VOICES FROM REALM

By Pacharo Felix Munthali
Here we don't have knowledge of the existence of days nor nights. That after a tedious, energy-reneging job one has to sleep is a discourse non-existent here. It's an existence prodigy. All we have is glory, glory and more glory. That while I was down there I was impecunious old man, who could even hardly buy salt; to be here it is totally a different microcosm. A wonder I never imagined, a wonder ineffable to simply clarify for easy comprehension for a mind polluted with worldly lies.
When I was down there I was looked down upon, unlike here where we all are on the same scale the way Jesus treated the sinners and the otherwise. Down there, I will never forget…
I was complicatedly condemned, dissolving though not deserving, into utmost cruel ballistic trap that instantly exhibited a new home page in my life. Or should I say in my lives?
Those folks! Those folks gave me bitter lessons; lessons that wrecked and plummeted my life into a wanderer. How I hated to be in a country where your immediate contributions were not acknowledged. They wait for you to start getting ill. As if they have hit the bull's eye like a horde hunters that has grounded a marauding lion, they flock to your preaching messages of good will, deep down you can read them as if they are saying die fast, your death should be dissolved into a political rally.
You see, St. Peter, down there I had played a role in the struggle against the colonial whites. Together, a sign of solidarity and African Socialism in our African spirits, we marched miles, not feeling hungry neither fatigue. We were chased now and again from our own lands in our own country, our lands snatched away, but we stood on our ground. Not even an itch did we leave our country.
"We fear only the one who can destroy the soul not the body," our songs whittled away fears of unknown astray arrow that could hit one of us anytime. That we knew. That we saw.
In the azure skies guns rattling had rumbled, souls crumbled and numerous of unfortunate individuals in all extremes of spasm of pain grumbled. Oh, not unfortunate, the patriots one by one ceased breathing, reserving the breathing air for the coming generations. But there was no turning back. We marched forward, not facing east nor west. We soldiered on like wounded lions.
"Let your bullets wipe out our generation, but let the posterity tap water of hope and happiness from our deep wounded hearts filled with blood," we would chant, singing twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
Without bothering myself to go through tumble-and-rolling procedure of going to the immigration department, I saw the infamous Gweru without being required to produce a passport. What a wicked place! In those dark rooms, days passed. After some times we got released in the 60s. For some of us, we were released abit late, young man!
By the time some of us were released, euphoria outlandishly splendid had seeped through the country infiltrating all and sundries' hearts. We were forgotten. Some of our friends then swimming in the media grandiose, had forgotten us as well. That we had worked with them around the clock, that was forgotten. We were looked at as mere supercilious creatures.
All the constructive criticisms we leveled against them were brusquely brushed aside and thrown to the birds in the bush. I hope, St. Peter with the holy ones here knows that. Then it reached the point that we had to run away from our own country. This happened after going through taxing experience that used to come along with detention without trial, St. Peter, at least here its very professional. Beaten in prison in all sorts of forms we endured. Upon being released, I had no option but let myself secretly snake out the country.
You go East, West, North or even South, but in all these directions home always remain the best. You know what, St. Peter, even though in the country I lived I enjoyed a comfortable life, it was disheartening upon realizing many of my people were under the punitive chain of oppression. I came back…
I came at a time when the craze called democracy had swiftly swept through the country. The politics that we used to practice had as well changed. I miserably failed to win a parliamentary seat even in my hometown. From unsung hero to the sung villain, imagine – true hero to zero scenario. If you can't beat them join them, but I chose my own way – I retired. That is when I found myself at Nthalire with my life in the last attempt to curb and silence the monster called poverty that had raid roots in my life at the time. My constructive criticisms were for the second time overlooked.
With many problems chocking many hidden potentials that people had, though I was old, the problem of cancer was on me. Unfortunately nobody came in. When calls were being made that me, Chibwatiko, a man who has seen sixty decades plus is battling with the problem of cancer nobody came. But when they heard that it was now worse and admitted at Kings hospital like thirsty athletes scrambling for bottles of water they came. It was too late, St. Peter…
Those folks…
On my funeral some individuals stood tall, claiming that until the time of my untimely death I was their friend, my heart missed a beat. Some of these are the ones that did not offer the help when my problem was just starting, now on my funeral they claimed to be my comrades. Oh God!
By the way St. Peter look down there. You see what I have been telling you. Look at house those elders in the country are behaving. Scrambling for a funeral. Abbreviating a funeral place as if a place where one can do his political rally. It is sad, how do you look at it St. Peter. Please speak, at least now.
"How I wish I had spoken"
"You are already speaking by saying that, St. Peter"
The trumpet is blown. There is no longer the view of the world. St. peter is gone. I have no choice. But follow as well.