Last wreath on Bingu wa Mutharika's grave
Season and time are twin ruffians, who, at their fancy, find us convenient objects of play forever juggling our circumstances. One moment they send us into a trance of forgetfulness and the next violently jerk us back to the sad reality of the changes that have abruptly taken place.
If whoever opens the doors of life and death will keep the door of death closed today we will be saying tomorrow that exactly two months ago we buried Bingu wa Mutharika. How time flies!
As the lurid plastic wreaths at Bingu's marble mausoleum stare at their fellow natural wreaths wilting with the passage of time and perhaps pitying or mocking their transient lives, you and I also look at those people who where untouchables then, now their names and influence in society going flaccid at legendary speed.
In people's hearts uncountable messages that would have been engraved on Bingu's epitaph have been composed. Many filled with fermented anger while some in praise of a "tribesman" that he was.
That he was a colossus who bestrode the narrow nation is something that we can all agree by a glance at how the political, and economical landscape have changed since his sudden departure.
The drastic changes that we have seen since April 5(is it 6 or 7 or all?) when Bingu left serve, to many, as a confirmation that he alone kicked out rule of law with his right leg, booted the economy to hell with his left leg, orchestrated corruption with his right hand and arrested his detractors with his left hand.
There is a time I wish Mutharika had lived at least to see his party being torn to shreds by the very people he elevated, to see how like Jesus, he is being denied by his own disciplines, and like Satan all the blame is being pushed unto his lifeless being.
But Bingu is gone for good, and the dead do not utter a word. He will only live in our memories whether good or bad while we continue playing the living that died while blaming the dead, let us for once, leave Bingu to rest in peace as we ask a few questions to the living.
Who gave the consent that one man owning trucks, should go and bulldoze the timid staff at Malawi Revenue Authority, forcing them to let his millions worth of Kwacha's goods enter the country without duty?
Where was Bingu's signature on contracts of his home boy who went siphoning salaries from one bank and another from a government department while you and I were wallowing in abject poverty?
Who gave the order that one man should be the sole supplier of medicine in almost all hospitals, food in our overcrowded prisons, grab land from orphans and widows then pay them with dubious arrests?
Who allowed those thugs at airports to harass journalists, blandish pangas in the process turning our peaceful nation to a tale of blood and hatred?
Where from the nooks of Sanjika or state house did those fires that razed markets, burned offices, torched houses emerge?
Where is that man who became so puffed up to the extent of standing on a podium imposing a ban on some publication? Where did he get the orders from if it is not from his own seceding mental faculties coupled by a need to show his savage loyalty?
A lot of rot was taking place in the name of the then state house resident even when he was busy passing time fishing at his sprawling Ndata Taj Mahal.
There was surely some order from elsewhere that told our lack-of-combat-but-trigger-happy-police to shoot dead 20 demonstrators whose only crime was to ask for the return of the freedoms they had fought for in 1994. But where did the order come from?
Where was Bingu's decree that students who threaten to expose some shady dealings must be butchered. Why did police panic blandishing hasty scribbled fake suicide notes? Whose sins where they trying to absolve?
Did people ever call some of his Mulhakho kinsmen to parade semi nude girls in the guise of celebrating culture while daughters of the haves were reading in colleges and high schools dressed in expensive clothes?
Was it Bingu's signature on the papers that allowed MRA and its attendants in lies go from one bank to another borrowing billions that choke us in an attempt to create a mirage of success of the Zero Deficit Budget?
I am told he was a Professor and had that penchant of holding spurious public lectures, but did he at any other time called upon all his minions from as high as Ministers to as low as area committee members and drill them in a massive lecture of how to lie, be arrogant, be tribalists and steal?
I stand to lay the last wreath on Bingu's grave just to let his giant soul rest from this contemptible world that he left behind, and write my own epitaph which will read thus:
"Here lies Bingu wa Mutharika a man who came alone in privation. When wealth came he lived like a maharaj and built a whole palace for a grave while his people slept in slums. He was a man who thought all tribes were subaltern while his own was the master-tribe. He was a giant who saw people like chickens. He had strong shoulders, strong enough to carry all the blame of the country's mess together with the devil. He died alone, so suddenly, without friends he went to his grave and before his body has gone cold everyone deserted him..."