The Bingu wa Mutharika I knew

By Pius Nyondo

I nearly met him man-to-man twice. First, during the launch of his book, that acclaimed African blockbuster, The African Dream and secondly when he had called for us Malawi Writers Union (Mawu) executive members at the New State House in Lilongwe so that we could discuss the future of writing in this country.

I was eligible to attend both meetings, not only as one of the most ambitious writers this country can boast about but also as the national coordinator of The Budding Writers Desk, a constituent of Mawu.

Unfortunately, I never met this man. During the launch of his book last year at the New State House marquee, I was somewhere in this country preaching the gospel of creative writing and the need of taking it seriously to some young men and women. And for the meeting to discuss the future of our writing industry, it never materialised.

I must confess, however, that I never really wanted to meet this man until, of course, fourteen days before his death on the ‘5^th, 6^th and 7^th of April’ this year. To me, this man was evil, heartless and a non-practising Christian. To me, this man was inhuman and an ill-fated dictator whom because of his incoprehensive policies, countless Malawians were gnashing and grinding their teeth in abject poverty and hopelessness.

And I did not just accord this man all these ‘titles’ or adjectives for the sake. I listened to the cries of my kinsmen, colleagues and common people in the streets. I was there in minibuses, pubs and at all those leisure centres where I listened to men and women recite their doleful poetry. I listened to this poetry of cries. Cries of punitive taxes imposed by this man’s adminstration. Cries of being cursed and tossed like dolls in public by this man. Yes, I listened to these cries full of frustration and melancholy. All because of this man.

I did not only listen. I, too, saw and experienced the wrath of this man’s adminstration. I saw one old man die of shock after he had been ruthlessly booted out of this man’s cabinet. I even attended this old man’s burial ceremony at his poor village in one Rumphi district. Personally, there was one more reason I disliked this man. I failed to get admission into the public universities of Malawi because of a so-called Quota System this man had ‘imposed’.

I did not just listen. There was this immeasurable anger that was boiling in me that needed to be curbed lest I suffered cardiac arrest or other such sister ‘executive diseases’. It was indisputable that I was nothing and, of course, I am still nothing, if Malawi’s standards of doing well in the society are anything to go by.

So, knowing the nonentity that I was I found solace in my pen and paper. I let out part of the frustration in me caused by this man by writing literary pieces. In this way, I was safer and felt better. For example, here is, Nyampoto, a poem I wrote in October 2010, which also got anthologised in The Time Traveller of Maravi, a collection of new poetry from Malawi.

Why should it be you? Experiencing all these catastrophes/Shakes, shocks and shoves/Battering your tantalizing beauty/Even after taking care of him/For five solid years/And saving his neck from angry creditors/Your body is nothing but scars/Don’t lose heart Nyampoto/Time will come/Sooner or later/You will wear your broad smiles again/And sing the happy songs of yesterday.

And from the lines, you can nick-out what I was trying to say. Remember, this was when one region in this country was getting discriminated against even after it had done and sacrificed so much for this man.

But my hatred for this man, also called Moya or Big Kahuna by some naughty newspaper columnists and Ngwazi Proffessor Bingu wa Mutharika by his loyalists, was not to be forever. I began to understand and know Bingu wa Mutharika better after I read his biography on Wikipedia and then a series of articles about him in Weekend Nation by one Ephraim Nyondo.

I began to understand Bingu as an exceptional economist who had worked at the World Bank as a Loans Officer and at the United Nations Economic Commission of Africa as Director of Trade and Development Finance and as Secretary General of the Common Market for Eastern and Southern Africa (COMESA), covering twenty-two member states. And in all these great institutions, this man was credited for being a great performer.

I began to understand Bingu as a true Pan-Africanist and, according to an article by Ephraim Nyondo, a right man at the wrong time. This was a Bingu who had refused to succumb to Western imperialism for the sake of the people he loved. This was a man who had adopted the Agricultural Input Subsidy Programme which restored national food security by increasing access to fertilzer and improved seeds by poor farmers and other vulnerable population groups. And, I began to love this man.

Some forteen days before his death, a colleague and writer called me and asked me if my manuscript, Lions from the South, a novella which is about to hit the book market soon would have the same impact in case Bingu died. I did not answer him.

Bingu wa Mutharika died on ‘April, 5’, exactly some fourteen days after my colleague and writer had called me. I cried. Not that I was worried that my novella will not have the same appeal but because I realised how much I would miss this man . I felt like following this great man to Mpumulo wa Bata.

I miss him. I miss Bingu, the writer and poet. I miss Bingu, the great economist. I miss Bingu, the man who brought smiles on the faces of our elderly. I miss the Bingu wa Mutharika I knew. Not Bingu the dictator, but Bingu the saviour of Malawi from another era of colonialism.