These days, I am used to sitting in the newsroom and get involved in planning the newspaper content for the next day. After all, I work for a daily newspaper.
The task also involves crosschecking stories. I mean, seeing to it that everyone mentioned in relation to a trending issue is talked to; ensuring that, when adding background to a story, I have done thorough research to ensure that what is incorporated in a story is not something that the original publishers [online, radio, television, among other sources] retracted after observing that they made a mistake, missed a point, misquoted someone or quoted someone out of context altogether.
I crosscheck the syntax, too, making sure that, where possible, mistakes are minimised.
I am someone our Chief Reporter Isaac Salima likes to call a Wheelchair Journalist; one who is ‘grounded’ in the newsroom when others— notably reporters—are chasing the elusive public documents, the elusive public officials, businesspersons whose activities help make Malawi tick and, of course, the so-called ordinary Malawian because those are the people who are impacted by government policies, laws, corruption and the like.
Anyway, on Wednesday this week, I made it a point to spend the morning at the Blantyre Magistrates’ Court. I am talking about Chichiri campus, where we have the Judiciary headquarters.
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And what courtroom did I go to? Courtroom Number 2, which I entered into at 10am and left around lunchtime, when the court had risen after finishing the morning business.
I must say I was impressed with the two court clerks that were in the courtroom during the entire time of the morning court session.
There was one pleasant man who had a smile plastered on his face throughout. A man who walked with poise and, whenever a service seeker sought assistance from him, he was dutiful.
Then, there was another equally dutiful clerk who, just like the other one, knows his job very well.
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For instance, he seemed to know each and every one who, at one point or the other, had appeared in the courtroom, either as a plaintiff, defendant, witness, police prosecutor, legal counsel and whoever you have in mind.
A man who commits important things to memory and, seemingly, never lets those memories go.
For instance, he informed one service seeker [a woman] who had been patiently sitting in the courtroom that judgement was not ready, such that they have to go back to court on June 6, 2024.
When the other party to the case came into the courtroom some 40 minutes-or-so later, the dutiful court clerk respectfully informed him [it was a man] that judgement was not ready, reiterating the earlier message he had relayed to the woman.
In both cases, both people went back home, or wherever they were going, satisfied.
Whenever legal counsel could walk into the courtroom, the two dutiful court clerks could know what case they were there for and could, therefore, pick the right files— which were neatly arranged on top of a desk— and hand them to whoever wanted them.
While in that courtroom, I was impressed with the way the presiding magistrate conducted business, too. Outright, I knew he was a man steeped in law books and experience. I thought, looking at his age and the maturity with which he handled issues, he is a real role model to the youth of this great country.
The magistrate, composed and authoritative despite not having a baritone voice, was in charge of proceedings from start to finish, intervening to clear the air whenever witness and State prosecutor or plaintiff and legal counsel did not understand a question.
And, ah, I liked it that he was not only focused on court documents in front of him— that is, medical reports, police caution statements, and the like; he was watching whatever was happening in the court closely.
For instance, those that were found dozing were told to go outside the courtroom to cool off. At one point, some court user’s phone beeped while the court was in session. Kindly, the magistrate advised everyone to keep their phones on ‘silent’ and, if need be, switch them off. The magistrate did not choose the easy way out— that is, throwing that fella out of the court.
One after another, he presided over a horde of cases, giving each one the time it deserves so that the dish of justice could be served— and served wholly.
There was one case where one Blantyre-based defendant faced the charge of stealing money from women who wanted houses to rent on the pretext that the money would be used to ‘reserve’ the houses for the women[now State witnesses].
That allegedly never happened; he, instead, allegedly put the money to other use. Now he is on remand awaiting judgement when the court next meets on his case.
In short, as the court rose, I was impressed with everything that had gone on in it, from the court clerks to the presiding magistrate. I must say I was taking notes here and there while the court was in session.
Then, when the magistrate was gone, and as we went out of court, another court clerk— who was not part of Room 2 proceedings that morning— came into the room.
I had seen him in that courtroom earlier, though he was not part of the proceedings. I told him that I was a reporter and asked him, thus: ‘What is the name of the presiding magistrate?”
At that point, he came closer to me and said: “So you are a reporter? Mwapalamula mulandu. Sitilola mtolankhani kulowa mu khothi popanda clerk wa mu room 23 kudziwa. Mwapalamula mulandu [So, you are a reporter? You have committed an offence by entering the courtroom without the explicit permission of the clerk who keeps all court documents in Room 23].”
I told him that I had not committed any mulandu [offence] since I was in an open court. I told him that there was no case involving a child in the court and that the presiding magistrate had not asked anyone to leave the courtroom on the basis that he wanted to hear a case in camera.
But the clerk, seemingly irritated, insisted that: “Ndikuti mwapalamula mulandu owopsa. Atolankhani sitiwalola mu khothi popanda chilolezo cha amene amasunga ma file a mndandanda wa milandu mu Room 23.
I told him that there was no offence I had committed but that prompted him to come even closer to me.
Then he said: “Where is your ID? I said even though I had IDs [not just one] on me, there was no way I was showing him because I attended an open court— upon which he reiterated that no reporter goes into a courtroom [in open chamber or not] without the explicit permission of the one who keeps court documents in Room 23.
“Mwapalamula mulandu [you have committed an offence]”, he reiterated.
At that point, one of the ladies I had gone to court with came to pick me up and, as I went out, the clerk, irritated, maintained: “Mwapalamula mulandu”.
Which makes me wonder: When did a reporter’s presence in an open courtroom [where there are no cases being heard in camera] become an offence?
Don’t some of these court clerks know that a court is an open place? Do they not know that their salaries are basically taxpayers’ [our] money? Are courts allowed to set their own rules, especially those banning journalists from covering open court sessions, in a free country like this?
I strongly feel that some court clerks need to be tamed. Really.
