Power of the African root

 Mwenye, the chief, had never had an idea, not in the slightest, that a white man could be so difficult and irritating. He had always believed that all white men followed a strict code of morality like Father Rikado, the Parish Priest at the mission centre. Father Rikado had lived like the original Adam in Eden. But in the forty years plus that Ambewe had lived among them in their village, he, the chief, had come to learn that foolery spares no land or race. He had, however, taught himself to bear with the white man, and that for one reason: you can never sell a human being! But lately, after the white man’s latest unmentionable act, the chief had begun to blame himself for leaving it too late.

“How can a man, a white man at that, resort to stripping naked before a village woman, all because the woman has asked him for her money?” wondered the chief. “I can’t understand this man. Is that the way you respond to someone asking you for their money? We all borrow money from friends but is that the way we respond to them when they come to ask for their money?”

Previously, almost digging a moat around Ambewe, the chief vehemently defended the white man whenever the village elders had complained about his strange swilling habit. The elders always expressed strong sentiments over the fact that they had accepted his request for a hand in marriage to a daughter of the village, arguing that, by endorsing that betrayal, the culture had done itself a great disservice.

As a white man, Ambewe had a slight urge over many in the village. On important occasions, he represented the chief in the city. Chief Mwenye only spoke a patois of Yao, and this was a great handicap during meetings in the city where delegates spoke in English. Besides, Ambewe was the only one who could juggle roles to perfection and in time. Until his recent scandal following which the chief and the elders had agreed to strip him of some of the responsibilities in the village, Ambewe had been a nakanga, chief instructor at the initiation of young boys at the river, and a dzukulu or the chief gravedigger at the village cemetery.

The chief referred to him as ‘one of us’. To him, a white man who knew all the rituals including the secret sexual cleansing due to a widow or widower three days after the burial of a loved one, never deserved the name ‘stranger’. His recent exploits, however, had convinced him that the village was going to spare itself great embarrassment if it found some way to help Ambewe return to Amereka to lead a normal life of a white man the remainder of his life.

Ambewe, a white man in and out, had come to this country only a year after independence. Today it was only the colour of his skin that distinguished him from the rest of the villagers, but he was an African every bit. He knew every single root in the area and the ailment it healed. He spoke that original Yao and with that unadulterated singing accent. As for taste, he drank and staggered like them, and his favourite meal was nsima served with marsh rodents, tree maggots and white ants. He was also an excellent composer and dancer. It was Malabic that composed the popular tune Nambewe ndinyamule! Amereka yandilephera! In the song, a dedication to Nambewe, Malabic's invoking Nambewe to lift his heart more, a special treatment Amereka had failed to give him.

At Beni, a popular traditional dance in Matiya, Malabic performed by popular demand. Trousers rolled up to his knee, a yellow sash around his waist, he always gave a life-time performance, savagely twerking his ductile loins as though he was standing only on a thin spine of plastic. Malabic’s performance, ever-mesmerising, always whipped the women folk in Matiya into a frenzy.

Three years before coming to Africa, Malabic, a young civil engineer then, had tied the knot with Marylyn, a high school teacher and former Miss Virginia. Malabic was among the five white men the government had engaged from Amereka to supervise the construction of a bridge, Matiya Bridge, the bridge on which he now walked on foot or on his savagely decorated Raleigh, often with a bleating goat or a grunting pig brutally pinioned along the handles, going to or coming from the produce market. The produce market fell on weekdays.

When they arrived in Africa, Malabic and Marylyn found life fascinating. Goods were cheap, the people generous, friendly and smiling, a picture which contrasted sharply with what newspapers in Amereka reported about Africa. The newspapers there had always painted a life all-doom and gloom with witchcraft so widespread that anyone would buy it with loose change on roadsides, sometimes from children as young as five. Their greatest concern had been on their two-year-old son, Gabriel. They would both be going to work, and Gabriel would be left in the hands of someone and what if that someone would turn out to be a witch. Their fear was that Gabriel could very easily learn the skill and grow into a white witch himself. The reality however proved them wrong.

The couple took in Nambewe, a young girl, to mind Gabriel when both of them were at work. Their security guard, Chingota, had recommended Nambewe to them: “I can’t give you a problem. The whole village knows that Nambewe had graduated first class from the initiation ceremony. She may be short in stature, but the other qualities she possesses more than compensate for this. She’ll make a perfect nanny, believe you me. I can bet you’ll find her so good you’ll take her with you to Amereka.”

Chingota had been right; only days on the job, Nambewe had ticked all the right boxes. The couple was at a loss for words over her warm-heartedness. She had taken Gabriel like her own child. On some afternoons she would take Gabriel to Matiya Village for him to chat with black children. There, the black children would sing for him gunya sasenda, mocking him for that ‘absence of skin’. In turn, Gabriel, never disappointing, would give his best of steps to it. Matiya was two kilometres from the city where Marylyn and Malabic lived. When knocking off, Nambe always made sure Gabriel was not around, otherwise, the young boy would cry uncontrollably for her, his friend.

Nambe’s good-naturedness quickly won over her bosses’ hearts. In the five months she had been with them, her salary had witnessed a three-fold increase. But still Marylyn felt that they hadn’t done her enough, that her heart needed something beyond merely a handsome pay. That is how the decision to do something special for her came about. They wanted to do for her this so that it should always remind her of them even years after they had left Africa. A house would be a good idea. They had heard that in Africa, food, a house that does not leak when it rains, and a few clothes are what define life. It had to be decent, that they agreed.

And that Saturday afternoon, Malabic in his latest make of Austin, drove to Matiya to monitor the progress of the project.

There, the nanny prepared him a meal served in a cracked plate. She had collected the English stone plate in a litter bin where Marylyn had thrown it after the fidgety Gabriel had hurled it against a stereo stand. Malabic never despised the generosity and with bare hands, he did eat it on a brown reed mat in her small house. It was sensational.

After the meal, he was shown a grass hut, her bathroom, to clean the sweat.

Malabic returned, a man light and transformed.

That evening, his palate yearned only one thing: the transforming African plate. He wanted more of that experience and generosity.

The following morning, Nambewe never went to work on Saturdays and Sundays, Malabic arrived in Matiya again, on foot, carrying only a few papers. He walked straight to his nanny’s house.

Events unfolded so quickly. Malabic refused to leave his nanny’s house; Malabic refused to go to work, as work would deprive him of the much-needed closeness to her. And in an attempt to identify himself with her more, Malabic changed his name. He wanted a name that should sound like his new wife’s, and all the while, all aware of the the legal implications of that unilateral decision, love having found a way out. 

Malabic was not a fool, and so when his four workmates paid him a visit there, Johnnie Walker in their hands, Malabic read their intention a mile off, refusing them welcome. And his face red with rage, he cursed them from the small verandah of his wife’s house, sending them a deluge of vernacular expletives he had recently acquired. He called the leader of the delegation shameless Judas.

It was now time for the American Embassy to intervene. Ambassador James Desmond began to talk to her directly, assuring her he would do whatever it would take to help her man recover his sanity.

In keeping with his words, the Ambassador quickly enlisted the services of a well-known British psychologist, Dr Barnet. The Ambassador wanted Dr Barnet to help Malabic see that his love to Nambewe was a mere infatuation, a fruitless obsession bound to wane with time. He had witnessed similar incidents, something he attributed to cultural shock, when white husbands fell straight for black women. Almost in all cases, it was merely transient.

Malabic sent the Ambassador a message, warning Dr Barnet’s body would fly back to England with no head on if he would dare approach him. Scared, the Ambassador dropped his plan, and instead, approached Mwenye; he wanted Mwenye to reason with Malabic, to remind him of his responsibility as a husband and father.

When the chief explained the issue to him, Malabic puckered his face and wept like a baby. The chief wondered what form of root Nambewe had given Malabic. In all his life as a chief, he had never seen anything like that.

Three months passed and Marylyn heard nothing from her man, not even a greeting to his son, his own son, Gabriel. It now became clear to her that Malabic was a man and soul lost, lost for good. There was only one way out now, to sell all their property including the car, and return to Virginia with her son.

The other time he had placed himself on red alert, walking about with a rope in hand for over two weeks, threatening to use it to end his own life rather than give in to the senseless wishes of Ambassador Desmond. Malabic had come to this after Nambewe had told him she had heard that the Ambassador had met the chief and the elders in a devious plot to abduct him and bundle him into a waiting plane to Amereka. After that, nobody ever talked openly about ‘helping’ him return to Amereka. Time was their only hope. And to the contrary, with each passing day, Ambewe seemed to be getting more of the baptism of Nambewe’s love.

When he heard that crazy fate had paired up Dr Barnet and Marylyn, and that Marylyn had now moved to London, Malabic felt like a mountain had been lifted off his shoulders. From the bottom of his heart, one Nambewe had branded with many a love bite, Malabic wished them paradise on earth, saying he hoped Marylyn would find true happiness in it, perhaps alluding to the alchemy of happiness he himself had, by a stroke of luck, found under the summoning blue of the African sky.

An hour away from Nambewe always made him feel lost and restless, an eternity in hell. So, even to a meeting for men only, Malabic took her with him on his Raleigh and found her a shade to wait for him as he attended the meeting. Every now and then he would sneak out with some snacks for her but also to ensure she was not in any danger and that no man ever greeted her longer than usual.

Forty-something years later, their love was as green as spring, as fresh as it had been the day Malabic first tasted the simple African plate. The two had now become inseparable, attached at the hip for life, and what with the five children (they should have been eight, thanks to malicious death)!

His head had now grown grey, his chin lowered almost to his knees and his skin hanging on him like a loose silk shirt, yet on no day was he ever heard uttering a word of regret over his choice of Africa. For him, Africa had given him what even America itself, with all her tall buildings, could never offer, and he now often confessed his greatest wish—to be buried next to his wife, whoever would go first—he wanted to keep visiting her even in the grave.

The chief wanted to try something on him, something novel. He wanted to send the village elders to Bimbi, the goddess of the waters, to ask for a reverse root to give Ambewe. He felt Ambewe had had enough of Africa and needed to go back to his senses for him to return to Amereka to lead the rest of his life normal and die there, among his other people in his other homeland. The most recent complaint about his latest act before one woman beer seller had emboldened this proposition.

The woman, also a usury dealer, had asked Ambewe to give back the cash he had borrowed from her over a year ago. Then the two had agreed that Ambewe was going to pay back at double the interest once his fellow white men gave him something, and that was going to be within a month. That was not to be. And it was now over a year, and her patience had worn thin, and all she wanted now was the principal, her original sum, even if it meant with no interest attached. And when she asked him again this time, he gave her the usual insipid response: “I’m still waiting for friends from America.” Then he forced a laugh.

This time Abiti Basolomiyo did not buy it. She started cursing, calling him all sorts of names.

Ambewe, a man not in any hurry, never said anything. Instead, he whipped his crooked back a little backwards before giving a twitch to his face as if a fly was bothering him. When satisfied she had said enough, he decided to do before her something, to let her know it never pays disrespecting elders.

She saw him unbutton his shirt before shrugging it off as though preparing to plunge into a dam. As though in a dream, she saw him, like a small boy, soon moulding the shirt into a ball. Then he did it—with all the energy in him, he hurled the ‘ball’ at her, screaming hell in her at the same: “I’m not made of money! Check whether there’s any money in there!”

The woman unconsciously grabbed it as does a goalkeeper in a competitive match! When she realised she was carrying a white man’s shirt, she threw it back to him with a vengeance. Malabic parried it with both his hands forward. The ‘ball’, now open, flew to the ground, Ambewe looking at it as though it had never ever belonged to him.

His overgrown chest bare, he was now undoing his trousers. That’s when Abiti Basolomiyo broke into a mad run, shouting for help!

A day after the incident, Abiti Basolomiyo’s niece died without any sickness. Many said it had been a bad omen, a white man stripping naked before her, a black village woman!

“You don’t have to remove everything on you to prove to your creditor you don’t have anything to pay them!” the chief screamed, disappointed. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected anyone to so behave on an issue so straightforward.

When Ambewe heard that the chief was fomenting treachery, he vowed, openly, to throw himself at Matiya Bridge. “Better die; you can never force me, a citizen of Matiya, to America!”

The chief had to apologise for the ‘bad joke’.

Ambewe and Nambewe died some five years ago and were buried next to each other. Gabriel, a very big man, an army officer serving in Afghanistan, had asked for leave to attend his father’s burial in Matiya, Africa. It had taken a bit of time to forgive, but Malabic was his father.

Today, two of their children work for the District Commissioner, and three of their elder sons have their own children, some look like Malabic, a good crop for Matiya village, for Africa. And in Matiya village a story is told today, a story about a root that makes even a white man forget his home, about the wonder-working magic of the African root, the root that works on anything bar AIDS.

 

New Father for Phunzo and I

 There was one thing I didn’t understand about Mother and her love of school bags for us, her children. For her, a new class meant a new bag, and this regardless of whether the bag you had used the previous year was still in good shape. So, at the beginning of every academic season, a day or two before the opening day, Mother always asked Likaka, the old village tailor, to make my sister Phunzo and me canvas bags to use to carry exercise books to school. These bags were the same design every year—flowery with a flap and a button, and a long strap to put across the shoulder for easy carrying and support. But things changed the year I was going into standard five. Mother had told me to collect one bag, and I felt like I hadn’t gotten her right, but I had. Old Likaka gave me one, and when I asked him where my sister’s bag was, he replied with another question: “Did your mother say two?”

I said I wasn’t sure.

“She told me to make one this time,”

“One?”

“One, yes. Why?”

I didn’t have an answer.

I collected it home, not sure whether that was mine or Phunzo’s.

Mother told me it was mine, no explanation, nothing.

The opening day Mother gave me a surprise—a new pair of ashen shorts that went all the way to the knees.

“I want you to grow into it,” she said. “Money is scarce these days; you’ll use the same pair next year.”

Anything from Mother was good.

“Remember, Phunzo is a girl,” Mother had replied after I had asked why Phunzo was not getting ready for school.

Phunzo would be starting standard 6. From standard 5, she had taken position 4 in a class that packed like a market day. Unlike her, in my previous class, standard 4, I had taken position 53 in a class of 70, but by the grace of God, I had been allowed to proceed.

On our way to school, many wanted to know why Phunzo was not coming along. I told them she would start the following day.

All my friends were on me that morning for wearing overalls and for carrying a market fee collector’s bag to school. They said it didn’t make a nice combination: overalls, a market fee collector’s bag, a pink silk short-sleeve and naked feet, toes scratching the hard cold earth like a hen. Others said I looked like a security guard at the nearby poultry farm. I cared less; Mother had given me these things, and Mother never gave us anything that was bad.

“Please, don’t give Phunzo a man, eh?” one senior had teased me when he noticed Phunzo’s absence.

“Phunzo is thirteen,” I told him.

“So?”

I noticed that he wanted to cause trouble, so I didn’t go along with him. But if he could come again, I had a ready answer for him, the same one Mother had given me: “Remember, Phunzo is thirteen, and Phunzo is a girl.”

At break time, another senior, a girl this time, approached me and pulled me aside. She looked all around and then whispered in my ears: “Why is your mother doing that?” Her low voice was laced with concern, emotion.

“What?”

“Well, that’s the gong. Later.”

On my way home I found myself trailing my friends, lost. Could she have been unwell?

Phunzo was my own sister; there were only three of us in our family—Mother, Phunzo, and myself. Phunzo and I had different surnames. His was Mkize, South African-like; she was Phunzo Mkize. Mother didn’t give any explanation, and I didn’t ask.

That afternoon Phunzo was not home. Mother who was wearing her red plastic earrings in the shape of a heart told me Phunzo had visited the village women elders. These were the same women who had been her instructors at her zoma, the initiation ceremony. Two weeks before, Phunzo had graduated with pride from a three-week camp for girls at the compound of the village woman chief. I was going to join a similar one for boys at the stream next year when I reached eleven.

Our courtyard was never short of people, men mostly. Every day a new face came; I never bothered to remember them all by names. They all came to drink ukana; Mother distilled ukana.

The revelry happened a lot during the harvest season after the villagers had sold their produce and had money and time to relax their bodies. The harvest season coincided with the opening of schools and Mother made a lot of cash to pay for our school fees.

Mother welcomed all customers the same. But on the day Phunzo didn’t go to school, Mother gave too much attention to a new face, a man I had never seen before in our village. That excitement, I felt it would just be a matter of time before she would tell Phunzo and me, eyes rolling like a small girl, as usual, “Children, this is your new father.”

The last man that had come to marry Mother had stayed in our house for two weeks or so, during which period Mother, all smiles, had kept telling Phunzo and me he was our father and had come to stay with us. His name was Samu Gasitini, and my surname is Mphikeni, but Mother being Mother, I accepted it without question. Come the third week when Samu Gasitini would not return, Mother called him names: “But I never told you this,” she told us, “Samu Gasitini is a fool, a crook, a thief.” Her lips pursed, she was looking at a crack in the wall. “He steals metal to twist it into those hoe blades; he can’t be your father that fool.”

Phunzo and I looked at each other.

Two or three days later, she told us to always forgive others. “You know what, Samu Gasitini has sent word is coming back. Please, welcome him as your father. To err is human, you know, my stars.” Throughout she had looked away, avoiding eye contact.

Samu Gasitini never returned, and this time, Mother never returned to us with an update.

Hardly four months after cursing Samu Gasitini, now “a thief”, here she was again, Mother, entertaining, in a very suspicious manner, another stranger. To show how much she cared, she had gone an extra mile, giving him a medium clean bottle of ukana, a chair, a table and a glass cup resting on Mother’s blue and green doily. She had found him a place, alone behind our house, Mother protecting him like an egg that would break if it fell.

As opposed to Mother who was slim, small and beautiful, this man was frighteningly enormous, awkward. His scalp glistened except where stood wisps of cigarette ash hair. He wore like a leading member of some old rock ‘n’ roll band—black leather jacket with frills and a pair of brown chequered trousers. His feet were bare, and as he sipped his ukana, and the fire squeezed his old life into a hatchet face, his toes came apart like tines of a garden rake.

We didn’t have a chair or a table or a glass cup in our house; Mother must have borrowed from our neighbour, the paprika farmer, all for this stranger, to entertain him. She had done the same with that tinsmith, Samu Gasitini. Mother seemed not ready to learn. Sometimes I felt like she lacked the courage to tell men “No, not you!”

“I’ve cooked local chicken for you; you’ll enjoy your meal today,” she told me.

I knew it wasn’t for me. “But in the morning I left you preparing nyenje,” I said, hoping she’d read me.

“I can’t give him crickets―insects? Him? He’s a gentleman, this man. No, I can’t give him insects like a bird.” Mother was a proud woman.

As I was about to open my mouth to ask who he was exactly, Mother came in too quick, “And, you have greeted him, uh?”

“No. But he called me and gave me bubblegum.”

“Bubblegum? See what I meant? He’s different,” Mother glowed.

There are people who never learn no matter how serious an experience is; Mother is one such. As for her choices, I didn’t know what Mother—and Mother had the face of a nun—looked for in a man. I can never say of Mkize, the taxi driver and father to Phunzo, because I never knew him though I could guess from Phunzo’s spindly legs. But I can of my father, Mphikeni. Well, my father was handsome despite his long mouth, that proboscis. As for Samu Gastini, he had the moustache of a marsh rodent and a face that resembled a perpetual mourner. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was Mother had seen in him. However, if you put Gasitini side by side with this new acquisition, Gasitini was by far the better. This one when he looked at you, he squinted his punched face like a witch. Even in terms of age, Mother must have been half his, at least, but Mother had her own way of defining choice which I had to respect.

Perhaps Mother had been affected by what had happened to her when she was young. This I say because years later, Mother’s brother explained to me how Mother had come to stay alone with us her two children, with no man about us.

He told me that when Mother was a young girl, she had been given to some man, my sister’s father. Mother, like all village girls, had been trained to say little and nod a great deal. Phunzo’s father might have taken advantage of this, turning her into a slave, sending her on errands and beating her. Mother had to run away, little Phunzo in her arms. And that’s how she later came to meet my father, Mphikeni, another disappointment, a waste in the honest sense of the word.

My father, Mphikeni, was working for the City Assembly, going round city roads in flak jackets, confiscating baskets of merchandise from women who were avoiding the designated market yard. Mphikeni took advantage of this, and confiscated and brought home basket upon basket even from women on their way to the designated square itself. The women reported him to the Councillor, who took the matter to the Mayor, and the City Assembly sacked him. Even Mother didn’t know where he had gone or whether he was still alive or not. Some three years after my father had disappeared, came Samu Gasitini, that film star who wore braces all over him.

Mother had failed with Mkize, with my father, Mphikeni, and with Samu Gasitini, yet here she was, unrepentant, taking in another, a worse one this time.

“But he looks honest, don’t you think he does?” Mother was trying to embroil me in her affairs. Out of respect, I kept my mouth sealed. Thank goodness this was Mother, but I had wanted to tell her something along this line: “Woman, if you keep refusing to learn from all the things that have happened to you, you’ll learn it the hard way after someone has died in your hands someday.”

“He has a bicycle; it’s behind the house. And where he comes from, the people are polite, and he has a very big fertile land,” she added. Mother had found gold.

Now a cockerel blasted, drunk, confused, and suddenly, the sky went grey. A biting wind, one I had never experienced before, descended upon the peace of our village. The rains were well away, two or three months. But now everything seemed scattered and misplaced.

“Something is going to happen today,” I said.

“Why?”

“The weather, Ma, the weather. Can’t you see, Ma?”

At dusk, when the dark sky began to gobble the remnant of our light, a group of women brought Phunzo back. She had been to the chief’s compound where, the whole day long, the women elders had been running her through a list of important tips on the topic of life and marriage in a polygamous compound.

After exchanges of goodwill, Mother asked my sister Phunzo to scale it. Thrice Phunzo failed, but there was a way out: the man, looking all set, just scooped Phunzo onto the carrier of that old Humber. There, poor Phunzo adjusted herself, trying to fit.

“Give it her,” Mother ordered me. It was a plastic bag in which were her old clothes. I had seen Mother stash her old uniform in there too.

Then, with our blessing, the man, now Mother’s son-in-law, led away the big Humber on which was Phunzo, my only sister. She was desperately clinging onto the saddle, her legs flailing.

 

Promoting intraparty democracy in political parties in Malawi: Can pension to ordinary Members of Parliament help promote autonomy for effective legislative, representative and oversight roles?

 Introduction

Recently, a member of parliament who thought was doing the rest of his colleagues a favour found himself in the firing line after the public got wind of his intention poised to introduce a motion that would see Government spend more on ordinary MPs after they have left office. The crux of the proposal is that Government should institute a mechanism that should see MPs earn something at the end of every month after the expiry of their tenure or after they have failed reelection. The amount proposed is half what the MP was earning at the time he or she left office or was forced to leave office. His prayer is that this will have to go on for the rest of that MP’s life. People have expressed dismay at this, almost all arguments lampooning the idea. Some civil society organisations have weighed in, threatening vigil at Parliament should he persist. Some MPs have spoken on this, supporting their colleague though quaking in their boots, as they have requested newspapers never to attribute the sentiments to their names. Some have buried their heads in the sand, altogether abstaining. As a citizen who values Open Government principles, one who never shies away from commenting on matters bound to have telling implications on Malawi’s broad public policy, I have decided to spare time to put in my opinion. For me, threatening the MPs without sifting their side of the story fails to reflect the spirit of debate this country desperately yearns today. I feel we should not spurn a healthy debate on what has been one of the most vexing questions on efforts to help exorcise the spirit of dependency in the House. Using my experience as a former news reporter and now a lapsed student of public administration, and also evidence from literature and interaction with mostly former MPs, I will demonstrate why it could be healthy and politically progressive to listen to them first. In the end, I take a position that a moderate sum that should see them live a somehow moderate life as people who had put in so much to drive public policy the correct way should not be a bad idea. However, what I find rather misplaced is the timing of the motion and the quantity of the proposed package. Albeit, it could still be sensible to debate it, knowing that motions can also serve what is described as “strategic-serving purposes”, that is, to water the land in readiness for future robust debate. The structure of this paper sees the rationale for the argument after this introduction. The third part enquires into why people are often dismissive of matters involving MPs’ rewards and incentives. A detailed discussion doling out reasons MPs should be considered in such a manner will then follow, after which conclusion.

Disclaimer: I am writing this article in my capacity as a student of public administration and as a firm believer in citizen participation for evidence-based public policy.

Why I am interested in the debate about MPs on matters economic incentives

Recently, I conducted research on why Members of Parliament in Malawi (at times) support bills that are patently anti-people, that is, bills that do not promote or enhance public interest. Jurisprudence terms such pieces of legislation ‘bad’ laws, that is, laws that do not respond to preferences or wishes of general good, the people. The motivation for this research was a television interview the former Speaker of Parliament, Right Honourable Louis Chimango, gave a Zodiak reporter on “Cruise 5”. The carry-home was a point he made that suggested that there could be some issues about MPs we only assume, perhaps that we should take a lot of interest to understand the complex setting within which our MPs work. I also took a lot of interest in matters parliamentary after I had read a few works on the complex subject of separation of powers, after which it dawned on me that though in principle the three branches of government are considered equal and complementary, for some reasons, the legislature brings the rear, that is, seems not to perch on the same elite rung as the other two, the executive and the judiciary. Perhaps this is the reason Kameme (2015) has described the Malawi National Assembly (MNA) as a legitimisation or rubber-stamping institution. Kameme is a former MP, and the fact that a former MP could arrive at such a conclusion should stir us to enquire or execute a robust inquiry to better understand the MNA. (I feel incentives or welfare of MPs one such pertinent area.) Honourable Kameme was investigating the extent to which the Malawi Parliament performs its vertical and horizontal accountability roles in law-making, representation and scrutiny. His conclusion was that, since the rebirth of multiparty democracy in this country, the MNA has been suffering a high executive influence, rendering it an institution with no policy-making powers.

Why the people have dismissed outright the MPs’ proposal on this question

In truth, the resounding level of repudiation of Honourable Werani Chilenga’s proposed motion has been unprecedented. In the Weekend Nation (dated Saturday, 12th August, 2023), for example, a journalist I respect, MacDonald Bamusi, described the proposal as “quite interesting indeed” (see “Chilenga, others must tread carefully on MPs’ pension motion”.) One can read Bamusi’s sentiments are driven by a desire to defend public interest and no personal grudges whatsoever, as he has first described Chilenga as “an active, intelligent, charismatic and down-to-earth parliamentarian” and an “astute people’s representative”. Bamusi has invoked economic rationale to justify why Chilenga’s introduction of such a motion is “quite interesting indeed”. For him, that “Malawians across the country are spending sleepless nights in fuel queues at filling stations where the commodity is scarcely available” and that “people are failing to find food as maize prices keep soaring every day” should pump sense in Chilenga and company to revisit or set their priorities right. He goes on to say in 2025 Malawi will have 228 legislators (presently Malawi has 193 Parliamentarians but the electoral laws have been revised under the supervision of the international community serious about democracy, creating thirty-five new constituencies) and should the motion pass, the country would be spending “not less than K228 million every month or K2.7 billion a year on legislators, some of whom said or did nothing when Malawians needed them most”.

The same newspaper carries another powerful article “Pension for MPs is self-serving, shameless” (p. 18) by a man and analyst to the manner born, Steven Nhlane. Nhlane minces no words, describing it all as “evil campaign”. According to Nhlane, “the legislators’ argument is that the President, the Vice-President, Speaker of Parliament and their deputies who are elected just like them, are all on a pension scheme [so] [T]hey think that the current arrangement which leaves them out of such perks is discriminatory.” Nhlane then almost turns the uncompromising John the Baptist, “We must stop this greed, this madness and wanton abandon of decency and morals.”

Now, flip your eyes across the spread where Kondwani Kamiyala, someone, hats off, revered as a top-notch news analyst, opines on one thing on which MPs always agree, guess what, their perks (see p. 19: “MPs agree, always, on one thing”). Thus, you can clearly read in it the magnitude of folly Chilenga’s attempt to tread where even angels fear to carries, something that has invited for him general blame, and this has been ‘universal’ as Malawi News (Saturday, August 12 – 18, 2023) too has picked him out. One headline by another of Malawi’s first-rate analysts, Stephen Dakalira, appears in the fashion of caution: “Hold it right there”.

In the same newspaper at page 6, a celebrated arts enthusiast, Richard Chirombo, wonders why matters arts have been relegated yet these “[L]awmakers … seem to become animated only when issues concern them.” Chirombo unequivocally submits that MPs do not pursue a career but are only there serving the people, and so should never be compensated for life. You can decipher the level of frustration in Chirombo merely by the title of his article: “2 disappointing weeks in Parliament”.

And when the same newspaper on its HAVE YOUR SAY page asks whether MPs should be entitled to a lifetime package, a good 7 comments (out of the total of 10) fault it outright. And here, sample them: “the proposal is not on”, “it is selfish”, “a waste of public funds”, “must concentrate on developing their areas”, “our economy cannot allow that”, “will strain our economy”, and “money they are requesting could be channelled to other important projects”. Even among the three in support of the proposal, only two endorse it outright, as one calls for further debate on the matter.

Almost all the items I have read on the matter on the social media have not spared Honourable Chilenga, in some cases, presenting examples from the West where some MPs have been seen to forgo so much just to serve their constituents. Perhaps I should remind the people who have been eager to cite such evidence that, in public policy, it is a sin almost unforgivable to grant equal measure and attention to two completely different public policy contexts (as though were one). The readership must also be reminded that some of the oft-cited evils haunting parliaments in Africa are very much an issue in parliaments in the developed world. In the UK, for example, one of the reasons cited for the MPs’ inappropriate behaviour following the 2009 expenses scandal there was that the MPs had felt entitled to over-claim allowances since they were earning less than what those with similar qualifications outside parliament were getting (Graffin, Bundy, Porac, Wade, & Quinn, 2013). Following this, their conditions were improved, perhaps an acknowledgement that the question of economic incentives ought to be scrutinised thoroughly if parliamentarians are to be weaned from a culture of dependency, dormancy and too much submission.

It should be pointed out that the evidence on the people’s perception of MPs as analysed here is very much what literature on legislative studies proffers. For example, Patel (2008) writes that, following MPs’ perceived dereliction of their constitutional duty, the people have described the Malawi National Assembly and the MPs therein as “childish”, “waste of time”, and “drain of resources” (p. 34). They have also been described as unusually eager to pass bills that promise material or monetary advantage to them as opposed to bills geared towards uplifting the general welfare of Malawians. Think of this: of the 26 bills passed in 2011, a good 22 were materialist―16 money bills, and 6 mostly on higher education and energy (Chikaya-Banda, 2012). Thus, only 4 had dealt with socio-legal issues. The same had been the case in the first term after democratisation, i.e. May 18, 1994 to May 25, 1999 when a total of 156 bills, nearly half of which (74 bills) on money issues (Financial Bills) (see Chirwa, Patel & Kanyongolo, 2013, p. 78). Surely, a picture like this gives MPs no chance to be listened to.

Further, even on the question of corruption, examples are so rife it makes it difficult to side with MPs on matters money as the general feeling is always that MPs generally fail to live to the people’s expectation. Only a year into the second democratic dispensation, for example, MPs from the United Democratic Front (UDF) and Alliance for Democracy (AFORD) benefited from the so-called “K50,000 Presidential handouts” in May 1995 (Lwanda, 2004, p. 54). This was not a once-off affair as it was to be repeated in 2001 in what came to be described as the “Brown Envelope Saga” when envelopes containing cash rewards were handed out to MPs to induce them to vote in favour of extending the presidential tenure through the Open Term Bill (later Third Term Bill) (Patel, 2008, p. 28). According to Lwanda (2019), Khwauli Msiska, the AFORD MP who had introduced the Bill in Parliament at the time, was allegedly paid MK3 million for the job (p. 51). In 2017, during the debate on the 50 + 1 Bill, Hon. Dzoole Mwale, MCP, had alleged that some MPs had been given MK150,000 each to shoot down the Bill (see Hansard, 15th December, 2017, p. 38).

On their part, the MPs have been quick to defend themselves, arguing that, for some reasons, the people choose to misunderstand them, blaming them as MPs for issues they, as MPs, know nothing about. One former MP has even hit back, dubbing the criticism “irrational comments by self-acclaimed commentators and analysts who do not know the job description of MPs” (Aipira, 2015, p. 482). These sentiments have slightly been reflected in opinions by one former Speaker of Parliament, Right Honourable Louis Chimango, who told a “Cruise 5” reporter that MPs are truly honourable men and women who do their best in the environment they are yet often misunderstood by the public.

Do people indeed misunderstand MPs, or MPs are to blame for their insatiable appetite for accumulation?

Members of Parliament perform three major functions, all crucial for a healthy democracy. Thus, they represent the views of the constituents in Parliament (representation) (Patel & Tostensen, 2006), oversee the executive and limit its exercise of power in accordance with the Constitution (oversight or scrutiny) (Tostensen, 2017); and enact legislation, that is, statute law (law-making) (Green-Pedersen, 2010). Of the three functions, the last is their primary function. In Malawi, section 66(1)(a) to (e) of the Constitution of the Republic of Malawi therefore provides for the function of the legislature thus: receive, amend, accept or reject Government Bills and Private Bills, among others. This is supported by section 48(1) which invests all legislative functions in Parliament.

Besides, section 8 of the Constitution provides a kind of guideline or device with which the MPs must operate, namely to enact laws through deliberations that reflect public interest, that is, the interest of all the people of Malawi with the purpose to further the values expressed clearly or otherwise in the Constitution. This framework is complemented by the provision in section 13 on national policy, though these are merely programmatic or directory in nature, meaning, they are not truly enforceable at law. To the best of my knowledge, nowhere in the Constitution are the legislators invoked to provide for their constituents. But our politics has been fashioned in such a manner that every MP inherits all the problems of the constituency to address them personally. Besides, it has been the general people’s expectation that MPs should reach the extent of actually fighting to force their way on matters. Parliament is a house of honour, and it subsists in debate and decorum that must be taken following particular rules and procedures, hence standing orders.

I have ever travelled with MPs to their constituencies when I worked as a reporter. I could read helplessness on their faces as they tried to put portions for various categories of constituents: from chiefs (the bigger lot) down to drummers. It is no strange MPs pleading with reporters to ensure their story was aired so some would know they are doing something about or for the constituency. The same was the case at Parliament where MPs made friends all to see their stories reach their constituents. It taught me one thing, this, that we over-expect on these individuals, and in their attempt to impress, they adopt life of a fugitive, choosing to reside in cities away from their constituencies.

And this general scarcity and dwindling economy, so much in constituencies will be laid at the feet of the MP, perhaps justifying the need for a special consideration. 

For quite some time, constituency fund has been an issue, MPs demanding a bigger say over it. I think it has been out of the same pressure, namely that MPs should personally meet almost every need in the constituency, that has forced MPs to demand this chunk of say on the fund. In 2019, one MP, Honourable Kamlepo Kalua, even took effort to clarify on the need for the MPs to control this (see “Kamlepo defends MPs’ grip on CDF” by Joel Chirwa. The Nation. Tuesday, April 22, 2019. Blantyre: Nation Publications Ltd). Honourable Kalua stated that “Constituency Development Fund was created to deal with development gaps left by Local Development Fund and District Development Fund. So, in this case, the incumbent MPs are obliged to manage the fund and ensure that the whole constituency benefits” (p. 8). He added: “Those alleging that sitting MPs do this and that with the fund are speaking from the perspective of ignorance” (p. 8).

Many people hold the view that when a Member of Parliament holds the floor or speaks in the House then he or she has done some job or that he or she has demonstrated she has the welfare of the people at heart. The truth of the matter is that power relations matter so much over who should be given the floor on an issue in the House. It is no fault of the MP that he or she does not contribute. I know a Member of Parliament who obstinately opposed the 2011 Injunctions Bill, describing it as “infamous” and “incensing” yet had no choice but to vote in its favour. Perhaps this explains why Right Honourable Davis Katsonga, former Speaker himself, compared the life of a Parliamentarian in the House to a robot, saying, “When the party says, as far as this vote is concerned, you do not have the freedom to vote through your conscience by voting against it, you must support that” (Interview with Times Exclusive host). As Patel and Tostensen (2006) report, in caucuses, “MPs are simply told what to think and how to vote or else they are liable to be considered disloyal and risk facing the consequences” (p. 15). The same is the case elsewhere as Abercrombie and Baptista-Navarro, (2019, p. 4173), citing Searing (1994) and Norton (1997) have reported: “Voting (in Parliament) is to a large extent constrained by party affiliations, with members often under pressure to follow the party whip regardless of their personal opinion.”

What all this means is that MPs face too much pressure to exercise their freewill, and perhaps that, unless we devise a mechanism to make them truly independent, we will continue to expect so much from them when it is common knowledge that there is a limit to what they can actually do without facing consequences.

MPs are also restricted by time. Consider the following table on allotment of time as provides the 2003 Malawi Parliament Standing Orders, p. 70.

Number	Activity	Period
1	Second Reading	15 minutes
2	Standing Committee Report	10 minutes
3	Other Members	05 minutes per Member
4	Minister in reply	05 minutes
5	Speech to amendment	05 minutes per Speech

In all fairness, the job of a Parliamentarian is never easy, some say it is complex. But how complex?

The complexity of the job of the legislator

Here is what the World Bank (2006) testifies about it:

Unlike chief executives, who represent entire nations, or bureaucrats and judges, whose responsibility it is to carry out and interpret the law impartially toward all citizens, legislators are responsible for representing the differences in society, and for bringing those differences into the policy-making arena. These differences may be rooted in geography, ethnicity, religion, political identification, gender, or other characteristics, but MPs are expected to present them at the national level (p. 1).

Nearly two decades ago, the SADC Parliamentary Forum (2004) had made similar observations, namely that “[p]arliamentary careers are among the most complex and challenging on earth (because) [c]ompeting demands—from one’s party, from the House, from the constituency and family—make the MP’s life a challenging balancing act” (p. 7). At the international level, Akbar Khan, Secretary-General of the Commonwealth Parliamentary Association, has compared the job of Parliamentarians to “navigation in the complexities of parliamentary life” (The Parliamentarian, 2017, p. 284).

This juggling and complex job description suggests that “parliaments are the most crucial institutions of democratic representation and accountability” (Chên, 2017, p. 2), or in the words of Mello and Peters (2018) “the pivotal democratic institution” (p. 3), perhaps suggesting that democracy without a functioning parliament is as good as dead. It also suggests the need for great art and balance if one is to negotiate the terrain of the National Assembly.

While executing this noble role, MPs from the opposition find themselves torn between serving the people and their political party or even the man or woman at the apex of the party. If they are from the ruling party, they will have to negotiate the interests of, on one hand, the man or woman at the helm of power, the President together with the (ruling) party, and on the other, of the constituents or the people. It is easy to dismiss arguments that most MPs are reduced to occasional participants because of power relations as determined by hierarchy and rules. It is easy to pinpoint where MPs allegiance should lie, but because of power relations in the House, things can never be as simple as one may try to reduce or put them.

The power relations in the House makes scrutiny, in the honest sense of this word and in all its categories, a tall order. By scrutiny here, I mean “any activity that involves examining (and being prepared to challenge) the expenditure, administration and policies of the government of the day” (White, 2015, p. 3). The three main categories of scrutiny mechanisms are debate, questions (oral and written) and committees (White, p. 17).

Thus, it is more of a ritual than serious business when MPs meet in plenary. Plenary session refers to meeting in the National Assembly where all the members meet as one group. It is also referred to as “a sitting of the legislature in quorum”, or “committee of the whole”, the highest decision-making body of the legislature. If truth be told, it is committees that matter most. This is because parliaments perform most of their jobs through committees. UNESCO and Inter-Parliamentary Union (2003) make this clear when they state that “parliaments perform their works mainly through various types of committee (standing, select, specialised or ad hoc) that are each entrusted with responsibility for a specific sector of state business” (p. 6). These “committees are organised to decentralise the functions of the legislature for the purpose of ensuring efficiency and effectiveness” (Naymote Partners for Democratic Development & Legislative Information Services, 2019, p. 7). Strøm (1998) citing Laundy (1989) notes that all parliaments the world over work to a greater or lesser extent through committees (p. 21). In fact, considering the crucial role committees play in parliaments, Strøm (1998) concludes that “no understanding of the world parliamentarians can be complete without an account of the committees in which they serve” (p. 22). And this is universal, for even in the US, there is growing evidence that parties as well as committees influence congressional decisions (Kim & Loewenberg, 2005, p. 1105).

Thus, unless a particular MP carries a senior position in the party and belongs to some influential committee, it is not on for us to expect him or her to influence so much in the House. Besides, it is pointed out that sector knowledge is the most important factor when selecting chairpersons for committees (Chiru, 2017, p. 1). Chiru mentions chair seniority and party credentials as additional factors. Thus, even in these committees, a member could be slotted in just to fill the numbers. What all this reminds us of is that we must tame our expectation of what most MPs can do in the House even if they belong to some important committees.

In Malawi, before Parliament was dissolved in March 2019, the Malawi Parliament had 20 committees comprising MPs from different political parties. The works of these committees were being undertaken by 172 members. The majority of these members were serving on more than one committee, with broad mandates that stretch beyond the portfolio of a single ministry. According to Lwanda (2019), decisions by these committees are often ignored by the party in power (p. 68).

Sometimes the world fails to appreciate the fact that MPs can also be said to have fulfilled their jobs through other roles, not merely through passing of bills or checking the executive or representing the people. Thus, MPs can also perform what is described as non-legislative functions, that is to say, those “activities with no direct material consequences for society, since no law is changed” (Green-Pedersen, p. 348). Non-legislative activities include such issues as merely presence of the member in the House or parliamentary debate or a response by government to a question and interpellations, but have no further direct consequences for society above the attention invited around an issue. Green-Pedersen observes that at times, such attention may trigger some politicisation of an issue, which could in turn lead to legislative changes though such indirect material effects are entirely different from the direct effects of changes in legislative activities (p. 349). In some cases, a legislator may present a bill he or she clearly knows will never pass, but that could be important to trigger future debate. Thus, “presenting bills that have no chance of ever being passed may in reality have a similar function to that of non-legislative activities” (p. 349). What all this means is that scholars have to tread with caution when they describe MPs as people who go to Parliament to do nothing and therefore not deserving of some better welfare.

Once again, as explained, the context within which MPs operate matters, as whether or not the MP will contribute is not merely determined by his or her wish or whims. Various forces restrain them from participating. For example, rules described by Yadav (2012) as “one of the most lucrative political assets parties and politicians can have in office” (p. 1028) applied in the House have a larger say over how MPs will behave in the House. Rules have the power to promote or restrain certain behaviours, for example, rules that allow a party to take control of agenda setting in the House, and rules that punish MPs who take a stand against their own parties may end up breeding corruption (Yadav, 2012). The explanation is that a party who controls the rules will snip attempts by MPs to check such malpractices as corruption, thereby weakening legislative oversight role.

Most MPs, especially those in the opposition, have little or no powers over rules in the House. In this way, such MPs have little or no choice to influence debate or matters in the House. Often, those in control of the rules, the ruling party or senior members, that is, can exert control over who should speak or not. Thus, “the extent to, and speed by, which governments can cut off debate have important implications for government control over the legislative agenda” (Proksch & Slapin, 2015, p. 6., citing Doring, 1995; Tsebelis, 2002; Rasch & Tsebelis, 2011).

The power to control who should speak or not is used as a sluice to control the MPs, especially those perceived to be anti-establishment. Besides closing the opportunity for them to express their opinions, such MPs can also be targeted for abuse or punishment. During the Third Term Debate, a number of MPs faced the wrath of those who desperately wanted it pass. On one occasion, an MP had been saved by the presence of a British official when some boys openly accused him of frustrating the Bill.

The other reason most MPs are powerless is that they are often a product of a closed primary election system, one which had been prearranged by the party leader. Research shows that MPs who go to parliament through a prearranged primary election system surrender their parliamentary voice to the man in charge. In one important research on primary elections as a measure of degree of internal democracy, Alvarez and Sinclair (2012) made an interesting conclusion, namely that members who came through an open primary election system ended up taking a more central or a more objective position on issues in Parliament than those who came through the closed primary system.

Even those MPs elected on independent ticket, one we would assume to represent some open system, defect to the ruling party once they are voted into the House. Svåsand (2013) offers some explanation, namely that in Malawi “political parties are heavily dependent on the leadership” (p. 7). He adds that, apart from the selective personal benefits the MP gets after defecting, the absence of clear ideological differences also becomes an incentive for them to defect (p. 17). Perhaps it is no surprise that between 1994 and 2007, a good 131 MPs had defected from the party that had sponsored them into Parliament, 72 of whom joining the ruling party (Young, 2009 as cited in Svåsand, 2013, p. 16).

The role of the MP is constantly overshadowed by the role of the executive. According to Wiseman (1999), “In July 1993, the institution of Life Presidency was abolished, and section 4 of the existing (1966) Constitution, which had established the monopoly position of the MCP, was repealed by Parliament” (p. 6). However, as Tostensen (2017) points out, even in the new dispensation, the governance system in Malawi is too kind to the president, as it gives the presidency extensive powers (p. xi). In Malawi, this strong executive “plays a prominent role in law-making process, thus performing a legislative role” (African Institute of Corporate Citizenship, Malawi Economic Justice Network and Transparency International in Malawi National Integrity System Assessment Report 2013, p. 36). One reason for this is that “all the government bills are initiated at the Cabinet meeting chaired by the President before passed by Parliament, and the President also becomes the last person to assent and promulgate the Bill which he or she initiated at the Cabinet meeting” (p. 36).

Over the years, some MPs have tried to take a position against bad legislation even though introduced by their own parties. Almost each one of them had ended up being isolated and eventually losing his or her seat. Without empowering such people economically, that is, through incentives or rewards that would go beyond their time in the Malawi National Assembly, they will remain malleable, drifting with the wind of the leader of their party or of the party in power.

Thus, unless a mechanism is devised to make MPs truly independent, our MPs will keep propping on the man in charge for support and survival. The country has been presented with the opportunity to debate this question and find itself an opening through which to rescue the MPs from the clutch of party leaders. Although greed cannot be ruled out, my feeling is that this question can address some weakness in intraparty politics.

I have often met former MPs who almost live like they had murdered someone, people looking at them with scorn for a sin not of their own making. Even when they are educated, once they lose their seat, it becomes very difficult for them to secure another job. This is often the case when they were in a different party and there has been an alternation, that is, another party has taken over. If they would be made truly independent economically, these honourable men and women would no longer live in shame, resorting to tailoring or taxi-driving for a living. Remember, the title ‘honourable’ is for life, although former MPs often look with scorn at anyone who addresses them as such. I know the reason; they think one makes it out of mockery. A human face to their plea can help address some weaknesses of our intraparty democracy. No matter what eventually befell them, they once represented our beautiful Nation in our National Assembly for which they deserve some respect.

The fact that we have lost trust in MPs should not be a reason for us to spurn a debate that would help address weaknesses in our intraparty democracy. We are not alone in this, as even “established democracies in recent decades have been confronted with manifest political disengagement, decreased levels of citizen trust in parliamentary representatives and increased public dissatisfaction with the competence of parliaments” (Judge & Leston-Bandeira (2018, p. 154), citing Dalton (2004) and Norris (2011). However, this pandemic has not spared the other branches of government about which people do not speak much. Thus, writing for the context of Finland, Snellman (2015), observe that this problem is evident in all institutions of government.

Perhaps it is the timing and the magnitude of the request that the people find fault with; well, we can still debate it and in future consider how far we can help these great men and women serving or who once served this Great Nation.

Why we have often misunderstood MPs

One reason we dismiss MPs before we have listened to their stories is that we often look the world from our own perspective. This is why parliamentary studies encourages use of interpretivism, a theory that stresses the importance of context in meaning interpretation. As Geddes and Rhodes (2018) report, we must “take seriously the way in which political actors interpret the world around them” (p. 8). Thus, our meanings must be put side by side with those the MPs construct for us to arrive at a robust interpretation.

The other reason we misunderstand MPs is that we rarely take time to understand our MPs using approaches that would ensure we put ourselves in their shoes. In the UK, the Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority had established in 2012 that 57 per cent of those who said they thought they had a good idea of what MPs actually did thought they did a good job (Cowley & Stuart, 2015), meaning unless people take time to study the legislature, they are bound to cast it in bad light.

We also misunderstand MPs because we mistake them for government. Beetham (2011) does not take kindly to this. According to Beetham, it is not the mandate or role of parliamentarians to deliver national outcomes yet when delivery of these outcomes fails, it is parliament, rather than government, that takes the blame. Similarly, unless we understand the complex setting in which our MPs work, our perception of them is bound to be jaundiced (Thompson, 2016). Thompson therefore opines that MPs deserve a kinder billing in the people’s assessment. Thompson was writing of the UK House of Commons.

Well, before I conclude, let me quote verbatim what a former MP had told me a few hours after the passing on of Right Honourable Nelson Khonje (who was the Speaker of the National Assembly during the era of the Malawi Congress Party before the country had returned to multiparty democracy). It was a Tuesday, November 26, 2019:

But look at the position of the late Khonje that has just died. A speaker, twelve years in the chair. He dies in the hands of, I think, his family, his daughter, very brave and dedicated woman. We have yet to find out; I haven’t met her myself but I understand she was looking after him. A whole Speaker? No benefit? Because he served during that time (one-party era) maybe? What are we doing? … A whole Speaker? A man who has put his neck on the chopping board, who has protected the Head of State in that very volatile situation, who has served the nation at the risk of his own welfare?

The MPs can never speak for themselves, and Honourable Chilenga should be commended for this bold stance. He is in the opposition, but this is an issue that concerns all MPs; who knew the Chilengas would be speaking from the opposite benches today? At the same time, let me commend Malawi’s vigilant media fraternity for keeping our Nation in check. In Malawi, the media dishes us the best any civil society can, and when they put us to check, we must always celebrate. They set the agenda for strategic and responsive public policy, giving us an opportunity to debate issues before they are finally considered for exit or adoption. What I am doing here is merely complementing their great service to this Great Nation, merely adding a voice or angle to their brilliant analyses.

Conclusion

Members of Parliament in Malawi have not served the people as expected, but this has not been of their own making; the context of the Malawi National Assembly (MNA) is so complex one ought to take time to understand why good men and women suddenly change once inducted and socialised in the House. It is not easy for a Parliamentarian to withstand the political-economy forces he or she comes up against in the MNA, because the nature of our politics, right from the early days of the second dispensation, has found pleasure in vesting too much power in the executive. Thus, Malawi’s political problems are often traced to intraparty democracy where party leaders live like emperors, demi-gods. It must be in public interest to make our MPs truly independent and autonomous so that they should be able to take independent decisions without fear of what might befall them once they have decided to listen to their conscience. I equate empowering MPs economically with giving them the teeth with which to bite without looking over their shoulders. And if this request was coming from the judiciary, were the people going to question as much as they have? I don’t think so. And, you tell me, what could be the justification under our law that only the Speaker and the Deputy are on pension and all those like me have to think about what the world will be like the day the glittering diamond chandeliers of the National Assembly disappear forever?

The debate is on, and debate is healthy.

I love my Country.

GOD bless.

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