village has changed, despair blows violently in the dry winds leaving a thick air of tension in its wake. Tobacco sales have plummeted after a large buyer moved its operations to Zimbabwe citing lack of cooperation from the government. The UK, Germany and Norway have all pulled aid from the country citing human rights violations and governance issues.

The Global Fund has ceased funding to Malawi. ARVs will soon be cut as the country will not meet testing requirements. A ripple effect of the flight of NGOs and businesses has been triggered. Many Indian businessmen are closing shop, moving back home or to the US to start new businesses. NGOs are following suit or slashing their budgets. There are fuel lines stretching kilometers down roads in Lilongwe. Diesel and petrol are scarce and the national highways are empty. New roadblocks were built to collect more fines and bribes while the new budget, to accommodate for missing aid, has placed new taxes on basic necessities. A loaf of bread jumped from MK 100 to MK 140 overnight.

Mrs. Gondwe was right. I have been too mobile the past two months. Though my community is still somehow managing to get by, I have been away with a heavy dose of guilt. I miss home, but camp preparations and VAC duties have kept me in Lilongwe. To supplement it are a long list of little things that just need to be done. I’m afraid I will be away again until September for camp and my sister and Henry are visiting. My futile efforts will not change Malawi, nor will they alleviate the burdens of a tightening government in the grand theatre of global economic turmoil. But I keep telling myself: I’m doing what I can with what I have. It’s not enough, but it’s something. As long as I stay away from uninformed psycho Canadian women, I cannot give up.

It seems that throughout history the multitudes always suffer at the hands of few.