by michael phoya...
my Malawi is some country. strange it has taken me all these years to figure that out. and I want it. I want it all. just to feel it. to feel the simplicity and originality of the life. the timelessness feeling. the lack of hastiness. the hunger. the poverty. the dry seasons. the wet seasons.
the pain. the diseases. the genuine laughter. the cultural practices. the stupidity of the people. the lakes, especially lake Malawi. the rivers, especially the shire. the good roads. the bad roads. the November rains when the country plants its maize and the month of April when it harvests. the maize meals. the cassava meals. the stupid politicians. Blantyre. Lilongwe. the lakeshore road. the pompous Indians. the football matches. the moonlight dances. the wedding parades. the festivities. the 6th of July. the 3rd of march. the local music. the monkeys. the elephants. the national parks. the churches. the preachers. the traditional medicine. the upper class homes. the mosquito infested ponds near some homes. the clear leisure parks. I need mother Malawi. all of it. give me the so-called trash and I’ll gladly receive it.
big ben announces 12 noon and I don’t have anything to eat. two people sitting on top of the lion statue are sharing a sandwich. how do you sit on top of a lion? the truth is most things in this country feel fake to me. the people, the buildings, the life, the weather. especially the weather. I don’t want to die in this weather. I don’t want to be buried in this weather. will they even bury me? give me Malawi. give me the tropical weather and I’ll gladly sweat. give me the weather so hot and let me sweat even in my death. give me Malawi.
excerpt from 'nostalgia' in 'how you touched me, you'll never know' by michael phoya, 2008