Umunthu is a dead philosophy

Sheikh Jean-Philippe LePoison, SC (RTD), Mzee Native Authority Mandela, Abiti Joyce Befu, MG 66 and I, the Mohashoi, are in the Northern Region of this federal republic of Malawi. Yesterday, we decided to go upland, to Mumbwe to be precise, where the main Livingstonia University campus is located and breathe fresh air. When we reached the foot of the Chiweta escarpment, we found ourselves in a catch-22 situation. One road led to Mlowe while the other led to Chilumba and beyond. I asked Jean-Philippe to make a choice. He hesitated. He asked me to make a choice. I hesitated. We asked Abiti, she hesitated. We asked Mzee, he too hesitated and I switched off the engine of the VW Amailoko; which attracted the attention of the police officers at the roadblock. One of them walked up to our car.

“How can I help you? You seem to have a problem?” The police officer asked.

“Yeah! We are failing to decide which way to go,” I said smiling, my eyes fixed on the officer.

“What kind of joke is that? At least you must know where you are coming from,” the officer went on.

“Blantyre via Lilongwe, Salima, Nkhotakota, Chinthechi, Mzuzu, Ekwendeni, Phwezi and Mchenga,” I answered.

“What’s your final destination?”

“Blantyre via Livingstonia, Karonga, Chitipa, Wenya, Rumphi, Mzuzu, Jenda, Kasungu, Lilongwe, and Dedza,” I replied.

“What kind of answer is that? Are you tourists?”

“I am just his driver,” I said, pointing at Sheikh Jean-Philippe.

“Malawi is a beautiful country,” Jean-Philippe broke his rare silence.

“Yeah. For you, tourists, whose pockets are lined with euros and US dollars, Malawi is a nice country, but for us, with empty pockets, Malawi is merely our fate!” the officer said with a boyish laugh.

“Well, join us for a drink! Ever heard of the slogan ’Tiziyambandife a Malawi’?” Jean-Philippe offered.

“How do we Malawians go out to spend money on tourism without money? And If I get a drink, what does my family eat?”

“How big is your family?”Jean-Philippe asked.

“Nine. My wife, my three children, my younger brother’s four children and myself.”

“Why does your brother not keep his own children?” Jean-Philippe went on.

“He and his wife died. So, I automatically took over the responsibility of raising the children.”

“Why don’t you send your brother’s kids to an orphanage?”

“What?” The police officer asked, visibly shocked at Jean-Philippe’s suggestion.

“Send them to an orphanage.”

“How can I send my own children to an orphanage? How? Why?”

“I mean you should send your brother’s orphans to an orphanage; not yours.”

“That’s bizarre. My brother’s children are my children. What will society think of me if I sent my own brother’s children to an orphanage? A mad man? Someone without umunthu?”

“Umunthu is a dead philosophy in today’s individualistic world. Your friends and colleagues are stealing and getting rich. Politicians are enriching themselves at the expense of the poor. Why should you stick to a dead philosophy? Send your brother’s children to an orphanage hic etnunc. At the orphanage, your brother’s orphans will be given 24-hour care, good nutrition, and schooling. And, who knows, maybe one day Madonna will visit the orphanage and adopt your brother’s orphans!”

“Please, stop calling my brother’s children orphans!” the police officer pleaded with Jean-Philippe.

“Sorry, Bwana, if I have said something seriously unpalatable. I did not intend to insult you or denigrate your culture,” Jean-Philippe said remorsefully.

“I have no problem with being assisted to raise my family. But, I abhor this orphanage business. Why don’t ‘orphan-carers’ learn from the local communities how children who lost their parents are cared for? Putting children whose parents died in orphanages, away from their cousins, uncles, nieces, and aunties, increases their isolation. Such children feel hated and grow up to be a vengeful lot. Let’s try home-based orphan care.“

“Home-based orphan care? That sounds clever. Donors give money and materials to families who care for orphans within the communities!”

“Yeah. But stop calling them orphans?

“So, how do we describe them?”

“Anyhow except orphan.”

“Can we visit your home?”

“I am on duty now,” the police officer answered before suggesting that we meet him later.

“By the way I am Jean-Philippe’s driver. And you?” I asked.

“Jotojoto,” the police officer answered.

Jotojoto advised us to go to straight to Chitimba and that he would join us there after he knocked off. And we drove off towards Chitimba, a town centre near the road-junction to Livingstonia.