THE LIBATION BEARERS
When I think of my world and the wonder it invokes; I am taken back to the first ever wonderland I knew. Malawi was that wonderland in the pure bloom of youth and adorable. If I was to paint a verbal picture of the place it wouldn’t do it justice; to see it now is a tragedy as with most African countries it is a dilapidated mess that is a mere shadow of its former glory. It is parched and dry, like a glorious peacock robbed of its feathers but in 1983 there wasn’t a better place on earth. If there was a place that was designed for the growth of a child’s’ imagination it would be Lilongwe; this city far surpassed Disneyland for fantasy and imagination. There were carefully wooded suburbs, rivers that snaked over and underwater. There was a national Park in the middle of the city; you could walk over a bridge and see the grasslands with their eternal drama, the drama that only the food chain can provide.
It was a nature reserve, excellent planning decision to put carnivores in the midst of humanity like that but a convivial balance was struck. One downside to this was when I was walking down the lane and saw a giraffe, I gave it priority due it its superior height advantage and it was then that I had a eureka moment and realised that the long carpet in our corridor was actually a skinned giraffe neck. To understand the country I was in would take you a long time; it would be easier to understand the man who made the myth. Firstly Malawi was his creation; the British called it Nyasaland after Lake Nyasa, but he saw a map where it was called lake Malavi so he switched it to Malawi. How many people actually get to name a country? A test of egomania is if you could call a country anything then what would you call it? Luckily in Africa this happens all the time; Cecil Rhodes, Mobutu, Sankara, and several other leaders have all had the chance to rename their country. Rhodes in typical modest fashion named his country after himself, Mobutu after the river, Sankara renamed Upper Volta – Burkina Faso. These names had various meanings but Malawi had no meaning.
The beautiful city that it was; Lilongwe had one major drawback. A name confers on a place a certain mystique; a place can conjure up a certain romantic image due to the name itself. In Lilongwe all the areas were named numerically. So conversations went like this.
“Hi my name is Isibo, I live in area 21”
“I heard that’s nice, I live in area 16.”
“Oh area 16 that’s really nice, not as good as area 19 but nice”
“Have you seen the waterfalls in area 14, really nice?”
So the government hadn’t got around to naming places and people will have to do it with numbers. Malawi looked like an Orwellian nightmare done on a tight budget. The cantons were strictly regulated with a regimented system that crushed any spirit of freedom. For children the world was free; there was total security and from the age of 4 I could freely navigate the cityscape. I remember one day loitering around town aged 5 and bumping into my Mum on her lunch break, then going about my business. I would save my pennies and then go downtown and buy a soda and samosas. I will never forget on day when I went to the shop and I handed over my money as usual only to be told it wasn’t enough. Due to the niceties of structural readjustment, my money wasn’t worth as much as I thought. The shopkeeper had a problem conveying this in a sensitive manner and I proceeded to cry as hysterically as a five year old could. The other shoppers persuaded the shopkeeper to forgo the laws of economics as I was a special case.
“Man, it’s not enough.”
“Yeah, but he is a kid, he didn’t know”
“But fanta now costs 10 kwacha”
“Just give him something, he is making noise”
He then grudgingly handed me the fanta and I stared at him first, then at the lady next to him. She began to weaken as flittered my eyes, then I pouted and she screamed “For goodness sake give him the samosas.” Mission accomplished; I took advantage of the “kids ride for free” rule to ride the bus home. I was thorough glad with myself for suspending the laws of economics like that; it was a major victory to stand up for myself. And I wondered how this would change me? When I think of Malawi I think of rainbows; they were everywhere, on every horizon, every view. It was like a metaphor for defiance and hope; how it shone brightly, only to disappear and fade. One day I decided to follow the rainbow, I did so as I followed it over hills and hills until I saw it on the final hill. Usually they faded onto the next hill but this time it hung in the same place.
The emerald hill had a star as bright as the pulsar with the rainbow curving out of it; now I faced a dilemma just like a kitten that you didn’t want to scare away, I inched closer and closer to the hill. This rainbow had eluded me on several occasions so I would require stealth and cunning, two qualities I lacked in abundance. I couldn’t let the rainbow see me so I ducked under bushes; I proceeded to the other side of the hill with military precision. It was rocky and rugged so I was careful, the flowers were in bloom when I ascended but I still crept forward. When I approached the top there was another plateau that was invisible from the bottom; from this plateau flowed a stream. This stream dripped over the side of the hill onto the ground below, at the exact point where the stream tipped over the side, there was a refraction that separated the light into the perfect rainbow. The rainbow stood at my feet and arched all the way up to the heavens and back down again. The most supreme of optical illusions, I could touch it and distort its curve; I almost felt a tingle as I did.
There are days that fill me with wonderment when I think of Malawi; when I think of how I saw it and the actual reality on the ground. I attended Bishop MacKenzie School it was a mixed school with a mix of expat children and wealthy locals. The school was named after a Scottish Missionary who was the first white missionary in Malawi; in 1861 he heeded the call of David Livingston and set off to Malawi. He promptly died of malaria within a short while of arriving in Malawi but is always remembered. I sat there in a school named after him but I spent most of my tie looking at the sky; Malawi had the most beautiful blue sky you could imagine. Maybe it was the angle at which the light hit the Earth, maybe God blessed it that way. Whilst I was in one of my daydreams I hadn’t heard the call for me to join the others outside.
When I got outside I noticed that all the pupils picked were Black. The school was mixed with Whites from Rhodesia, South Africa, Britain and Asians as well as wealthy Africans. We were told we would have the day off and just as I was about to walk home I was told the catch. We would have to go to the airport; I liked that idea, airports are the most wonderful place that a child can go to. The bus came and soon we were boarded, details of the trip were sketchy at best. “You are going to see a very important man.”
Wow the honour; but I thought of why none of the white kids had to go, it reminded me of when I was visiting Denmark and some kid came up to ask me “How come you are like that?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like that, your colour, you are really brown.”
I had never been conscious of race before, I was like most 5 year olds and more concerned with the accumulation of sweets and playing. I stood there for ages wondering the correct answer to give and was truly stumped. Then he asked.
“Are your parents like that?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, then that’s why.”
It was then that I realised that people were different but I hadn’t thought about it since it happened. Now on the way to the airport we were learning songs. “You are welcome to our country, a land of beauty and wonder.” And the even more catchy “Peace, love and Progress” and if you were still not convinces then “Joy to the people of Malawi.” We sang these songs in military drill fashion until we were considered proficient enough for VIP guests. We stood on the scorching hot runway, the delegates were not amused because due to a mix-up they realised only 30 minutes ago that there weren’t going to be any singing children. Singing children are a staple of African diplomacy; the guest arrives on the runway and kisses the waiting children before he inspects a guard of honour. This meeting was destined to fail until our timely intervention as thanks to us there would be a bevy of kids to kiss. The guest was kept circling overhead as we prepared the final touches to our presentation; the prettiest girl with pigtails was given a bunch of flowers to hand over when he arrived. Then everybody froze as the plane descended, it was too late now.
When the plane landed, it taxied down the runway while a brass band played. To add a streak of the ridiculous the plane drowned out the band and the back draft from the jet engine blew a lot of so-called dignitaries out of shape. Mr Banda wasn’t here to welcome the guest as it was a politically sensitive time. The plane pulled up and the car-ladder slotted into place, the door opened to reveal our guest. A pasty, red-flush old white man appeared in the doorway and waved. For some unknown reason the band was playing “Yankee-doodle dandy” which added to the bizarre nature of the proceedings. The man in question was P.W Botha, the president of Apartheid South Africa; he was here on a fence-mending expedition and if a country ever needed fence-mending it was South Africa.
Malawi was a pariah state; it was the only African country to have diplomatic ties with South Africa and for that reason it was shunned. South Africa was working as a proxy of the Americans and furthering their cause in the region, this meant that supporting rebels groups in Angola (UNITA) and Mozambique (Renamo). South Africa was using Malawi as a front for its involvement with the Renamo rebels so Mr. Botha was there to see how it was all going. Kamuzu Banda could not be seen to welcome Botha so he dispatched his foreign Minister.
As Botha touched down the band stopped; the darling who had been chosen to hand over the flowers did so in a nervous fashion. He received them gladly and handed them to his assistant. Just as he was ambling off he was reminded to kiss the kids. He arched to stoop over the terrified girl; they were both nervous and there was a hesitation as he chose which cheek to kiss, left or right? It nearly ended in a lip to lip kiss but for a last minute deviation on his part. The little girl sighed as the ordeal ended, but Mr. Bothas advisers were not satisfied.
There was a whisper in his ear; it should have said “Kiss that kaffir like you mean it.” He stooped down to kiss the next girl who was not in anyway prepared for the event and almost bolted in shear horror. The third girl was angling a way out but it was futile as Mr. Botha was now on a roll and he was overcoming his aversion to kissing blacks. His eyes shot to his next victim and this time he lifted the girl up and held her. Bothas nickname in South Africa was “the old crocodile” while I have never been kissed by a real crocodile; this was no less terrifying. His behaviour was starting to worry his hosts as the poor children were in danger of being kissed to death, luckily the minister intervened and cut short this kissing spree. His zeal was now infectious as he rigorously shook the hand of all the welcome party. He proceeded to give a speech; I don’t remember how it went but it must have said something like “We South Africans, we ain’t that bad really, we love you guys. We ain’t racists, come on, you saw how I kissed that kid? We are trying to help you get your freedom by funding rebel groups.”
The speech was well-received, as the applause suggested and soon the sweating hog was off to another function where he would have the chance to kiss more Black people. When I arrived home I noticed that none of my friends shared my enthusiasm for Mr. Botha. My white friend Brendan told me he was an evil man, the cook said he was the devil-incarnate and those were the kinder comments. That was when I realised why only the Black kids were sent to meet him; they couldn’t show Black kids and White kids together because then the myth of separation would collapse.
One morning soon after that I was playing in the garden when I heard the sweetest words that a child can here “Free soda”. I had to investigate further; even though we had soda in the fridge the thought of free soda was too enticing. A horde of kids had assembled on hearing the good news and we thought of the best strategy to get this free soda. We heard that the free soda was in the park behind our estate so we proceeded to the park. I hadn’t even told my mother I was going but I ran after the pack. When we got to the park we were disappointed to see there was already a mob of thousands waiting for free soda; this would take all day. We tried to scramble our way past the masses but being children we didn’t stand a chance. Just as we were giving up we were saved; a woman with a clipboard ushered us to the front. “We need three more children.” We children had gone from being a nuisance to the centre of the show. The lady motioned to the thousands of extras the exact spot they had in the picture.
Nothing was out of place; a brass band was playing, there were women dresses in cloth which was imprinted with his picture. Curiously his picture was printed on their chests and buttocks which was either a sign of disrespect or extreme reverence. The Police had come to restore some order and soon the organisation got a lot better as the men with guns did the pointing. Children were in front, followed by supplicants and cronies, and then followed by zealous peasants paid to chant. The day got hotter as the noon sun crushed onto sweating scalps; soon the headaches that accompany sunstroke were pounding my temples. Soda could have quenched that thirst and sunstroke but it was forthcoming. It soon was three hours since I arrived at the park and still no soda. I stood up to protest and as I approached a soldier to register my discontent; he cocked his gun leaving me in no doubt that he wasn’t at all concerned with my plight.
The singing continued, we chanted his name for hours until entranced. We chanted though out of breath, we chanted in unison and soon it was drummed in. Banda was the man to rule Malawi, we believed it after a while and the cult of Banda had new converts. To understand Malawi you have to understand Banda; he is your archetypal African despot. Born in 1896; he was already 87 when I first saw him and his life was like the history of colonialism. He was educated by Scottish missionaries, he left Malawi for Cape Town in 1917 and worked in various roles before he read history at the University of Chicago; and then he studied medicine in Tennessee and must have been one of the first Black doctors in the UK. He was the most Anglophile of the post-colonial leaders, he was married to an English woman until 1958 when he returned home and had a damascene conversion to the role of statesman. However any illusion of modernity were soon dashed as he proved to be one of the most controlling dictators n Africa.
His picture was everywhere, in public and private buildings and indeed those who were too poor to purchase a descent image of him received free copies. His picture could not be placed on the same level as any other image and had to be placed above. He was keen to see his people were properly dressed and took the grave step of banning miniskirt and trousers for women. Though he did ban miniskirts in the 80’s when they had long gone out of fashion, banning trousers was seen a necessary step to protect the moral foundations of the nation.
Female passengers will not be permitted to enter the country if wearing short dresses or trouser-suits, except in transit or at Lake Holiday resorts or National parks. Skirts and dresses must cover the knees to conform with Government regulations. The entry of 'hippies' and men with long hair and flared trousers is forbidden.
Despite this step the moral state of the nation got worse due to poverty. He pervaded all aspects of life, films were censored. Videos that were for private viewing had to be approved, before they could be watched and even then all images of kissing had to be edited. All foreign magazines were censored and TV banned; any articles that were critical of himself or South Africa were cut out. All radio bulletins began with his name and ended with his name. This was his Disneyland and we were all grateful for making this fantasy true.
The crowd had reached its crescendo; you could feel the love and fear in the air as we waited for brother number one. This might look Orwellian but the precepts of total power were written long before Eric Blair and 1984. Like when Jesus asked who the man on the coin was and when he was told it was Caesar he said “Render on to Caesar what is Caesars” That is what we were doing as we were told that he would arrive shortly. There is a reason why despots are rarely seen in public; maybe the printed image adds more mystique, maybe shyness but the reason is that the despot never lives up to his gargantuan image. The iconography of Banda was set in stone; the pictures were from when he was a much more youthful 65 or so but now he was a decrepit 80 year old man who wore nappies.
The Mercedes rolled up to the park; there was a retinue of lackeys who panicked with decorum and the spontaneous applause was turned up to the max. Even the most cynical man would have applauded as an oceanic feeling engulfed us “Kamuzu, Kamuzu, Kamuzu, Kamuzu! His mistress came along to officially open the proceeding; she opened the door for him and he creaked as he crawled out. When he emerged there was a slight gasp as the man and the myth collided. He stepped up into the sheer opulence that was his marquee; with one supplicant fanning gently while another whisked the flies away. The women danced for him, then we children sang a song, then there were numerous speeches praising him to the rafter and then proceeded through several hours of sycophancy. He sat majestically as his praises were sung; he then proceeded to eat lunch in front of his starving minions and didn’t mind the stares. Some sycophants talked for hours during which even he fell asleep; nobody minded the old crow on the stage as he dribbled and sneezed. Like an Old king Priam; under siege on all fronts yet deluded that Troy will still stand. Lead by Cecilia his mistress; the libation bearers proceeded to the King as he mumbled in his sleep.
When I returned around 5 pm from a surreal day, my mother; who had been worried sick, was so pleased to see me.
