Malawi can make you angry. Not merely irritated. Properly, deeply, blood-pressure-testing angry. The level of self-inflicted pain we willingly invite upon ourselves is not only deplorable; at times, it is almost theatrical.
Take austerity. In simple terms, austerity measures are policies adopted by governments to reduce public spending and bring their finances under control when a country is facing serious budget deficits, high debt or other financial pressures. They can involve reducing unnecessary expenditure, limiting recruitment and allowances, postponing non-essential projects, reducing subsidies and increasing revenue through taxes or other measures.
If you consistently spend more than you earn, somebody eventually has to pay the bill. Reducing the gap between revenue and expenditure can help a government meet its debt obligations, restore confidence among lenders and investors, stabilize the economy and create room for essential spending. As economist John Maynard Keynes famously observed, “If you owe your bank a hundred pounds, you have a problem. But if you owe a million, it has a problem.” Malawi, however, sometimes behaves as though the bank has been invited to pay for the champagne.
The problem is that what sounds like basic common sense has become a complicated and politically uncomfortable economic strategy. Why? Because austerity becomes particularly difficult to preach when it tampers with the meal sitting in front of the preacher.
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The austerity song is easy to sing from a political podium. It becomes considerably harder to sing when it reaches the raw nerve of your personal comfort.
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Suppose I lost my job tomorrow. My first response would not be to convene a committee on household austerity. I would simply start cutting costs. Holiday destinations would be downgraded. My daughter’s school might have to change. Fancy restaurant visits would disappear. I would eat more at home. I would reconsider whether I really need that expensive car. In extreme circumstances, I might park it altogether and use public transport.
You don’t need a rocket scientist to make those decisions. You need a functioning brain.
The economist Thomas Sowell has often emphasized the importance of recognizing that resources are scarce and choices have consequences. In ordinary language: when the pocket is empty, stop shopping as though you have just won the lottery.
If an individual can understand this, why should government fail to do the same?
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Why should senior government officials require memos reminding them to exercise financial restraint when the economic circumstances should make restraint instinctive?
Why should a Chief Secretary have to write a memo reinforcing austerity measures that ought to be obvious to every leader entrusted with public resources?
That is why, for me, the central problem is not austerity. The problem is what I affectionately call the national shortage of panel beating.
We need a campaign to beat some sense into our collective brains.
How does your conscience allow you to take advantage of an ailing economy? How do you sleep comfortably knowing that essential medicines are unavailable in public hospitals? How do you smile while sitting in a forex-depleting government vehicle bought and maintained by taxpayers when millions of citizens are struggling to put their next meal on the table?
Would you maintain an extravagant lifestyle if your personal bank account was permanently in the red?
Of course not.
You would cut costs because reality would have bitten you harder than any austerity memo ever could.
The economist Milton Friedman famously argued that there is no such thing as a free lunch. In Malawi, however, we appear to have developed a remarkable national talent for ordering the lunch, asking somebody else to pay for it and then complaining when the restaurant runs out of food.
This is where the debate becomes bigger than economics.
Austerity should not be a punishment inflicted on citizens while those controlling public resources continue enjoying extravagance. It should begin with leadership. If sacrifice is necessary, those at the top should demonstrate it first.
Otherwise, how do you expect a junior civil servant to comply with austerity measures when the people signing the austerity memos are simultaneously enjoying unexplained allowances, unnecessary trips and lifestyles that bear little resemblance to the economic reality facing ordinary Malawians?
It starts from the top.
I once mentored a young lady who called me one evening to say she was quitting the civil service. When I asked why, her response was heartbreaking.
“I cannot work with a clear conscience in government, Mr Chunga,” she said. “I don’t want to be a thief like them.”
She was crying.
She went on to describe what she regarded as systematic corruption within the public service—from bloated allowances to questionable trips outside duty stations. Whether every allegation she described can be independently established is a separate matter. But the anguish in her voice was unmistakable.
That conversation has stayed with me.
Because the greatest danger to austerity is not necessarily t h e absence o f government circulars. It is the normalization of behaviour that makes extravagance appear ordinary while deprivation becomes somebody else’s problem.
Austerity cannot be sustainably enforced with a memo, a threat or a gun pointed at someone’s face. It must become a culture of responsible stewardship.
