Sunday, April 28, 2013

Where angels walk among us

- A reminiscence on Kasisi Children’s Home and me
April 28, 2013

It is Easter, and after a stressful fortnight of marking and processing my University course exams, my BP reaching a crescendo, I decided to pack my bags and head for Kasisi Children’s Home.

This one Easter, I had a welcome that evoked in me a sense of realizing my place at Kasisi. Often the Sisters would, with bewitching joviality and love, jokingly rebuke me for having been away too long. Could never get to understand their conception of time. Their concept of "too long" seems to be a translation of a week being equivalent to months. In my opinion, I am never really away that long. I have come to learn to never mind them. I always tell them I am a prodigal son. I am always back anyway, whether it takes me a week or months.

This Easter had a resonance that was different. A resonance that painted a picture of my beginnings at Kasisi.

In the glow of the setting sun, as the girls opened the gate for me, one of them said, “Welcome back home, Mr. Mbinji”.  Well at least, she pronounced my name correctly, though the “Mr.[1]” always makes me think I am bĂȘte noire. I prefer being called, Mbinji.

Over time, the children have had different variants and pronunciations of my name. “Mr. Mbinji”, the older ones would get it correctly. As for the little ones, it is always hilarious. “Mr. Beans, Sister.” I wonder when they ever did see me in a blue habit! And of course, there is, “uncle, daddy” too.

Anyway, back to the welcome. I felt sad and happy, at the same time. Sad, because perhaps, I had stayed away too long. But mostly happy, because, indeed I was home again. That the girl welcomed me back home, is simply a loving acknowledgement that I and her belong in the same place and time.

Often it is said, home is where when you go, you are welcome. But Kasisi has taught me differently. For Kasisi, home is where when you go, you belong.

How then did it happen that I belong?

Well, it is a very short story. Mamusia (Sister Mariola), Mayo (Sister Jolanta), and the other Sisters all have a similar story of my first appearance at Kasisi. Rather devious of them, but pleasant and memorable. Not very different from mine, anyway.

This Easter, sitting outside, watching the brilliant stars and the clearly visible Milky Way, I went back into memory lane. Why did I come into Kasisi? Why did Kasisi come into me? Is there a difference? It has now been slightly over 16 years, and I will tell you how. Perhaps, the how will answer the question, why.

The year was 1997. The place was Kaapstad, iKapa, or as it is commonly known – Cape Town, South Africa. I was by then a year into maintaining the website for Afronet (the Inter-African Network for Human Rights and Development) which was based in Lusaka, Zambia. And it was one of those days when my wondering mind, reached deeper into realms I had never thought of before. The internet for charity!

In the cold wet days of July 1997, I searched for children’s charities back home in Zambia. I sent emails to about five or so charities. All I wrote was that I could develop and host a website for them as a means of helping them have a wider reach in terms of intending donors and sponsors. I also did indicate that I will be doing it at no cost to the charity. At the time I was sending the emails, I really did not have any reserved domain for such a project. The idea was to piggy-back the charities’ websites on the Afronet domain. An idea which thankfully the head of Afronet went to the moon over. After all, it would add to Afronet’s image. Well, it did.

As an organization concerned with human rights and development, Afronet recently added to their website an advertising window for Zambia's largest orphanage..,” acknowledged at the time.

Of the five or so charities I had emailed, only one responded. And it was Kasisi Orphanage, now commonly known as Kasisi Children’s Home. The Sister-in-charge, who I did not know at the time, but who signed herself as Sister Mariola Mierzejewska gave me the green light. Her last name was a mouthful to me, and I did at that time wonder what kind of name it was. Couldn’t wait to meet this nun with a rather strange name.

Anyway, in 1997 Kasisi Children’s Home was born on the internet under the domain name, Later it moved to its own domain name,, donated and hosted by Craig Anderson in the UK. Somewhere in end 2008, we lost the domain, and all efforts to buy it back failed. Fortunately, in 2009 Thierry De Jonghe registered in Belgium, where it is currently hosted. Thanks to these guys. I am just still the tardy webmaster!

In 1998, when I briefly visited Zambia, I decided to visit Kasisi Children’s Home. I needed to understand more about the place. I really did not even know where exactly in Lusaka it was located. I had to ask around for directions. I hit the road with apprehension as I had now learnt it was way out of town. And the road was a mess! Kasisi River, I remember calling it for some years to come. Rainy season, was a think-twice road to use.

When in Kasisi Mission, I got lost and had to ask for directions, again. Finally, I located the place. It was ethereal love at first sight. The front had (still has) well tendered gardens, with breathtaking flowers. And there is 1956, inscribed on top of the main entrance door. A rather halcyon welcome to the place.

I strutted in like I was entering my own home. And this elderly Sister followed me. “Who are you,” she asked. “I am Mbinji,” is all I said as if my name was a valid visa to the place. She really did stare at me. I think she was not charmed at all. I did look like a lost street adult. Torn Levis, untucked Che t-shirt and wild-west boots, I guess I did not cut a sight she was used to at the Home. Especially when such person seemed to want to roam around, like he belonged. Later, I learnt she actually did think I was a lost street adult seeking sanctuary at the Home.

That first day was spooky.

“Hi,” a smiling youngish looking Sister says.
“Hi,” I say and I ask where I could find Sister Mariola. She walks me to the office. Behind followed the elderly Sister, still sizing me up. Well, this one is seriously protective of this place, I thought. The younger Sister quickly left before I could enter. Guess, she too was wondering if I was indeed a street adult.

I knocked, and the same Sister who just led me to the office opened the door.
“Hi,” she said, again. I do use expletives quite often, and I nearly mouthed one. But well, this was a place run by nuns, I had to be modest.

“Welcome to Kasisi,” she said.
“But we already met.”
“No”, she replied. Well, I think she must have used a rear door after leaving me at the main office entrance. Kind of weird of her, I thought. Fact is, I had not met this one other Sister.

I entered, and there was Sister Mariola. A Sister I had only met through emails and website update pictures. She was rather different from my mental images of her. In my mind the Sister-in-Charge, was a stern faced nun in a dull blue habit. A no-nonsense type. Reminiscent of the Catholic brothers that taught me at lower secondary school.

That in the pictures she sent, she smiled; I thought she did that just for the website. Up to that point, I really had never interacted with nuns. The only nun I think I knew then, was Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

Sister Mariola in person was describable only in two words. Awesomely magnetic! With time, I came to learn that all of the nuns and Kasisi itself are actually awesomely magnetic.

With a smile on her face, that reminded me of mom before chiding us, Sister Mariola really did size me up, too. Looking back, I really did not cut a figure that was commensurate with the project I had just started for them. I, in person and I, on the internet was incongruent!

Then the elderly Sister, Sister Jolanta, and the spooky ones walked in. Well, they were identical twins. Or the twin angels of Kasisi as one local newspaper once dubbed them. These are Sisters Janina and Maria.

That first day, I was appraised by Sister Mariola, Jolanta, Catherine, Christina, Janina and Maria. They were surely doubtful of this scrawny looking young man in torn jeans, and who drove in with a very noisy car (as Sister Catherine later described my Ford V6). Years later, Sister Mariola and Jolanta did own up to their apprehension of the intentions of the scrawny looking young man in torn jeans. Today I am humbled they did give me a chance. Could be it is divine providence.

Or perhaps, they believed in Mother Teresa’s saying, “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God's kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile.”

Indeed, they were kind not to have judged me harshly from my looks. That day, I left Kasisi knowing I will be back and back again thereafter. Thus, when I finally returned home, in the year end of 2001, Kasisi was the first place I visited even before settling down.

In the years after that, my bond with Kasisi strengthened. I do all sundries of voluntary work for the Home and some benefaction for them. I even managed to get Afronet to be a benefactor for Kasisi. But this did not last, as Afronet folded up in 2004. Yet, I continued, as my belief in Kasisi was not inspired by Afronet, but by own beliefs and the Sisters themselves. Their laughter, jokes and love would always resonate around me whenever I thought of the Home. And of course the little angels that dwell there! “Mr. Beans, daddy,” are sounds that are always musical to me.

Looking back today, there is no regret, no worry, and no questioning why Kasisi came into me. This is because, in giving myself to Kasisi, Kasisi has also giving itself back to me a thousand-fold.

There have been dark periods in my life, and Kasisi has always been there for me. The darkest was, when I was nursing my HIV+ younger brother. I had nursed one already nearly a decade before then. He later passed away. For this one, I told myself, not on my watch again. It was psychologically trying for me. But, Kasisi and the Sisters stood by me. They nearly brought me to tears with the unwavering support they gave me. Till today, I feel I will never be able to thank them enough.

In other dark times in my life, I have had to remind them that they really should not be concerned with me, the street adult or prodigal son. Like the time I came back from South Sudan sickly. They picked me up from the airport straight to the Home. In the sick bay that day, I shed tears of my taedium vitae (weariness of life), and mostly love.

I reminded them that they have two hundred and something children to look after, but there was no negotiation. Huh, Mamusia can be stern!  Often it is like I am talking to deaf persons. Gosh! They never listen to my protestations. Sometimes, I think they have connived to make my life beautifully miserable, theirs too. Some celestial conspiracy!

Well, perhaps in ending my reminiscence, I should answer the question, why I came into Kasisi and Kasisi came into me. The answer is simply that through no predetermined design, I had just simply walked into a place where angels walk with us. Ora pro nobis.

[1] Mr. always evokes in me a sense of master and slave.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Delusions - A journey into a world of the righteous: Part II - A Pale Misty Horizon

Kupuzo ya mutalahali muyeni aka Walubita

To the memory of 
my younger brother Walubita 
– who’s freshness I dearly miss
that unknown beautiful black African child 
- the surrogate for all those children
whose horizons are always pale grey and misty.

End of the year 1984 Anno Domini.
They are happy. They are laughing. Gosh, now they are arguing. These days they are always arguing. Boring, no punches at all!
“I do not like it, him going back to Zambesia, alone.”
“He will be okay, after all, he has been offered a job he can not be offered here.”
“Still I do not like it, he does not belong.” Now she has stepped on his cones. He doesn’t like it.
“How can you say he does not belong, he is Zambesian, you know?”
“And Britannia.” Sorry, but one that never feels Britannia.
“So what?” Wonder why they are quarrelling over something they can simply ask.
“Mom, dad, please stop it.” They look at me, startled. Can never understand parents. They were discussing my future, my life, without having the courtesy of asking me. Was with them, yet I was like a piece of antique in the room. Don’t look forward to being a parent. Too possessive. Too argumentative.


‘A’ levels over, should have been the end of the problem. But no, one walks in arms akimbo.
            So what are you planning to do. Does not wait for an answer.  
            You should study economics so that later, you do an MBA.  
Another one comes.  
            Ngana come over here. Sprawls in the sofa, smiling benevolently.  
            Scribing isn’t bad you know.
Well actually I was thinking of Mining Engineering.
Mining Engineering! Darling, that is too risky. Just the other day I read that coaliers had been trapped, then there was…
Scribing would be exciting, son. Not an MBA.  
They all had their interests, I had mine.  Did Mining Engineering and gave each a present.  A Scribing diploma, an Economics degree and an MBA. Thought they would show appreciation, but no. Then I was living in limbus factuorum.
Am not surprised how as kids we used to plot how best to kill them. Problem is we never killed them. They are just too precious, when not thinking for us.


“What is it now?”
“I just wanted to say, I have already made up my mind.”
“So you are going?”
“Yes, mom.” She does not like it. He is enjoying himself. She walks out, blabbing about fathers and sons.
She packed my bags, all the same. Kissed me goodbye, wished me well. What could she do, it was Christmas!


Friday, December 28.
Three days to a big job.  Assistant manager, Operations. Hope it comes with a Lexus V12 motor, it had to. They love big motors here.
On the way from the airport, I even saw a civilian manoeuvring a tank into his lush yard.

Sunday, December 30.
Can not wait. Assistant manager - Operations, Zambesia Oil Company, Backwaters Branch. Wonder why anybody would name a town Backwaters.
Any way does not matter much to me. The gods of my grandfathers must have been smiling. Wonder though if dad has any.
Have an English whitey for Boss. At least he has somebody with whom to share the humorous queen’s jokes. He fancies the queen. Strange!
Strange indeed. The man does not know that, today, the queen's kingdom is just a little piece of islands.  No more continent's, only football.


The year 1985, Anno Domini.
            Need to have a testament. Will call it the Chronicles of the Fourth Dimension, could be famous!
            Already, seeing millions queuing up to get a copy. Pharisees, running in circles trying to see what the excitement is all about. Frustrated, they can not read. The millions now speak in tongues. The Pharisees walk into the darkness, tails between their fat legs.

Wednesday, January 2.
Still waiting for the excitement to wane. Lodging in a 5-star hotel. It is no Hilton.  Now realise coming here was the best decision ever.
Dropped the ruins of the first world war a line.
You sure everything is okay. Well I am not surprised, still can not believe I am safer away from her.

Friday, January 5.
            Can not seem to be able to just watch the waitress walk by. If only she walked properly. Too sexually rhythmic. My hands are getting longer.
            They don’t know the Lib anthem here: That is sexual harassment.

Monday, January 23.
I paid for being mischievous, wallet evaporated. Think the mouse should not have danced a whisker away from the cat.
Beginning to think otherwise. May be I am safer near mom.

Friday, February 1.
Moved into thy dungeon. Not enough room to romp about. Too constrained, more like a pigsty. Think marrying will force the Company to give me bigger accommodation.
Marriage, no, not me. Marriage is simply the inability to find companionship in oneself.  I love myself and enjoy inner companionship.
Well could be an attempt to avoid being classified as a parent. Not too classy. What with your children plotting to kill you.

Tuesday, February 5.
Got an eye for one of the nubile secretaries.  
What a musically loud name! Walked home singing, beautiful African woman, here I come. You got rhythm, you got soul.

Monday, February 11.
            Now what is that? Parking reserved for the Chief Executive Officer General Managing Director. Wait!
            How are we supposed to enter the building?
            Interesting number plate ML 63 AMG. Of course, it is a Mercedes Benz ML 63 AMG. It says so on the damn car.
            Well, he never read that, poverty of creativity is customising your car licence plates to simply amplify the manufacturer’s model identity of the car.
Wednesday, February 13.
            Who the heck is he, too upright. Must have an iron rod in the backside. What happened to the whitey?
            The reserved parking for ML 63 AMG.
            How nice!
            Symbolising what is in short supply upstairs!

Thursday, February 14.
Was not surprised today, Mr. ML 63 AMG wants to be called sir, when I called his predecessor by the first name. After all they are one of a kind.  
Wont change a thing in my case. What inane cast, he turned out to be. Guess, he does not know that we are respected more because of our conduct than the label preceding our name.  
Reminds one of the native commissioner.
Perhaps, I need to remind him that it is not the title of an office that matters, it is how its functions are realised.

Friday, February 15.
Consolation, got the car, not a Lexus V12 motor. A rusty beaten up Landcruiser short wheelbase.
Wonder, where it crawled from.
Anyway, still, it seems to have rubbery circular feet. Yeah, the damn thing moves.  and did I burn Company gas.  Felt like Christopher Columbus. A pity he never had chance to roam around efficiently.
Wonder what he would have discovered then.
The gods’ dwelling place, surely.

Tuesday, February 19.
The evaporation process did not scare me enough. Listening to the chatter of women, could end up in the arms of amiable folks. Did not turn out that way.
Learnt a lesson. Make the ground safe in every turn. Being assistant manager, took things for granted.
            It is the pocket man, not the damn label.
            Could not agree any less. They take labels so serious here, I thought it would work for me.
            Every door has a label, and even names have labels. Dr., Honourable. E.E, Ecclesiastic Excellentia.  My foot!

Wednesday, February 20.
Woke up feeling pissed, wonder what I will do today. Sitting about tossing and turning in the seat, it occurred to me that after all the world is neither flat nor round.       Little did I realise that descriptions of the shape of the earth are relative. Strange, the extent to which we believe our reality.
            My world is oblong, slowly becoming foggy!
            The places, the realities people dwell in, makes the Sahara look like heaven. The taps are dry, but they still queue for water.

Thursday, February 21.
No oil anywhere in the ground. Luck seems to be running out, without striking oil, no big job after all.  Company definitely headed for boggy ground.
Mr. ML 63 AMG  has stopped smiling. He grins. Now he has a stiff upper lip, he is scared. Soon no big job for him too.
He is scared, no many women around him too.

Friday, February 22.
On the look out for silver shadows. Heard somebody singing that oil reflects silver shadows in the skies. Never turned out to be any, may be tomorrow.

Saturday, February 23.
Working one's hands to the bone is not as romantic as portrayed in novels. In reality it is dehumanising. What with, some folks looking down upon others simply because they are up there.
That is my nice Mr. ML 63 AMG. I love the fellow, so much that I could bed his spouse. Just hope she has a good bust.

Sunday, February 24.
            The belief in God should not narrow our inquisitiveness in the likelihood of the non-existence of God. If you are a believer, then you should accept the possibility that you could be wrong.
            It is bemusing when watching Africans during the holy day. Cant help think that God is black.
            They love him! Thought he came with the colonial masters.

Monday, February 25.
Though one may be of a different shade, one should always realise that we harbour the same feelings. Be they of greed, hate or love.
At times I wonder if I can last in the company of fellowman, am being looked at as a mascot.
Thanks to having a compatriot for a Boss. Miss that old whitey, if only he had stayed longer or I was born earlier, may be we would have struck oil.
Damn him, he left. Can't stop thinking he used a magic wand to make the oil disappear, or may be he took the oil with him to Little Britannia. How come it is always flowing that end.

Tuesday, February 26.
Got pissed again, could be, it is a hereditary trait. Seem not to be able to help it.
Mr. ML 63 AMG  not happy that I am chatty to a secretary. Not good for Company image, he says, and loudly.
Smells of, do as I say, not as I do. Only if  he knew her name is musical.

Wednesday, February 27.
Feel like patting the one who sang that song `pat the beads’. In this living hell you no longer pat beads, you kick them in hard. Could be more like it, where somebody is expected to make virtue out of inconsistency.

Sunday, March 2.
If only I could promise myself not to, but that would rob that genius of his entry into the Guinness Book of Records.
Ah! They surely do not have to speak in a gibberish language. God understands their language.

Saturday, March 15.
Nice working week, but turned out to have no disciples at all. All faked out. May be I should not have told them the oil went with the ancestral gods. Am not surprised my childhood priest said these gods were evil.

Sunday, March 16.
Patience is like wanting to scratch one's rump in public, but courtesy forbids.  Could be more like it in real life, with the oil at a distance, really need to scratch my rump in public.
But no, this is classy reality, class forbids not courtesy.

Saturday, March 22.
What a bloody weekend! Just holed up like a pig in a pigsty. Things not working out too well.
Strange, yet the Pharisees in the Temple are always laughing. Wonder whether we worship the same gods.

Tuesday, March 25.
You've got to have the drive to do something worthwhile in this land. Am in dung.  Mr. ML 63 AMG reprimanded me for hanging too close to his secretary. She shouldn't show too much leg.
Think she is a teaser. Tell that to the Lib.

Friday, March 28.
Now, I am convinced his spouse does not have a good bust. He warned her! The man just has no guts to admit he also fancies her.

Wednesday, April 3.
Where is the damn oil, that is Mr. ML 63 AMG. Loud and clear. Now he uses a megaphone, lo.
Strange, thought it was his ball game. Always wonder why when the team is losing, the coach blames the players. The players blame the pitch. The crowd blames the referee. That is humanity at its best.

Friday, April 5.
Dropped the old folks a line. Everything is exhilarating, could not tell them it is getting mirky.
Monday, August 3.
One of the darkest periods in my life. Tea boy tells me to make him a cup of tea. Filthy sandaled feet on my desk. A smirk on his face.
He hails from Boss’ uncountable hamlets. Boss is away. He is boss, he thinks. A sad reality!

Thursday, August 6.
On the verge of a demotion. Should seriously consider my predicament. Boss, says I insulted acting Boss!

Friday, August 7.
Boss still sings the same old song. Find the damn oil. Can't you ever manifest what you learnt at University.  
Thank you very much.  I also have a Scribing Dip.  MBA.
Hey Boss, I thought that Challenger is for aerial surveys. Can not tell him. He is too educated. He has a label in front and at the end of his name.

Saturday, August 8.
At this rate one will just end up a destitute. Poverty, disease are the worst scourges of mankind. Whoever said poverty and disease fornicate, and procreate rapidly could not have been more perspicacious.

Monday, August 10.
It is really true that you can only appreciate the light after you have been through the darkness. Will I ever appreciate the light. I have never really been in the darkness. The ugliness of well off parents.

Sunday, August 16.
They came armed to the teeth. Moses could have been proud. Rammed Jesus down my throat. Well my ancestors' sins are their own, have enough of my own. They argued. Whoever told them I need the man.
Chased them round the corner. Satan, they ranted. Didn’t know god’s people can be so ugly.
            Felt sorry for them for they know not that God dwells not in a building or religion.  God dwells in you, but you can never be God.

Monday, August 31.
He rubbed my nose in the mud, I rubbed his, too. That is my nice Boss, I should show my love by bedding his spouse.

Monday, September 7.
            She had used the word love. Well. Indeed, love is the most inappropriate word characterising human power and exploitive relations.

Tuesday, September 8.
            Woke up on the intellect train.  Love, infidelity are words many grapple with. The simple fact is, infidelity is a function of the misconceptions of love. Infidelity's synonym reduces to one word, unfaithfulness. But, have you ever picked up a lexicon, and looked up the synonyms of the word love.
          Synonyms of love, be intimate, bed, bonk, dear, dearest, enjoy, get laid, fuck, know, passion, screw, affection, devote, adore, and a litany of absurdities. The end result is a dichotomy.
          Love is a dichotomy. You either claim to be in love, simply because the victim of your love arouses your soul and intellect, but such victims of your love often fail to arouse your body.
          Or you claim to be in love, simply because the victim of your love arouses your body, but again such victims of your love often fail to arouse your soul and intellect.
          If you so understand this dichotomy, then it should be that you should understand that love is an act of psychological and, sensual or physical reconciliation. Infidelity, then, is simply discordance in understanding love's dichotomy and an inability to reconcile the competing spheres.
          So tomorrow, when you proclaim your love, you should know that all you are proclaiming is either infidelity or reconciliation.

Wednesday, September 9.
Never in my life did I fathom being in such a pitiful state. Tell it to those who care. They will certainly howl: get back son.

Thursday, September 10.
Missed the oil. Came across it the other side of the river. Could have been the turning point in my life. Well, will continue waiting for that distant silvery streak on the horizon.  
Sincerely, if only  Boss could…

Saturday, September 26.
Happy birthday. 25 years old. Boy have I come a long way. What a pity that on one's birthday, the day starts with the gods of the stomach running a riot. Assistant manager not worshipping the gods of the stomach. Hope one day I will tell it to those who will find the oil. No, not the distant folks. They will only rave.

Monday, November 9.
Tea boy has a label. And it is on my door!
I knew it was coming, yet I did nothing about it. The door, my foot. Shouldn't have just advised them to remove it, the hinges and frame should have been removed as well.

Tuesday, November 10.
The new found road West. Taught me some hard lessons about life. Never take what is not yours for granted. At least they are human, let me stick in the dungeon for another six months.

Wednesday, November 11.
Now a piece of hot coal. That is the way with women. Cannot stand a loser. Guess it is all about the perpetuate of the aggressive genes. No hard feelings. She even softly gives a piece of advice.  
Go back.  Blimey!  Just go give it to The Viking!

Friday, November 13.
Had to vent my anger. Got drunk and ended up at Boss' mansion. Well, former Boss. Felt like screaming. Remembered dad's wisdom. Son, let them enjoy their sleep for they know not where we sleep.

Wednesday, November 18.
I hate the postman. Feel like killing him. The Temple, too, is headed for the door.  Ugh! The ruins of history. Still at war.

Friday, November 20.
When you are at your nadir even that which is forthright wont be forthcoming. The fallacy of education. Work mobility, what utopia!
When I have the time, I will give a guest lecture to that damn lecturer who talked about education and social mobility. I think he never heard of the Greater Idiocratic Republic of Zambesia. And the thorns on the road West!

Sunday, November 29.
It really must be some new pastime. I hate intrusions. Told them to go to hell, asked me if I knew where it is. How should I know. They are the ones that always talk of hell.

Thursday, December 3.
They threw the crumbs at me. Got pissed. The good thing about getting pissed is that it keeps somebody else happy for longer than the pissed.

Friday, December 4.
The challenge lies in looking ahead and not reminiscing about times long gone. It is very disheartening to continue the way one's ancestors did. There is really no excuse for doing it

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Saturday, April 13, 2013

The howling and hollering wind

That we are sitting on the precipice of own our demise can only be doubted by demagogues. And I will tell you why.

Today, I read that riots broke out in Choma after a person alleged to have murdered a taxi driver was arrested by the police. Not long ago, I read of similar incidents in Katete and Lusaka. 

From the pedestal of reason, there is no more doubt in my mind that it is time we started accepting that when a people take to riots on issues that previously did not cause public anger, then there surely is something beneath the public's veil of reticence. 

To all reasoning people of this backward country I call home, please it is time we read the signs and acted justly. Let fear and the tendency to kowtow before little gods not cow us into silence. For tomorrow, like I write somewhere, "“If we do not change our ways, when our children seek our footprints in the sands of history, they will arrive at only one conclusion. ‘We went nowhere'.”"

Further, lest we forget, before the storm there always is the howling and hollering wind. Are these behaviours among our people the wind before the storm? Ora pro nobis.