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Domesticated to the bone

Dear Pain

The drum of brain wash-out has, rhythmically, been throbbing on all fronts, be it politics, health, education, agriculture and what have you.

Maybe, for politics, drum, the sounds can become as loud as they become muffled, creating a mist of anger and confusion at the same time.

Confused, the voter resigns to fate, taking solace in the fact that, no matter how long it takes, time to avenge for all the pain shall come: At the ballot.

But other drums, like that of health, do not give second chances once they start sounding louder than before.

With health, there are no second chances. Really.

You get the wrong medication and it is game over. Soon, people will be singing about how good life is on the other side of the veil. That is how people have come to confront the reality – in case one dies— of death or thoughts— when one is thinking about it— that border on its prospects.

It was all fine and well in the past, before people from abroad came fronting books that had a message that there is a peaceful place somewhere beyond the veil of this life and another one that is so dark and cold and fire-filled that those who head that way know no happiness forever.

And, so, people who hitherto had no qualms about death developed cold feet. When they fall so sick that they fear they may expire, they start fearing for their life— unsure about what life is like beyond the veil.

Because the very same books that talk of a place so cold and dark that there is nothing good about it also talk about all people falling short. As such, the Malawian who feels it in the heart of their hearts that they are about to kiss the bucket will all of a sudden become fearful.

Which is not surprising because, since everyone fell short, they find no need to ‘think’ ahead of reality; that is, the reality as it relates to themselves.

They may be religious, sometimes self-righteous, but, in their heart of hearts, they fear for the worst; that cold, dark and fire-filled place scares them to, for lack of a better word, hell.

Unlike in the past, when a granny would sit with grandchildren in the fireplace and, out of the blues, start talking about how they are about to leave the grandchildren and everything they have known for decades behind to embrace the silence of the grave.

Yes, an elderly individual who, from nowhere— did I say nowhere? No. I mean, from the back of their mind, for there are always thoughts about death; just that, sometimes, the words keep themselves safe at the back of someone’s mind— would start talking about what he or she wanted blood relations to do when the individual would die.

Topics such as love would, in those good, old days, be thrown into the ring, somewhere close to the fireplace.

No more.

Messengers of bad news brought the message of hell to Malawians in particular and Africans in general and, from nowhere, the African became a cowardly being.

The African became a “domesticated” being, put on the leash that came in the form of strange books that propagate poverty while the bearers of the news in those books live in opulence.

Books that have put the fear of death in Africans.

Sadly, Dear Pain, some of the domesticated Africans have become so domesticated that they speak against anything African.

Then talk ill of everything that has kept the African spirit alive all these years.

They have become holier than original bearers of the message and this makes me sad.

They have become bootlickers of strangers while despising their own people.

And, as they get away with it, they do not forget to promise a better tomorrow.

As such, they accumulate all the wealth for themselves while the African hopes and hopes and hopes—until death separates human being from hopes.

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